Jewel’s eyes fell on the dress and scissors while her lip quivered. The resolve not to cry crumbled; her emotions were raw. As much as she wanted to keep faith, she felt the weight of despair suffocating her . . . doubt and anxiety loomed before her like two giant monsters threatening to tear her apart.
Trembling fingers picked up the favored frock and nuzzled it against her cheek remembering the loving hands that had helped stitch it together. She drew comfort from the memory of her mother, the joy they had shared working the nights away, chatting like school chums, and giggling over the intimate details of impending marriage.
Once more, she gazed at the garment, spread it out on the bed, and ran her hand along its soft folds. Hunsdon had been correct about one thing. She didn’t need the clothing to remember her mother. Suddenly, an idea struck her. Of course! Why hadn’t she thought of it before?
Jewel jumped to the floor with such haste that she sent Theodosia sprinting for the nearest chair. She crouched upon her hands and knees, pulling a box from under the bed. The lid opened with ease as she examined the assortment of materials, special fabrics, and embroidery work. The culmination of pieces would eventually be stitched together to create a crazy quilt. She’d never cared for the actual piecing, but she did enjoy the fine needlework that went into making the heirloom quilts. She had started this one in the hopes of passing it along to her children, however unlikely that prospect seemed at the present. If Hunsdon wanted to see scraps, so be it. He didn’t have to know she would keep some of the material for her quilt.
With scissors in hand, she went to work cutting up fabric.
*****
Dear Jewel,
It troubles me to hear that you are in a relationship with someone that treats you with anything other than the utmost respect. I know we haven’t known each other long, but it angers me to know you may not be treated as you should be. I pray he isn’t physically abusive. My unsolicited advice would be to get out of that environment and work on it from a distance. I am not one that believes divorce is an answer, but you can’t place yourself in harm’s way. Please take care of yourself.
I couldn’t sleep after reading your letter. The uniqueness of our situations, the house, and the common things we share forges a bridge between us, which causes me to have deep concern for you. From your letters, you sound like a woman of faith, so know I will be praying for you.
I am off to the library later this morning to learn more about the history of our city. I have a new interest regarding the events that happened between your time and mine. Who knows, I might uncover the hidden mystery that allows us to communicate. Lynchburg is a town with many secrets.
Jewel, there is something else you should know. I did not find the initials that you said you left. I found something that might have been carved letters, but they were scratched out. There aren’t words to describe how sorry I am if I’ve caused you more trouble. I pray that I am overreacting.
Jack stopped reading, although the letter continued. He wanted to be sure he hadn’t penned anything that might offend her. He hoped that he didn’t end up the one that sounded like a goose. Call it a sixth sense, but seeing the grooves in the wood made the hair on his arms stand on end. The scratches were deep, as if someone had been trying to remove something. In fact, there were no other marks surrounding the gouged area. He prayed he worried without cause.
It was late. Might as well stretch out on the couch and try to catch a little catnap, Jack thought, but sleep did not come easy.
Not until the first rays of silvery light flooded through curtains and bathed the room with pastel shades did sweet slumber welcome him into her embrace.
Jack awoke stiff and groggy from his restless night, which left him feeling out of sorts. By the time he pulled into the parking lot of the modest brick library, the clock on his dashboard read 1:00 p.m.
Great mountains of snow lay pushed back and piled in various haphazard mounds from the blade of a plow. The lower lot was even now being shoveled. Few people ventured out on the icy streets, and the swells of white remained unblemished. Only his car and a handful of others occupied the parking lot.
He pulled into a space near the door, hopped out, and pressed the gadget on the end of his key chain. The locks made a satisfying chirp as the headlights flashed at him.
The building wasn’t in the safest part of the city, although efforts were being made every day to revitalize the older, more rundown sections. Jack opened the door, struck by the combination of musty books and lemon polish. The odor was not entirely unpleasant.
Having never been an avid reader, Jack realized he’d not stepped foot inside a library since high school. He was slightly out of his element, as he tried to recall the library procedures for looking up information. The Dewey Decimal System came to mind, but his memory was fuzzy on the process.
A woman in her midfifties stood at the desk. Her short hair stood out like a small, frizzy cloud around her head as she worked. She glanced up and smiled at him as he approached, but the smile failed to reach her eyes. Her appearance gave the impression that she resented the intrusion.
“May I help you?”
“I am looking for Samantha Rose.”
She peered at him from over the top of her glasses, and pressed her lips in a firm line before responding. “Sam isn’t working today. It’s her day off.”
“No, she’s in the back.” A small, rather plump woman with straight, mousy blonde hair came around the corner, wiping her hands on a napkin, and trying to finish whatever she’d been eating. “Helen couldn’t get in because her road hasn’t been cleared, so Sam volunteered.” She turned to him and smiled. “I’ll go get her.”
The other woman eyed him a moment longer before returning to her work. He stepped away from the desk, pretending to browse through a rack of magazines. He hoped this Sam wouldn’t keep him waiting. Already he could feel sweat breaking out beneath his jacket.
“Can I help you?”
