My One True Love

by Deborah Small

  Something tugged in his heart: a pang of guilt, maybe.

  He’d lived at Sugar Hill fifteen years, ten of those in a position to access the archive, and he’d not given a thought to helping Rufus find closure. He’d venture a guess no one else had considered looking for information on Rufus’s family either, except maybe Rufus.

  “But if you didn’t find the information in the archive,” he cautioned, “it might not be found anywhere.”

  “I appreciate, that, Mr. Banner. But I want to try. Do you know who we could talk to?”

  He jerked his shoulder to reset the case strap. “Mrs. Lenora Bellman. She’s a trained historian, and she manages the local library.”

  “Really?” She smiled. “A trained historian and a library? I couldn’t ask for more—though yes, I could.” She paused, frowning, and then, drawing breath, nodded. “There is something else I’ve been thinking of. About Maisie. Please hear me out,” she blurted when he frowned.

  He clamped his molars together.

  “Are you familiar with braille?” she asked.

  “I am.”

  “Have you ever given thought to—?”

  “I’m not sending my daughter away to a school for the blind,” he said firmly.

  “I’m not suggesting that you should,” she said. “I was thinking maybe I could teach her. I’ll supply all the books and materials—”

  “No.” He grasped the case’s strap with his opposite hand and hiked it harder on his shoulder. “Maisie is not your responsibility. She’s mine—”

  “Mr. Banner.” She stepped closer. “Maisie needs every chance she can get. I’m not suggesting that you’re not already providing well for her. You are. Very well. I’ve watched you and heard you with her, and I know how much she means to you. And though it may be hard for you to believe, she already means a great deal to me, too. You see, I’ve no children of my own. The ones I did have—my students—are in Texas. I miss them. Their questions and laughter. Their wonder and pride of accomplishment whenever they learn a new word or skill. Children need that confidence, Mr. Banner. They need to know that they can do what they set themselves to, if they’re to grow into competent and productive adults. The fact that Maisie is a girl, and blind, doesn’t preclude her need for future independence—”

  “She is independent,” he ground out. “She does all sorts of things for herself. The only thing she doesn’t do is read. Miss Lisette or I do it. Every night, one of us reads to her—"

  “But she needs to be able to read for herself.” Her voice was gentle, the look in her eyes even gentler. “She should enjoy what you and I, and any sighted child fortunate enough to have access to an education, has: the ability to learn and discover and to teach, share, and exchange knowledge without reliance on another human being’s eyesight and goodwill. She may not always have you or...someone else, to read for her. She needs to be able to help herself.”

  He breathed in, fighting the urge to tell her to take her goddamn pure-hearted motives elsewhere, anywhere, as long as it was out of his and Maisie’s life.

  He didn’t want her teaching Maisie. Not because he didn’t want Maisie to learn. He did. But he didn’t want Maisie spending even more time with a woman she was already growing attached to—that he could get attached to—only to have that woman abandon them the way Maisie’s mother had.

  Pain in his jaw alerted him to the tension pulling his shoulders to his ears.

  He rasped, “I’ll think about it,” and nodded to the gig. “Let’s get you back. I’ll send a note to Mrs. Bellman tonight, asking her if she’d be willing to meet with us later this week, or next.”

  She was still a moment before inclining her head. “Yes, of course.”

  She didn’t speak on the journey back to the house, but he heard her voice as clearly as he felt her shoulder bumping his as they jostled along the bumpy track.

  “She should be able to enjoy what you and I, and any sighted child fortunate enough to have access to an education, has: the ability to learn and discover and to teach, share, and exchange knowledge without reliance on another human being’s eyesight and goodwill. She may not always have you or someone else...”

  For the first time in a very long time, he wondered if he’d made a mistake in keeping Maisie with him.

  Which led him to debate the merits of telling George’s widow the truth.

  Chapter 13

  Red-Headed Black Widow

  MRS. LENORA BELLMAN was as much as surprise as the library. Both lived on the upper floors of Quellen House, a stately white-columned and red-brick building located centre of town.

