December 12, 1864
Dearest Lady,
I cannot imagine how the future unfolds that a woman will one day be allowed to purchase a house by herself. It must surely mean the world is destined to be a more beautiful place. While I lack the imagination to understand how such a thing will come to pass, my devoted friend and housemaid, Elsie, assures me it will. She has accurately foretold many fates for my family, so my trust in her is complete.
Elsie tells me that you will be her great-granddaughter five times over. She foresaw that someone along her line will name her daughter after me. It will be this lady’s child, you, that will call my home her own.
My heart is so full of joy at such a thing that I can barely contain myself. To think, that not only a woman will be in such a position, but a woman of color, it humbles me at the goodness of what is to come. For truth, I live in dark times, where one man is allowed to own another. It is a travesty against God.
Elsie has expressed that you will doubt my words, of which I can hardly blame you. I cannot imagine a time when prophecies such as these will be openly welcomed or trusted, even though it was most certainly so during the time of Our Lord.
I am leaving instructions through my family that whomever sells my home, because it is certain that it must be sold for it to be available for your purchase, must hand over certain items to Elsie’s family for safe keeping. Those items, my dear, are yours. They belong in our home, yours and mine.
I reach my hand across time to you and celebrate your family’s return. I rejoice that we will win this fight for human decency. Though I know evil will always exist, it calms my soul to know that goodness shall reign.
You and I, dear lady, are a testament that if a person has the strength to fight for what is just, justice will prevail. Welcome home, my dear.
Your humble servant,
Regina Frothingham
My voice trails off as I finish reading, I am one hundred percent at a loss for words, but not frightened or disbelieving. This really is straight out of Doctor Who. How can the past know of the future in such detail?
Beau is the first to speak. “Our families have been entwined for over one hundred and fifty years. It took Emmie moving to New York City to bring you back to your roots.”
Myrah asks, “Child, how is it that you didn’t know of your people’s time here?”
I shake my head. “All I was told was that my great-great-grandmother moved to New York as a young woman. She never shared much of her early life, so none of those stories made their way into family history.”
Clovis slaps his hands on his overall-clad legs and says, “Well, I don’t know about you, but I’m darned excited to take you out to the old barn.”
Beau agrees, “Me too, Let’s go.” I follow along, still trying to process the magnitude of what I’ve learned.
Myrah takes my hand in hers. “The world is a mystery. While I think folks have freewill, I also believe we are born with many certainties we worked out with our Lord before ever comin’ here.”
I don’t know what to say. I’ve never really thought about such things before, so I remain quiet while she continues, “I don’t believe greatness is random. Do you know our first president, George Washington, used to be visited by angels while he and his men were starvin’ and freezin’ during their fight for our freedom from the English?”
“I didn’t know that,” I tell her. “What did they say to him?”
“They said, ‘You, sir, are the emissary of the heavens and you have our support. You will be triumphant in your fight.’ During the moments when he was so low he lost his fire, his friends from above reappeared to offer encouragement.”
“Myrah,” I say, “this is all a pretty new way of thinking for me and I’m afraid it’s going to take me some time to absorb it. But aside from receiving this beautiful letter and furniture, there’s a bigger gift here than both of those things combined.”
She squeezes my hand firmly. “You got that right, honey. We been given the gift of kinfolk reunitin’. That there is something even I didn’t ’spect.”
While we continue out to the barn, still walking hand in hand, I’m positively overwhelmed with emotion. I’m physically present, but my mind is reeling. Whatever led me here, while seemingly random, hasn’t been random at all. I didn’t even know my family had a history in Creek Water. The chain of events that culminate in my taking a job and meeting Emmie is staggering. Emmie, who left her hometown and never even wanted to live here again, until she did. All of that happened before the dog jumped over me in Central Park. Now, I stand with my I-don’t-know-how-many-times-great-aunt, buying the very house I’m meant to buy. The only thing missing is Regina.
If this isn’t enough to get her to come out here, nothing is.
Chapter 38
The furniture in the Peabodys’ barn has been meticulously cared for. I used to watch that television show about junk pickers touring the country digging through people’s collections. Their goal was to buy at a low price so they could resell their finds in their antique store. Ninety percent of the time, the barns and outbuildings where they discovered those treasures stored, were in total and complete chaos. That’s not the case here.
Bed frames are carefully line up in one area, covered with clear plastic sheeting to keep moisture away. There are dining tables, end tables, and china cabinets, sofas, and armoires. “Why in the world do you have so many things?” I ask, unable to suppress my curiosity.
Myrah laughs, “We jus’ gradually started collectin’. Clovis and I been married for near on sixty years now. We always liked goin’ to garage sales and auctions. When we could afford it, we’d buy somethin’. After a while people would start to pick up things for us or drop off stuff they didn’t want no more. Then others would come and look through what we have and buy from us.”
Clovis adds, “Myrah and I think the past is important, and by preservin’ it, we’re keeping it alive for others to appreciate and learn from.”