Jack looked up from the magazine he had been leafing through and locked gazes with a pair of jade-green eyes. He must have stared too long, because she shuffled uneasily, and tucked an errant strand of red hair behind her ear. Her eyes held a hint of a smile. She must get this reaction all the time. Geez, Jack, pull it together.
“Were you the gentleman looking for me?”
He swallowed hard, trying to regain his speech, and extended his hand. “Guilty. Jack Vines. My friend Cindy Danner thought you might be able to help me.”
Her eyes twinkled, as she took his extended hand. “I’ll certainly try. What are you looking for, Mr. Vines?”
“Jack. Please, call me Jack. I need old records. Newspaper articles. I’m particularly interested in the history of Lynchburg. I bought one of the older homes on Rivermont, and I’m hoping to find the original deed . . . and maybe a few things about its history.”
“Well . . . you’ve come to the right place. We have the second largest library of archives in Virginia . . .”
Her hand felt soft in his. Her fingers clasped around his fingers with a delicate, yet firm grip. The touch sent tremors through him. She hesitated, looking at him with an odd expression as she pressed her lips together. Did she feel it, too?
Several moments passed. Her lips twitched as if amused. “May I have my hand back?”
Heat inched up the back of Jack’s shirt, yet he was reluctant to drop her hand. “Of course. Sorry . . . first time in a library.” He groaned at the lame joke, but there was no denying his attraction to her.
“Umph!” A disgusted grunt sounded from the desk behind them.
“Did you say something, Irene?” Samantha swiveled and eyed the woman at the desk.
The older woman glared back and turned her eyes once more to the paperwork.
Samantha Rose favored Jack with a brilliant flash of pearly white teeth and touched him on the sleeve. “Shall we? We’ll get you set up at one of the tables. It looks like you picked a good day. Doesn’t seem like we will be too bu
sy, and I will try to find everything you need.”
The late evening sun slanted through the windows. Jack hunkered down, with a fort of books surrounding him as he scribbled notes furiously. He had been back and forth from the microfiche machine looking up old newspapers, making copies, and going through yellowed books and photographs of Lynchburg all afternoon. He’d long ago shed his coat, rolled up his sleeves, and focused his energy on finding out what he could about Jewel, Hunsdon, and their families.
“Hey, Jack.” Samantha edged over to him smelling of some wonderful citrus fragrance.
He liked the familiar way she said his name, as if they’d been friends for years, instead of meeting only hours ago. She must love her work, as she had immediately jumped to his aid, and her knowledge had proved invaluable. Without her help, he wouldn’t have found half the information he’d discovered. “Find something?”
“You could say that . . . you know that guy you were asking about, Hunsdon Wilshire? It seems his family was found murdered when he was just seventeen.”
Jack's eyebrows shot up. “Really? Mind if I take a look at that?”
“Here, I printed it out for you.” She handed him the copy. “Is he a relative of yours or something?”
“No . . . nothing like that. Just trying to find information about the original owners of the house.”
Samantha cocked her head in a way that made Jack think she didn’t believe him. “It’s none of my business, but it seems you’ve done an awful lot of research for just a casual interest . . . you wouldn’t happen to be bothered with ghosts in that old house of yours, would you?”
The statement startled him. Was she serious, or teasing him again? He chuckled, and ran his hand through his dark hair, making it stand on end. You have no idea. “No, just curious.”
Something about the way her eyes flashed with mischief, and her love of history, made him wonder if he could trust her. He thought about blurting out, No, the original owner is living in my house, in another dimension, and I think she may be in danger. Yeah, that would be a sure course to scare off the first girl he’d been remotely interested in for quite some time.
From behind, an exaggerated noise of a throat being cleared caused them to halt their conversation, and turn around to stare at Irene. “The library is closing in fifteen minutes.”
Jack glanced at his watch. “Wow, I can’t believe the afternoon has flown by so quickly. Guess I’d better start packing up.” He stood, slipped the paper in the top of a folder with other important articles he wanted to read, and collected books and papers from the messy area.
Samantha busied herself assembling various objects. “I’ll help.” She retrieved several of the sheets they had printed out from the Microfiche and tapped them on the desk thoughtfully. “It’s a shame you didn’t get to finish your research. I could keep looking in my spare time, if you like.”
“That would be—I mean I wouldn’t want to . . .”
“Nonsense, it would be my pleasure. Do you have a business card or something, where I can contact you?”
Jack patted himself down, searching for the cards. He always kept several on hand. “Sure.” He retrieved one from the small leather pouch that Megan had made him last year at church camp. He held the card out to her but didn’t release it when she took hold.
“I know this is short notice, but would you like to have dinner with me tonight?” He cupped his hand over hers as she reached for the offered item.
“Mr. Vines, that’s a lovely idea. To be honest, I feared I might have to suggest it, myself. I’d love to have dinner with you.” She batted her dark green eyes and did her best Scarlet O’Hara impression. But there was nothing coy about this woman. He appreciated her directness. Just like that he had a dinner date.
They hurriedly gathered the books, bumping into each other several times, and laughing, all under the disapproving eye of Irene, who impatiently frowned at them in between intervals of glancing at her watch. What they weren’t able to put away, Samantha left in a cart to replace when she got in the following morning. “Give me five minutes to get my stuff. I’ll meet you around front.”