  The library took up the entire floor above the ground level offices of Lyons and Bellman, Attorneys at Law—Mrs. Bellman’s late husband who’d passed on eight years prior having constituted the Bellman in the law firm’s name—while Mrs. Bellman lived in an apartment on the uppermost floor with a huge male tabby cat whose purring deepened or softened with his mistress’s inconsistent affectionate ministrations.

  Currently, the tabby’s faint throaty approval was strengthening to deep rumbles of pleasure as Mrs. Bellman replaced her teacup to its saucer on the small round table beside her chair and resumed massaging the tom’s ruff.

  “It’s been so long since anyone mentioned ol’ Terrence’s collection,” she murmured, her voice reedy with advanced age and her eyes hazy with memory. She stared between Margaret and Joe, who were seated at opposite ends of the flower-print sofa, facing her. Retraining her gaze on Margaret, she said, “You will let me know if you plan to sell the collection, won’t you? It’d be a shame if it were lost. I haven’t seen it in years, though I trust it’s still intact. Still, best place for it is a library or museum. Did you know the Carnegie Foundation has granted us ten thousand dollars to build a new library? That’s where those journals and oddities ought to be, in their own private collection in the library. I’m hoping it’ll be built and opened in time for my centenary celebration.”

  “I’m afraid I haven’t had much time to think about what I’ll eventually do with the works,” Margaret confessed, praying Mrs. Bellman didn’t notice the slight hesitation before the last word.

  In her opinion, the word “works” legitimised what to her was a compendium of heinous and damning monstrosities. Mrs. Bellman, however, didn’t seem to share her opinion. If anything, the elderly historian seemed inordinately pleased with ol’ Master Terrence’s fastidious and obsessive note taking and picture drawing. What she thought of his experiments, and the physical reminders on display, Margaret dared not bring up.

  Mrs. Bellman was a preservationist. And a realist. She undoubtedly appreciated Old Terrence’s curating his depraved acts and mementos. It made her work of conserving it for future literary and historical dissection that much easier.

  She truly was a fascinating woman, Mrs. Bellman, every bit as intelligent, interesting—and awe-inspiring—as Mr. Banner had warned. At one time, she had been tall and slim and very beautiful, as vouchsafed by the framed daguerreotypes on the wall behind her. Now hooked, her bony shoulders and upper back rounded and her long-fingered hands knotted and veined after almost a century of living, she was still beautiful.

  Her hair, once an abundance of dark curls, was a tight cap of white clinging to her skull and emphasising her strong cheekbones and elegant jawline the way Miss Alma’s tignons showcased hers. Her skin was the colour of weak tea and looked velvet soft, if a little crinkled. Margaret could only hope that if she were to live to a similar age, she would be every bit as astute and independent as Mrs. Bellman.

  “Do you think you can help Mrs. Sweeney find what she’s looking for, Mrs. Bellman?”

  Trust Mr. Banner to bring them all back to the purpose of today’s visit, which had gotten away from them almost the instant Mrs. Bellman ushered them upstairs from the library where she’d met them, to serve tea and apple crumble in her sitting room.

  The moment she learned who Margaret was—or rather who Margaret’s husband had been—and
the fact Margaret was now in control of Sugar Hill, she’d lost interest in anything unrelated to the continued preservation, and preferably the public dissemination, of the archive.

  Mrs. Bellman glanced at Mr. Banner, her eyes wide, as though surprised by the question. And his presence on her sofa. “Oh, yes, yes,” she said, nodding as if he had asked her if she could recite the letters of the alphabet. “It shouldn’t take me more than a couple of months. But if I get Grace’s help—that’s my great-granddaughter, who’s set to take over for me when I retire—it might not take even that long.”

  “That’s wonderful.” Margaret smiled and took up her tea, which she’d hardly touched. “I’d no idea how long to expect, given the length of time that’s passed.”

  “Time has no meaning to books or ledgers, Mrs. Sweeney.” Mrs. Bellman’s gaze took on an almost fanatical gleam. “The truths they hold don’t change with time. It’s all there for anyone to find, providing you know where to look. And I know where to look. Come on, Murrkater, time to go back to work.”