Myrah says, “It’s surprisin’ how many people only want new. We picked up most of this stuff for a song.” She leads the way through her treasures to a staircase in the back of the barn. “All your things are up yonder. Clovis and I haven’t been up there in years, but you and Beau head on up. It’s all yours, honey.”
Beau and I climb the stairs one at a time. They’re steep and a bit rickety, more ladder-like than stairs. When we reach our destination, we stop and look around, mouths slack in awe at the bounty before us. It’s like all of my birthdays and Christmases wrapped together for fifty years.
I whisper, “What in the heck is going on here?”
“I couldn’t say for sure, but clearly whatever it is was meant to be,” he replies while shaking his head.
“It’s a good thing you didn’t succeed when you tried to talk me out of buying the house,” I semi-tease.
“I think all of this,” he responds while waving his hands around the loft, “proves that you would have never wavered.”
I shout down the stairs, “Myrah, this can’t all be for me.”
“’Tis, honey!” she yells back before adding, “Clovis and I are gonna head on in now. It’s too cold out here fer our old bones.”
I watch as Beau reverently picks up an ornately carved cigar box. I ask, “Is your family going to be mad?”
“Why would they be?” he wants to know.
“Because I’m getting all of these things that rightfully belong to them.”
He shakes his head. “No, ma’am. Near as I understood, these things belong to you. No one in my family is going to give you any trouble over it.”
I don’t know where to start looking. I begin by gently pulling back furniture covers. The fabrics on the chairs and settees appear to be original. There are a few moth holes and some fading, but otherwise everything seems to be in remarkable condition.
There are gilded mirrors and paintings, beds, armoires, and side tables. There’s a dining room table with twelve chairs
and a matching sideboard. If you put everything together, there must be enough here to fill over half of my house.
Beau picks up a framed tintype photograph of two women who I’m guessing are in their early thirties. They’re standing side-by-side each with an arm wrapped around the other in a very sisterly fashion. But they can’t be sisters for one obvious reason, one of them is white and the other black.
The white lady is very finely dressed. Beau says, “That’s Regina. We have other photographs of her.”
The other lady is wearing a very simple outfit by comparison, although it appears to have been well made. I say, “That must be Elsie.” I look at my relative and I see my grandmother in her as clear as day. I’m so full of emotion that tears of disbelief and excitement start to pool in my eyes.
Beau stands so close to me, I can feel the heat radiate off of him. “What an astonishing day,” he says, the timbre of his voice reflecting his words.
I look up at him and try to process how intertwined our histories are. He’s not only my friend’s cousin, or my realtor, or even my neighbor. His ancestors and mine once meant a great deal to each other. Beau stares down at me and ever so slowly starts to close the gap between our faces. It feels like everything that happened in the past was meant to lead to this very moment.
While I want more than anything to give in to the draw of him, I tentatively put my hands against his chest to halt further intimacy. “How in the world am I ever going to get all of this down those stairs?”
He takes a moment to collect himself before stepping back and answering, “Davis and I can do it. We might need to assemble a lift for the bigger things.”
“When is the inspection?” I ask.
“It’s all set it up for tomorrow afternoon.”
“How did you get one so soon?” Things in Creek Water seem to move quicker than I would have expected. Either that, or it’s another indication that my moving here was more than serendipity.
Beau shrugs his shoulders. “Homer had a cancellation. The original appointment was for later in the month. If everything looks good, this is on track to be the fastest closing I’ve ever been a party to.”
While I could spend days up here taking time to appreciate this bounty, I’d rather go inside and spend time with Myrah and Clovis. So that’s exactly what Beau and I do.
Once we’re back in the house with cups of hot coffee and a plate of fresh cookies in front of us, Myrah sits down and says, “I got a world of stories for you, honey. Where do you want me to start?”
“At the beginning,” I tell her. “Start at the beginning.”
Chapter 39
When the Frothinghams sold the house in the nineteen forties, my family stopped working for them. The Frothinghams helped them buy the farm that Myrah and Clovis still live on.
The families have stayed in touch over the years and made sure that each generation got to know one another. While they genuinely cared for each other, it was also a tribute to our ancestors’ friendship and what Regina and Elsie were able to achieve by working together.
All told, we spend over six hours with Myrah and Clovis. Beau and I don’t leave until the late afternoon. Even if I have to fly to New York and drag my mother down here on my own, I’m going to do it. She’s needs to feel this connection to our family and the past as much as I do, especially with Mimi and Pops no longer alive.
Beau and I drive back to the sewing machine factory in near silence. Today was a lot for both of us to process. When we pull into Beau’s parking space, he asks, “You want to grab some supper?”
I don’t know if he considers this a friendly dinner or something more, but either way I want to go.
“I need to check on my dad first.”
“I’ll come with you,” he says. “Bertie’s more than welcome to join us. In fact, I believe I owe him a meal.”
“How do you figure that?”
“Shelby paid the other night, instead of me,” he replies.
“But your parents had us over for dinner last night,” I tell him.
“My parents aren’t me. Plus, now that you live here, don’t think we aren’t all expecting to be invited to your house when you’re up and running.’”
“That will happen, for sure,” I promise. A fanciful image of our ancestors joining us in a ghostly fashion pops into my mind. All of us celebrating the future they believed would one day come to pass.
