“Claire hated leaving her siblings and their home,” Lucy said. “I never understood why their father sent them away.”
“Opportunity. The chances of them making a more successful marriage increased if they left the Eastern Shore.”
“Maybe. But he kept the boys.”
“Because he knew they would make their way on the sea as all the other men in the area did.”
“Did you ever come across any information about Addie and Isaac Hedrick?”
“Addie’s family was here before the Revolutionary War. Isaac’s family migrated here in the 1870s from Eastern Europe.”
“So they may have been Jewish?”
“Yes, I suppose so. There are communities of Jews who were persecuted in Russia in the 1870s.”
“I didn’t know that,” Lucy said.
She peeled apples with the quick precision of someone who had once made her living in a kitchen while Megan read the letters following Diane from the Eastern Shore of Virginia to Baltimore and finally to Le Havre, France. The next letter picked up almost six months later and reported that Madame LeBlanc had died suddenly.
“How old was Diane when Madame LeBlanc died?” Lucy asked.
“Twelve.”
“Natasha was about that age when her mother died. I can’t imagine where she’d be if she’d been passed off to complete strangers in another city. Why didn’t her father take her back?”
“Life could be very hard out here one hundred years ago,” Megan said. “I’d like to think Isaac made a hard choice because he believed it was in her best interest.”
Megan imagined all the dangers a young girl on the streets of a seaport city a century ago would have faced. She would have been alone, and though she referenced her ability to speak French, she had to have been overwhelmed.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
Megan
Wednesday, March 7, 2018
Cape Hudson, Virginia
8:00 p.m.
By the time Megan had read the twentieth letter, Lucy had peeled all the apples and cut them into thin slices. The apples now floated in an ice-water lemon bath while she mixed brown sugar, flour, salt, and butter in another bowl.
“Well, we know from the photograph that they did see each other again in Le Havre in 1909. Very unusual for two local girls to find themselves out of the state, let alone in a foreign country around that time.”
“I’ve never been to Europe. It’s on my bucket list.”
“It’s pretty amazing,” Megan said. “Maybe one day I can take you and Natasha and give you the grand tour.”
“We can put the spud in the front pack and make a real trip out of it.”
“That would be fun.” Megan wanted this to be her home but also realized Natasha and her daughter had a big wide world to explore.
Lucy lifted the crust from the board and laid it in a pie plate. After wiping her hands on her apron, she grabbed sugar, cinnamon, salt, and flour and, in a large bowl, mixed enough to make ten pies. “Are you sure they want all apple pies?”
“That was the order they gave me. They met at a cidery and bonded over an apple lemon-zest drink. It’s going to be the signature cocktail for the reception.”
Lucy scrunched her face. “Seriously?”
“I was going to have a signature cocktail. Our drink was a manhattan.”
“You’re a whiskey drinker?”
“I love a good glass of whiskey. Can’t wait for the day when I can have one again.”
Lucy did a double take. “There’s a whole other Megan out there that I feel I don’t know.”
Megan rubbed her belly and shifted her weight. “As I said, I used to be a real person, Lucy. Now I’m a pod.”
Lucy laughed. “I was a pretty swinging gal until I became the mother of a preteen and fell for a farmer.”
“It might be a few years before we see Europe, but once the kid is born, we should line up sitters and have a night out, like adults. We can drink whiskey and listen to live music.”
Lucy cocked her head, as if she pretended to think. “I don’t remember what that’s like.”
“It’s a distant memory for me as well.”
Lucy nodded. “It’s a date. When do these pies have to be delivered?”
“Friday in Norfolk.”
“It’s Wednesday evening. Assembly and baking tomorrow.”
“I know. I’m cutting it close this time. I didn’t think there’d be much to do at Spring House on Friday. Mr. Tucker and his crew are set to demo the kitchen and bathrooms then. It’s going to be a mess.”
“Megan, you’re one of the hardest-working people I know.”