  She lifted the tom from her lap with both hands and carefully lowered him to the floor, stroking his broad head before grasping the arms of her chair to push herself upright. She smiled at Margaret. “Promise me you’ll come to me first, before you do anything with the collection.”

  It wasn’t so much as a request as an entreaty.

  Margaret nodded as she returned her cup to its saucer on the table and stood. “When I get round to deciding the archive’s future, you’ll be the first to know of it.”

  “Good.” Mrs. Bellman angled her head to the side. “Did you know my daddy founded this town, Mrs. Sweeney? Heinrich Adolphus Bauman. He changed his name to Henry Bellman when he emigrated from Germany. He was sixteen. Eventually, he found his way here, and over ten years, he cleared land and built this house, which he named Quelle Haus. He continued to build, first a general store, then other shops, until eventually Quellentown rose up from the ground. Rather apt, the name, don’t you think?”

  Her mouth quirked.

  “Quelle, an English noun, is defined as a literary source from which a concept or piece of information derives,” she continued. “In German, however, it translates to spring, or water that wells up. And in French it’s often followed with surprise.” Her eyes sparkled with amusement. “This place was all of those things to my father when he first arrived. A surprising swamp full of deadly creatures from which he built a life and, indeed, an entire town.”

  “An ambitious legacy,” Margaret said. “You must be very proud.”

  “Of this town, yes.” Mrs. Bellman glanced at a framed and yellowing photograph of a heavily bearded man propped on the small fireplace mantel that, despite its sepia tones, revealed he’d had unusually pale-coloured eyes. When she brought her gaze back to Margaret, her expression was grim.

  “My father wasn’t a nice man,” she said. “So, of course, he and Terrence Sweeney were close. They are the reason I do what I do. Because the worst thing any person can do is forget from where, and how far, they’ve come. That is when they lose sight of where they are and, more importantly, where they’re going.”

  She flicked a glance at Mr. Banner before arching her sparse white eyebrows at Margaret.

  “There are none so blind, Mrs. Sweeney, as those who refuse to see.”

  MINNIE’S TEA AND CAKE House always did a bustling business, and this afternoon was no exception. What was different, however, was the sudden lull in conversation when Joe pulled open the door to a gust of cinnamon-scented air and gestured for Mrs. Sweeney to precede him.

  The hard silence and hostile looks cast their way had him wanting to turn around and suggest to Mrs. Sweeney that they go elsewhere for lunch, like the new Plaza Restaurant and Oyster Bar that had opened in Thomasville. But that was an hour’s drive away in an automobile. They had the coach, and only had an hour before their one o’clock appointment with Mr. Lyons. Besides, the sudden dip in social temperature didn’t seem to bother her.

  Head high, and ignoring the silent stares and subtle seat adjustments as some turned their backs to her, she moved sedately to the only empty table, at the rear of the café, and waited while he pulled out the chair facing the storefront. By the time he was seated on her left, she had the white table napkin spread on her lap, its pink-embroidered edges a soft contrast to the stark black of her skirt. Her face was an edifice of perfect repose as she scanned with interest the many photographs Miss Minerva had hung on the exterior wall, of local landmarks and people.

  Damn, but she was a cool one. And he found it as enticing as he did infuriating.

  He wanted to get closer to her, learn what it would take to draw her out and make her angry—or make her hot and willing. He also wanted to grasp her and press his ear to her chest and listen for a beating heart. Then there was the part of him that wanted to stand up to the idiots populating the other tables and tell them what fools they were for believing anything Barrister Griffiths said, but especially the manure he was spreading about George’s widow, because she deserved better.

  And that was why he would do none of the above. The last thing she needed was for him to draw attention when she was an expert at ignoring ignorance.

  Catching Miss Minerva’s eye, he raised an eyebrow, and with obvious reluctance, she left off refilling a pair of front window patrons’ coffee mugs. Setting the carafe on the counter, she grabbed two paper menus and hustled over.

  “Mr. Banner, what a surprise,” she said, as though she’d only just noticed him, sliding the menus on the table. “What can I bring you? Coffee, lemonade?”