Just as promised, a few minutes later, Samantha emerged from the tinted glass doors. She chatted with the smaller woman he had seen earlier, laughing at something the other woman said before crossing the parking lot to where he stood leaning against his truck.
Already the sun had slipped behind the building, and the temperature plunged just as fast. A cloud of blue encircled her head as moisture from her warm breath met the air. “I’m parked over here. I’ll follow you if you tell me where we’re headed.” Her cheeks had taken on a rosy glow, which made her green eyes appear even brighter.
“You’re welcome to ride with me.” He opened the door for her on the passenger side.
She eyed her red Nissan, then the surrounding parking lot, and shook her head. “I appreciate it, but, no. I don’t want to leave my car here after dark.” Her teeth began to chatter.
Jack laughed. “Yeah, you’ve got a point. Depot okay with you?”
“Are you serious? It’s only my favorite place in Lynchburg.” She looked beautiful under the dusk-to-dawn light that had just flicked on above them.
“A girl after my own heart.”
“It’s settled then. Lead the way.”
Chapter 13
1967
The cool, shifting leaves outside the window created a mesmerizing rug of shadows that danced across the room. The floor and walls were dappled with subtle shades of light and darkness. It distracted from the beeping and humming machines that surrounded me and helped quiet my troubled mind. Anything that distracted me was good.
An empty water pitcher sat by my bed. It served as a metaphor for my mind, my memory, a deep void that demanded to be filled. Heavy beads of sweat ran down to puddle on the table. I traced the warm water with the tip of my finger.
My eyes settled on the scars that etched my arms and hand. A few were old, some were fresh, but these hands belonged to a stranger. There were no memories to reveal the history behind the wounds. There were no rings, no telltale signs that hinted anything about my life. The doctors agreed that the injuries to my body and face suggested signs of continued abuse. What caliber person had I been?
For two weeks, doctors had poked, prodded, and run a battery of tests, yet they were unable to determine why I hadn’t regained my memory. It was as if I had been dropped out of the heavens. None of the experts agreed on the reason for my memory loss, and there were those that did not believe the amnesia to be real.
The reflection of a stranger caught my eye in the mirror across from my bed. Dark curls framed her face as she watched me through distrusting eyes. The hair failed to cover the ugly scar across the cheek. The red, angry wound showed signs of healing, but would forever hint of . . . what . . . what had I done?
The mirror didn’t lie. She looked guilty, or perhaps it was the shroud of shame I felt. No matter how I tried, I could not push aside a weight of dread. My head ached with the weight of knowing something . . . something terrible, and reaching . . . reaching, but not able to grasp hold . . .
Stop it, Stop it right now, I warned myself. That kind of thinking would drive me crazy, and the good Lord knew I had trouble enough coping with life as I knew it now without delving into the past for memories that refused to come.
Trouble. The thought conjured up the image of warm, chocolate eyes and a smile that made something inside me melt. Boomer. My emotions ran the gamut whenever I thought of him, but guilt registered at the top of the list. I knew he cared. His daily visits suggested more than a casual interest in a girl he’d fished out of the river. The attraction flowed through the room whenever we were together, but what kind of future could we have? I remained unable to remember my past. What were the chances that I, even now, had a husband that searched for me? Boomer deserved so much more than I could give. Each time I resolved to tell him that I didn’t want to see him, desperation would arise and cho
ke the words from my lips. Coward. The name fit, especially now I knew the results of the lab work and what it revealed . . .
A knock jarred me out of my morbid thoughts. Dr. Hoskins. My mind recognized the pudgy-faced doctor with the spicy scent that tickled my nose long before he reached the bedside. His jowls spilled over the tight collar of his blue, button-down shirt, giving him the appearance of a man with no neck. It looked as if his shirt had suddenly sprouted a head.
The inappropriate thought caused me to press my lips together to stifle outright laughter. It was an absurd thought. The flow of erratic emotions often struck at the worst moments, and I had little control of them. Mood swings were often a result of head trauma, I’d been told.
“How are we feeling today, my dear?”
By way of response, I nodded, unable to trust my voice.
“Any nausea, vomiting?” He raised a white, bushy brow as he marked my response and set aside the clipboard. “May I?”
I gave my permission, taking hold of the rails on either side of the bed as he pressed with care around my abdomen. With my head turned to the window, I stared out once more to the trees, my face flush with embarrassment.
“You are very lucky, young lady.” He picked up his clipboard once more, clicked his pen, and scratched something on the paper.
I cringed as I tried to imagine what he was writing . . . and what he must think.
“It would appear your stay with us is coming to an end. I hear they are thinking about releasing you.”
“Releasing!” I tried hard to swallow and catch my breath at the same time. “B-but what—how . . . Where will I go? I know no one.” The room began to tilt sideways.
He patted my hand. My knuckles had grown white as I clung to the metal bar. “Now, now . . . don’t fret. The hospital will not turn you out in the streets.” He chuckled as if addressing a small child.
I shook my head. “I don’t understand.”
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