Beau and I walk through the factory. A part of me wants to run over to Emmie’s shop and tell her everything that happened today, but even though I came here to see her, and have done precious little of that due to unforeseen events, I need to sit with all of this for a while, to let it soak in. Being that Beau experienced it with me, he is the only person I can imagine being with right now. I guess it’s a case of, “you had to be there.”
There is a much-appreciated relief from the intimacy that was cooking between me and Beau while we spent time with Clovis and Myrah. I have a lot to do and need to keep focused on the next step. This is not a time I can allow myself to get lost in a fantasy world—like I did with my old neighbor Tim, whom I haven’t thought about once since leaving New York. That was obviously nothing more than a passing fancy.
I unlock the door to my dad’s apartment and let me just say that while I’ve seen Bertie in all stages of weird while he’s painting, this is one takes the cake. He’s once again wearing cargo pants and nothing else. Queen’s “Can’t Stop Me Now” is blasting through the room and he’s dancing like nobody’s watching. Except we are, and if I videoed this and posted it on YouTube it would definitely go viral.
Beau laughs in what I assume is a combination of shock and amusement. We’re ten feet from my insane parent, but he doesn’t even notice us. When the song finally ends, he turns before leaping over like he’s channeling Mikhail Baryshnikov with multiple groin pulls. Then he throws open his arms dramatically, looking for a hug.
He tells us, “This series is going to be epic; I may be dancing longer than normal before I start painting.” Over the years I’ve met many artists through my dad, and I’ve come to learn that they all have a process, no matter how mad it may seem.
“How about going out to dinner with us?” I ask, my eyes pleading for a parental chaperone.
But Dad shakes his head as he yells out, “Alexa, play ‘Freebird,’ the extended version!” Then he says to me, “Maybe you could bring me something soft with a side of something crunchy.” As if my dad needs to be any more different than he already is, when he’s painting, he craves textures not flavors. I could bring him soft serve frozen yogurt and potato chips or mashed potatoes and peanuts. He would be thrilled either way because both would deliver the textures he needs.
Beau shoots me a questioning look, but I’ll explain it to him later. I tell my dad, “You got it. I’ll be back with soft and crunchy in a couple of hours. Will you be okay until then?”
He’s already begun his “Freebird” waltz, which will last the near fourteen minutes of the song. Then he’ll either lie on the floor and regroup for an hour, or he’ll power through with a little Meatloaf, “Bat Out of Hell.” It’s anyone’s guess.
I quickly stop in the bathroom, ostensibly to use it, but I don’t need to. Instead, I brush my teeth, reapply my lipstick, and try to tame my crazy curls. I opt to pull them back into a low chignon to keep them out of my face.
Beau smiles admiringly when I return. I hope he doesn’t think I was getting fixed up for him, but of course I was.
I try to convince myself that he’s just my realtor, but I’m not doing a very good job of it.
Chapter 40
“You feel up to a short walk?” Beau asks as we leave my dad’s loft.
“Sounds good.” I figure the cold air will be good for me and keep me from getting overheated by his close proximity. “What do you have in mind?”
“There’s a great fish place down by the river that I love. It’s not fancy, but it’s the best fish around.”
It take
s us twenty-three minutes to get there; yes, I’m counting. While the air is chilly and I even wear a scarf with my coat for extra warmth, I could probably be in a tank top and shorts and be fine.
Beau is walking very close to me. So close that when I try to gain some space, I lose my footing on a grassy embankment leading to the riverwalk. He takes my arm to help steady me, but he doesn’t let go once we hit firm ground.
I free myself under the guise of checking my purse for something, but once I stop fiddling around with it, he takes my arm again. I’m so relieved when we get to the restaurant I could cheer.
Beau’s right, Shuckie’s is not fancy. In fact, while it appears clean, it also looks like it hasn’t received a face lift in that last several decades. We sit at the booth next to the window, thankfully on opposite sides, or so I initially think. Sitting across from him allows me to watch him studying me in a way that I find very disconcerting.
I pick up a laminated menu on the table and discover my only choices are beer-battered walleye, sauger, bluegill or catfish. They all come with hushpuppies and coleslaw. “Not a very extensive menu, huh?” I ask.
“Doesn’t need to be, when you’ve got the freshest and the best of what you’re offering.” A hefty African-American gentleman in a white t-shirt and apron hollers from behind the counter, “Whatchoo havin’ tonight, Beau?”
“Hey, Shuckie. Can you start us out with two of whatever beer you have on draft and then bring us a sampler?”
“I’m on it,” the proprietor replies.
Beau says, “I hope you don’t mind me ordering for you, but being that you’re gonna live here, you really should try everything so you can decide for yourself what you like.”
“Out of the four, I’ve only ever had catfish. I’m looking forward to trying the others,” I tell him.
Shuckie comes over and drops two beers on the table. “I got Float Trip ale tonight.” Then he looks at Beau and asks, “Who’s this pretty gal you got with you, son?”
The Move (The Creek Water Series Book 2) Page 15