  “I’ll have tea, please,” Mrs. Sweeney said. “Hot, with a slice of lemon and side dish of honey.”

  Miss Minerva stalled, her gaze on Joe, and then she cast a furtive, low-lashed glance at Mrs. Sweeney.

  “Yes, of course. I have Earl Grey and Assam—”

  “Earl Grey is fine.”

  “And you, Mr. Banner?” Miss Minerva’s smile returned as she met his gaze. “Hot tea as well, or would you prefer something cooler?”

  “Coffee. I like it best with your specialty coconut cream pie.”

  Miss Minerva flushed almost the same flamingo pink as the scarf holding her brown hair off her face. “I’ll serve you up the biggest slice available. Do you want it now, or...?”

  “I’ll wait until Mrs. Sweeney’s decided on something.”

  Mrs. Sweeney smiled at Minerva. “Can I assume that you’re the proprietor of Minnie’s Tea and Cake House?”

  “Yes,” she said. “Going on two years now. I started up when my husband died.”

  “How very brave, and very wise of you.” Mrs. Sweeney’s voice was low and sincere.

  “I don’t think I’m all that brave,” Minerva said. “Or wise. It was something that needed doing if I wanted to keep a roof over my head.”

  “But you did it. And that is testament to your strength and ingenuity.”

  Miss Minerva gazed at Mrs. Sweeney with open interest. “I guess I never thought of it like that,” she said. “I just lose sleep worrying people won’t like my food, or they won’t show up when I open.”

  “Has that ever happened—where you’ve opened, and no one’s shown up?” Mrs. Sweeney asked.

  “Well...no.” Miss Minerva glanced around the café’s interior. “Most days I can barely keep up. But I still worry some people go away unhappy.”

  “Chances are some do,” Mrs. Sweeney agreed. “It’s impossible to please every sort of person every day. Even those who go away happy on Monday may complain on Thursday. We’re changeable creatures, which is one of the benefits of being human. We’re not impeded by archaic instinct but capable of free thought and free will. And that is why, if one feels strongly opposed to something, one is free not to partake of it and to find somewhere, or something, more to one’s liking. All you can do, Miss Minerva, is your very best, and leave the critics to their dreadful worst.”

  Miss Minerva stared at Mrs. Sweeney with a combination of a
stonishment and, dare Joe venture, respect? Then she nodded. “You’re right, Mrs. Sweeney. So very right. I’m wasting time worrying about what people think instead of concentrating on what I love to do, which is to make the best pies and cakes to be found in all of Georgia.”

  “Now you’re thinking like a business owner,” Mrs. Sweeney said with an approving smile. “That was the very first tenet of business my first husband impressed upon me—that I had to learn to distinguish between the things I could control and those I could not so that I might invest as much time and energy as reasonable to the former and nothing to the latter. As he owned a number of rather successful business enterprises in London and throughout the world, I took him at his word.”

  The smile Mrs. Sweeney’s compliment had brought to Minerva’s mouth faded. And the conversation that had resumed within the café once Joe and Mrs. Sweeney had taken their seats—albeit in a lower tenor than that which had rushed out at them when he’d initially opened the door—tapered off, as though everyone in the café was straining to hear the conversation at the rear table without appearing to cease their conversations.

  That would be blatant eavesdropping.

  The only customer who didn’t bother to pretend he wasn’t more interested in what was going on in the back than at his own table was Sheriff Klugg, seated at a table near the entrance.

  Joe winked at him.

  Klugg’s bulldog face flattened to an expressionless mask before he looked back at his deputy across from him.

  “Yes, I was married once before I met Mr. Sweeney,” Mrs. Sweeney said. “For six years. His name was William Stewart. He drowned when the Titanic sank during our move to America.”

  It might have been Joe’s imagination, but he thought she’d raised the tenor of her voice.

  Miss Minerva must have thought so, too, because she pressed her lips together, her earlier flush returning with a vengeance as she jerked as if she were trying not to look over her shoulder at the other patrons. Then her eyes brightened with tears to match the sorrowful smile on her mouth.