“I have to be. My parents weren’t thrilled with the history undergrad, but they covered the cost. When I announced my intentions to get a master’s and PhD in history, the purse strings closed. Dad called it tough love and figured I’d come running back.”
“But you didn’t.”
“I can be stubborn.”
Chuckling, Lucy washed her hands. She drained the apples and then tossed the flour-sugar mixture into them, blending until each thin slice was coated.
“Don’t put the filling into the shells right away.”
“Not my first rodeo, grasshopper. I know. Let it sit and give off some of its juices. No one likes a soggy bottom crust.”
“You got it.”
With her back feeling better, Megan rose to wash her hands. She dug out a zester and began to rub it against the lemons as Lucy quickly rolled out crusts and assembled the first four apple pies.
Lucy rolled out several rounds of dough and then lined eight small pie shells and pricked the bottoms with a fork. All went into the oven for ten minutes.
Within the next hour, half the pie shells were baked and cooling on the counter, the sliced apples were marinating, and Lucy was rolling out the second round of crust.
As Megan filled the teakettle with water and set it on the stove, her phone rang. She recognized the number as local. “Megan Buchanan.”
“This is Mrs. Appleton at the Eastern Shore of Virginia Historical Society. I’m sorry it’s so late, but I’ve had a day full of tours and haven’t had a chance to make my calls.”
“Mrs. Appleton. How are you?” Megan and Mrs. Appleton had met a few times over the last few years while she was working on her dissertation. The historian was in her midfifties and had overseen the renovation of a mansion built by a shipping merchant in the 1790s in the town of Onancock. Mrs. Appleton didn’t know much about Winter Cottage but had been as helpful as she could.
“Helen Jessup called and told me you’re looking for information on Spring House.”
Megan rolled her head from side to side, not thrilled that Helen was making calls on her behalf. She’s trying to be helpful, Megan silently reminded herself. “That’s right.”
“I found some interesting references to Spring House. I’ve pulled several items, and they are available for you to review anytime. Helen said you’re pregnant and need your rest.”
Frustration ate at her. It was one thing for Helen to fuss over her pregnancy but another to insert herself into her work. “I’m still pretty mobile. And I’d love to come by and see what you have.”
“I’m here all day tomorrow if that’s convenient. I’ve found several firsthand accounts of your house and the people who lived in it. Some are first sources, so I can’t let you borrow them, but you’re welcome to photograph.”
“That’s fantastic. See you tomorrow.”
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
Megan
Thursday, March 8, 2018
Cape Hudson, Virginia
8:00 a.m.
Megan rose extra early and put the first batch of pies in the oven. She had an overpowering sense that she was cutting it close on time, and she needed to get these pies baked as soon as possible. By the time Lucy, Natasha, and Dolly hustled out the front door to school, Winter Cottage smelled of apples and cinnamon as the apple pies cooled on the counter.
When
the kitchen was back in order and the baked pies were all counted, recounted, and boxed, Megan gathered her purse and water and headed over to Spring House, where Mr. Tucker was standing on the front porch talking to Helen. They appeared to be discussing the windows and the shutters, and Megan sensed that Helen was annexing her renovation project.
She parked and walked toward them, doing her best not to waddle. As she moved closer, she saw paint samples in Helen’s hand, and as her irritation spiked, she imagined she heard Scott whisper, Please, Meg. She’s happy. She’s smiling.
Brushing what felt like a gnat away from her face, Megan dug a smile out from God only knew where. “How’s it going?”
Helen turned and at least had the decency to look as if she’d been caught in the act. “Megan. You’re early. I wanted to make sure the house was unlocked for Mr. Tucker. I still have a key that Samuel gave his brother years ago. Funny I should still have that.”
“Thank you, that’s thoughtful.”
“Is there anything you need to say to Mr. Tucker?”
Megan cleared her throat. “Mr. Tucker, I think you have your marching orders.”
“I do. Demo all of the exterior siding so we can see what we’re working with. And please save anything that looks historical. When in doubt, save.”
