by Ashley Clark
“M.M.,” he murmured to himself. Peter held the fabric closer to his glasses. Each stitch was precise and consistent, and the different colors of the embroidery made the story visually interesting. This woman knew her way around a needle and thread.
He had the strangest feeling he had seen these particular threads before.
“Who are you, M.M.? Who were you, and what is your story?” And maybe most importantly, why was his mother’s wedding dress with these belongings?
Peter rubbed his eyes with the palm of his hands. It was nearly two o’clock in the morning, and even he could recognize he was far too immersed in this mystery.
But the whole thing gripped him, and sleep evaded his best efforts. He found himself staring at the ceiling fan and imagining that woman, grieving for her child. Nine years old and sold as if she were worth no more than a bag of flour.
He looked inside the empty satchel and pictured how it might’ve looked when it was once filled with care by a mother for her little girl. Whatever happened to the two of them? Was their story lost to the whim of history as the contents of the satchel had been?
Not if Peter had anything to do with it. He stood up from his chair to stretch his neck, then did twenty jumping jacks.
He sat back down.
Because his search had only just begun.
TEN
Train from Charleston, 1946
A sliver of the moon shone through the cloudless Alabama sky as the train rumbled down the tracks, and Millie wasn’t sure of anything anymore.
Dawn was fast approaching, but Millie hadn’t slept a wink. The same could not be said for the man seated beside her.
She took a long look at him as he slept, his head resting on the jacket he’d folded and propped up against the window.
Somewhere between Savannah and Atlanta, she’d realized he was jaw-droppingly handsome, and she imagined with a haircut and a shave, he would turn heads.
But what really struck her about the train jumper was the spark he carried. His presence was so different from the other boys she’d known.
As much as she’d enjoyed their conversation before he nodded off, the sleepless night had now sent her into every manner of doubt—so much that she didn’t feel safe on this train anymore. Unsafe in what she was heading toward, unsafe in whom she was sitting beside. Maybe she liked him a little too much, when he was really still a stranger.
For it was all—the grand sum of it—an elaborate plan for a dream she now considered to be childish. She had left everything she loved and knew behind in Charleston, for what? A mere chance at a dream?
And what if she was found out for her real self—if a slip of the tongue gave her away—what would happen then and what would her mama think?
And, perhaps more terrifying—what if she was never found out? What if all went completely according to plan, and for the rest of her life she lived as if the first part of her life had never happened at all?
The handsome train jumper shifted in his seat, still asleep. Millie envied the ease with which he found rest.
Every time she closed her eyes, she saw her mother at the station, holding those buttons. Now, Millie clutched them inside the pocket of her dress, knowing the buttons should bring her comfort but instead feeling every manner the prodigal daughter.
She never should’ve left her mama.
No matter what her mother said that day with the sweetgrass and Harry, or every night since, or at the station.
How could a heritage half-denied bring a life fully lived?
Millie’s stomach turned in grief. When would she see her mother again? Would she see her mother again? Lord only knew how long it would take to save enough money to visit Charleston. The dark circles under Mama’s eyes had been there far too long. Why had Millie paid them no mind until today?
A hollowed-out space inside her heart first jabbed then ached, like the space between a broken bone—a space the rest of the body must work hard to heal until the throb subsides. The pain, the swelling, must be absorbed before the break can be mended.
Millie looked out the window.
Who are you, Millicent?
In a voice altogether separate from her own, she sensed the response.
Adored.
The word came as suddenly as a rainbow appears in the sky, and was so very startling she sat back for a minute.
And something—not quite joy or even peace, but perhaps it was purpose—began to fill that empty space to the brim, until a bone-weary Millie fluttered her eyes closed and gently grinned.
“The Lord gives, and the Lord takes away. Blessed be the name of the Lord.”
She murmured the words to Mama’s favorite verse under her breath, the familiarity of them a blanket against the chill of unfamiliarity that blew inside and out.
Adored.
Adored by the One who created the stars and knew her before she was born. Adored by her mama, who thought she could win the world if she tried hard enough.
She traced the outline of the buttons in her pocket. Yes, she mattered in this world. How and why and when, she had yet to find out.
But here on this train between home and new ground, God settled how very deeply she was loved, even as her grandparents before her had been, and the generations before them.
She would embroider Rose and Ashley’s story on the satchel when she got situated in Alabama. Maybe that would bring some closure about the life she had to leave for the future she wanted to live. The hidden heritage that still caused her to ache with pride, regardless of where she called home.
Millie sighed, a blending of hope and grief all mixed into one.
The train jumper shifted once more in his chair, only this time, he opened his eyes. A sleepy grin tugged up his lips.
“How long have you been staring at me, Red?”
Her heart stirred with longing.
Not long enough.
Franklin Pinckney tightened the worn laces of his shoes.
His entire body ached.
You’d think a few hours’ sleep from inside the train car would’ve done him good, not worrying about rolling off the top of the thing or being caught by train bulls. But, while he appreciated a moment of rest and safety, he’d gotten used to the sounds of the night. Like a country boy to a cricket lullaby.