“It’s wise you aren’t around all the dust,” Helen said.
“I’m actually headed to the historical society,” Megan said.
“Did Mrs. Appleton have information for you?” Helen asked.
“She did.” Megan held on to that smile as she put the house key back in her pocket. She pictured Scott asking her to look out for his mother. “Would you like to come and see what she’s dug up?”
“I would love to,” Helen said. “I think Mr. Tucker and I are finished here.”
Mr. Tucker nodded. “Me and the guys are going to get right to it. It’s going to be a messy few days.”
“I’ll check in at the end of the day,” Megan replied.
“Understood,” Mr. Tucker said.
“Shall I drive?” Helen asked. “I know you’re quite capable, but this will be your chance to relax.”
Megan mentally swatted away all images of Scott and settled into the passenger seat. “Sure. That sounds great.”
The pristine shape of the car’s interior was not a surprise; nor was the faint scent of air freshener, which reminded Megan of Helen’s home. The coffee cup in the holder between them read MARINES in bold red letters, and she recognized it as Scott’s. It had been his favorite. Helen’s pink lipstick darkened the rim.
After Scott’s death, Megan had heard from friends that Helen had continued to pay the rent on Scott’s apartment for several months. Some said she would often visit the one-bedroom unit and sit for hours on the couch in silence. Finally, she had begun bringing in boxes and carefully wrapping up his belongings. After she’d washed and ironed his clothes, she had folded and boxed them before driving them to the Goodwill.
Scott’s furniture had been typical bachelor fare. Helen had not been as sentimental about that and called a local thrift store to pick it up. She had boxed up all items that seemed to belong to a woman and mailed them to Megan’s parents’ house. There had been no note in the box, but there were several women’s bracelets that Megan did not recognize. What hadn’t belonged to her went straight into the trash.
Twenty minutes later, Megan and Helen arrived at the steps of a brick house built circa 1800. Designed in the Federal style, it had a center section and matching wings on both sides. Megan twisted the knob and stepped into the dimly lit entryway. A spiral staircase led to a second floor, and on the right was a parlor across from a formal dining room. The society had purchased the house in the 1980s and renovated it, and the group continued to raise funds for its general upkeep and operation.
“I’ve spoken to Mrs. Appleton a few times over the years, and she was a big help when I was writing my dissertation,” Megan said.
“I must admit I can now understand your obsession with the past a little better. I’m very curious to discover more about the Jessup family.”
Megan’s phone chimed with a text, and she glanced down to see a note from Chloe. Local records indicate the entire Mandel family was transported to Auschwitz. No reported survivors.
Sadness gripped her as she knocked on the open door, the rapping of her knuckles echoing through the house. “Hello?”
Footsteps echoed from the parlor, and a woman dressed in jeans, a collared shirt, and tennis shoes appeared. Gray hair pulled back in a ponytail accentuated an angular face tastefully made up with rouge, a touch of eye shadow, and peach-hued lipstick.
“Megan Buchanan,” she said, smiling.
“Mrs. Alice Appleton. Pleasure to see you again.” Megan gripped her hand firmly and shook it.
“How is the renovation going?”
“We’ve just started phase one. So far so good. Mrs. Appleton, I believe you spoke to Mrs. Helen Jessup.”
Helen’s smile was gracious and genuine. “I didn’t think you’d call so quickly.”
“Thankfully we digitized the records a couple of years ago, so it’s making searches much faster. I simply typed in Spring House, and I uncovered quite a bit of surprising history. As you know, our collection includes several journals and letters.”
“Yes,” Megan said. “I was able to access some of that information on Winter Cottage when I was writing my dissertation.”
“I remember. How is the newest owner of Winter Cottage? Ms. Kincaid’s arrival is still the talk of the town.”
“She’s great. We hope to begin renovations on Winter Cottage in the fall.”
“Please keep us involved. It’s a thrilling project,” Mrs. Appleton offered. “We would love to scan whatever records you find and add them to our collection.”