His stomach growled aloud. Had the woman beside him heard it?
Franklin smiled slightly, hoping another growl wouldn’t give away the timing of his last meal. Then he yawned, covering his mouth with his hand. “Where are you headed?”
The beautiful woman—and she was beautiful with those green eyes that danced in the sunlight—raised her chin ever so slightly. “I’m visiting my aunt in Fairhope, Alabama.”
Her words were sheer confidence, but Franklin saw something else in her eyes. A flicker of uncertainty, perhaps, though her jaw locked with tenacity.
She was clearly not as experienced on the rails as he.
“That will be nice.”
The woman nodded.
“You’re close with her, then? Your aunt?”
She hesitated. “Not exactly.”
“Thus the need for a visit, I suppose.” Franklin rubbed the inside of his palm. He had the sneaking suspicion no such aunt existed and that Millie had rehearsed this line for safety’s sake. His mother used to do the same thing. He should stop jabbering and let the poor woman be. But she was just so magnetizing. And he hadn’t had real conversation with a woman his age in weeks.
She looked at him a long moment, taking in the sight of him. Franklin need not wonder what she noticed—for to someone the likes of her, he probably looked filthy.
“What about you?” she asked finally. “How did you get started, you know . . .” She seemed to falter on the phrase train jumping.
He locked on her gaze. If he was going to answer openly, he would need her honest response in return. Franklin was surprised when a sweep of her eyes revealed no hint of condescension, only interest. She leaned toward him almost
imperceptibly.
But he sensed it, all right. He sensed her slight movement closer all the way down to his toes.
Might as well come out with it. “My father was never around, just my mother and me. My uncle tried to help us as best he could, but then the Depression came and he struggled to make his own ends meet, so my mother and I took to train jumping. She’d sneak on the trains with me in tow. It was the only way she could think of to keep us fed.” He shook his head. His stomach turned at the memory of huddling close to his mother in those cold train cars, protecting her from strange men.
Millie’s gulp was visible. “What happened to her?”
“She fell off the train one night as it was pulling into the station. I jumped after her, but not quick enough. She got hurt pretty badly.” Franklin rubbed his thumb against his unwelcome beard. “Some women at one of the churches in that little town helped fix her up, but her arm never healed correctly, so her days riding the rails were over.”
He shrugged. “I’m just glad she’s all right, you know? For a while now, I’ve been sending money back to her whenever I can. It’s not much, but it helps with food. I’m faster on my own anyway.”
He hoped Millie wouldn’t feel too sorry for him. He didn’t look away from her eyes. He couldn’t if he tried. “You probably know this, but riding the rails isn’t so common as it used to be. This is actually the last train I plan to jump. Figure I can do better for myself now by settling down. Heard there’s a lot of work to be had in Mobile, over in the shipyards. Or I may hitch my way over to Fairhope. I was down this way a few years ago, and folks were kind when I was good near starving, so I’m hoping they’ll still be kind now.”
Millie nodded. “That’s why you helped the woman back in Savannah. She reminded you of your mother.”
Franklin scratched above his eyebrow. “Suppose she did, but that’s not why I helped her.” He took a deep breath and brushed some dirt from the knees of his pants. “I helped her because it’s the right thing to do.”
“You didn’t care that she was Black?”
“Of course not.”
At this, she had the most surprising reaction of a slow and steady grin. The gesture was supremely rewarding, and he longed to earn another.
“I don’t suppose you’d like the company of a stranger in Fair–hope?” It was a bold question and one that he probably shouldn’t have asked. But nevertheless, he would regret not taking his chance while he had it.
She studied him. He could only imagine she was weighing the option. And he reminded himself he might not want to know what she was thinking. “Truth is, I don’t have an aunt in Fairhope, though I do have some distant kin around there. I’ve never met them, though. My mama just heard Fairhope is friendly to people looking to start over. And, Train Jumper, I am awfully desperate for some company.”
At the words train jumper, his heart skipped a beat.
“In that case”—he extended his callused right hand—“I’m Franklin.”
When her delicate fingers met his, Franklin found himself transfixed. Sparks flew like coal embers after a long simmer in a train engine. All by the simplest touch. He wondered what he would do with himself.
“I’m Millie.” Her smile was as sweet as the hum of bees.
ELEVEN
Fairhope, Modern Day
Harper Rae was tired of almost.
A hummingbird used to appear outside her bedroom. Sometimes it would perch at the feeder there, and for a few moments, she could watch it hover. Wings so fast, they blurred color and movement and space. In the blending came the flight. But invariably, she would blink, and the bird would be gone.
She always thought of that little bird on days like today.
Days where she had blinked.
Harper didn’t know when the giving up came, exactly, or even if there was one singular moment. Maybe it came before the department chair’s words, in a series of late-night assignments, poor grades, and misguided passion. But regardless of the moment, that didn’t matter anymore.
Harper was moving forward. She had just watched the glorious Georgia sunshine become an Alabama sunset from the driver’s window of her daddy’s old Ford, and she was determined to find a new beginning.
She tapped the steering wheel, searching for a new rhythm, then shifted the gear and turned off the ignition. She hesitated to open her truck door—instead letting the April air settle over her as she closed her eyes.
What was so wrong with her designs that no one would give her a chance?
What was so wrong with her that no one would give her a chance, either?
Harper shook her head and went back to tapping the steering wheel. That was another question entirely.
But now, she needed a new dream. She was ready to bid her final adieu to the possibility of ever owning her own dress shop. And that’s exactly what brought her to the boardinghouse along Mobile Bay.
It was as close as she could get to her old house without trespassing, since her father moved years ago to care for her grandmother. But the bay view was just the same.
Harper had wanted to spend the night here for as long as she could remember. Maybe Daddy was right. Now was as good a time as any.
Harper looked up toward the heavens. She had been so sure she’d heard from God. Wasn’t stepping out in faith all it took to come into God’s blessing?
Surely, for the One who held the stars and knew her brown eyes before she came into being, this wasn’t such a big thing.
So why—why—had God given her such an out-of-reach dream?
Harper opened the door of her truck and hopped down to the dirt below. She walked past a slew of sprawling oak trees encircled by azalea bushes, and stepped toward the porch, where several rocking chairs greeted guests of the B&B. Glimmers of daylight landed along the porch steps as she took them purposefully.
An old sign had been suspended above the doorway of the historic inn. In cursive letters, it simply read Millie’s Boardinghouse.
Blue-grey shutters framed the wide front porch. White rocking chairs had been situated in groups of two and three. The rest of the place was an uncommon yellow, like muted sunbeams filtered through trees.
It was the sort of place you’d see in one of those lists by Southern Living. Best this or that . . . small town, chocolate cake, you name it.
This place had Best Porch down to a T.
Harper let out a long sigh and set her heavy carpetbag down on the stairs as she looked up at the boardinghouse. How did she get here? Twenty-six and far too old to be stuck at a crossroads, yet twenty-six and far too young to be giving up.
She knocked three times on the front door.
Probably didn’t need to knock, but she didn’t feel quite comfortable stepping inside, either.
The door creaked open, and an elderly woman with red lipstick and a head full of thick, white hair stood at the entry. She looked exactly the same as Harper remembered, right down to the way she clipped up her hair beneath a red cloche. “Harper Rae, as I live and breathe.”
Millie hugged Harper with surprising strength for a woman her age. Her posture was still straight. Only her pace had been slowed a little by time. But time will do that to all of us, won’t it? In one way or another.
The screen door slapped shut as Harper came in. She took a look around the room. Coming here was like stepping into a dream. In this case, a dream she hadn’t seen from the inside in well over a decade.
The brick fireplace caught her attention first, then the antique radio in the corner. Plush gingham couches with floral pillows provided a splash of whimsy. A chandelier hung from the ceiling, and a vase full of camellias perched on the coffee table between the sofas, the fragrance wafting around the room. At some point since Harper had last been inside the inn, the tongue-and-groove beadboard had been painted the color of a Tiffany’s box. All the little cottage-style details were practically screaming for Pinterest.
“This place is amazing,” Harper said under her breath. “Ev
en cozier than I remember.”
Millie smiled, deepening her laugh lines. “As I recall, you were much more interested in the snickerdoodles last time you came. I trust you’re still sewing?”
Harper switched the handle of the carpetbag to her other hand. How could she explain to Millie that the very reason she’d returned home was to gather her thoughts before starting a new venture?
Millie studied her while Harper searched for something to say. Finally, she broke the silence—her few words speaking volumes. “Do you need a room, child?”
Harper bit down on her bottom lip. Her bag was starting to feel heavy, so she set it on the ground. “Yes, ma’am. Actually, I wanted to ask what your nightly rates are. I couldn’t find anything online.”
Millie waved her hand through the air. “I don’t put anything online. If customers want to come, they’ll find me the old-fashioned way. Besides . . .” She looked straight into Harper’s eyes. “The Internet is nothing but a fad. Someday, society is going to wake up and realize the value of talking to each other again.”
Harper opened her mouth to reply, but Millie wasn’t done.
“How much do you have, sweetheart?” She studied Harper and seemed to be cataloging the details. Did she notice the sparkle in Harper’s eyes had dulled? Could she read Harper’s racing thoughts from too much caffeine, consumed in an attempt to stay alert while driving? Did she recognize the little wrinkles and forced smiles and signs of a hollowed-out dream?
Harper cleared her throat and glanced down at the wooden floor, which she knew to be original to the inn. “Probably a whole lot less than your nightly rate.”
“And how long are you looking to stay?”
The woman didn’t hem-haw around, did she?
“That depends on your nightly rate too.” Harper tried to soften this part with a laugh.
Millie didn’t laugh back.
“Well, maybe it’s fate, you coming here now. I could use some help around the place . . . if you’re interested.”