“We’re still sifting through much of it, but once we have it sorted, I’ll certainly give you a call,” Megan said.
“So what do you have on the Jessup house?” Helen asked.
Megan and Helen followed Mrs. Appleton through the parlor to an odd addition that did not quite fit with the traditional Federal style. They sat in chairs angled in front of a desk that had come straight out of a modern furniture store. It was the furthest from historical she could imagine. Still, even a historical society’s office had to focus on functionality. And judging by the stacks of papers on this desk, Mrs. Appleton was juggling a lot.
Mrs. Appleton laid out an article dated July 1, 1922, featuring Eric and Sally Jessup with their five sons. The family posed in front of Spring House and the summer kitchen located behind it. The article reported on Eric’s recent actions to save sailors on a sinking ship in the bay.
Helen tapped the face of the second-youngest boy. “That was my late grandfather-in-law. And youngest of the five boys is Samuel.” Samuel was the blondest and most dashing of the Jessup men.
Mrs. Appleton laid out a second article on the table. It was dated April 2, 1942. The headline read, SAMUEL JESSUP SAVES 100 NAVY SAILORS.
“I never realized he was such a hero,” Helen said. She began to read out loud. “Merchant marine Samuel Jessup, while returning from a supply run to Great Britain, was witness to the torpedoing of USS Jackson by a German U-boat. He ordered depth charges dropped and destroyed the enemy vessel, and then he and his first mate repeatedly rowed into burning, oil-slicked waters to save the survivors.”
She went on to detail the names of Samuel’s crew and the injuries they’d sustained.
“My word,” Mrs. Appleton said. “You would have never known.”
Never once in all the times she’d seen Samuel had he ever mentioned the war. “Mrs. Appleton, we found quite a few artifacts in Samuel’s desk drawer. Specifically, there were letters between Claire and her sister Diane. Nothing too far out of the ordinary, but we did find a French passport issued to an Elise Mandel and her son dated 1939. It states on the papers that she was Jewish. I don’t suppose that name rings a bell. I just heard from a fri
end in France who tells me the entire family was transported to a concentration camp. I’m hoping she and her son made it to the Eastern Shore.”
Mrs. Appleton scribbled down the date and name on a pad. “The name doesn’t sound familiar, but if she moved to Cape Hudson, there would be some record of her or her son. I can dig around.”
“Thank you. I would appreciate that.”
Megan and Helen spent a few more minutes chatting with Mrs. Appleton before they left the historical society. As Megan settled in the front seat of the Volvo, Helen was on her phone. “Rick, this is Helen.”
“Helen.” Rick’s deep voice echoed over the car’s speakerphone and vibrated through her body.
“Megan and I are on the hunt for Elise Mandel. We found her travel papers at Spring House. Mrs. Appleton is searching the woman to see if she moved to Cape Hudson, but it occurred to me the sheriff’s office might have some record of her. Do me a favor and see if your police files have any information on the woman.”
“Sure. I’ll look into it,” Rick said.
“Thank you.” Megan was annoyed she had not thought of the idea herself.
“Helen, I didn’t think you personally were that interested in the shore’s history,” Rick said.
“My job now is to keep Megan and the baby as healthy and relaxed as possible. So where they go, I follow. And if that means helping solve a mystery, then call me Dr. Watson.”
“I’ll look into it,” he said with a chuckle.
“If you’d rather I review the police files, I can.”
“No, I have this.”
“Excellent.”
When the two arrived back at Spring House, Megan thought about the picture of the Jessups and the image of the summer kitchen in the background. She found herself scanning the land for the structure that had burned in the late 1930s. Helen came around the side of the car with her phone opened to the map she’d taken a picture of at the historical society.
Megan walked toward the edge of the grass, which had grown tall enough to reach her hips. Her fingers skimmed the green tops as she stared out over the land and the bay beyond.
“There’s no telling what’s in that grass, Megan,” Helen warned.
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