Aware that Betsy still waited downstairs, I struggled to sit up, my feet searching for and finding the slippers I’d removed moments earlier. Just before I left the room, I heard her sing-song voice emanating from the small speaker on the wall.
“What’s taking you so long?”
The intercom, of course! Somehow, I always forgot that little convenience. I leaned over and pressed the button to speak. “Sorry, Betsy, I’ve changed my mind. Perhaps another time.”
She blew out a short stream of air. “No worries. You ran into Attila, didn’t you?”
I hemmed, considering whether to be forthcoming on my recent encounter. “No, just tired. I may try to take a nap.”
“Suit yourself, but you’re going to miss a great night.”
Somehow, I didn’t think watching two lovers make googly eyes at each other all evening a terrible loss. “Thanks, maybe next time.”
I slipped off my shoes for what I hoped would be the final time and opened the French doors to a small balcony overlooking a wooded area out back. Then it was a beeline to my favorite chair, a white wicker loveseat with a plush lemon-colored cushion. I pulled my feet under me and leaned against the backrest.
Dark clouds tumbled across the heavens, thunder rolled in the background. The air had been scorching this week. A storm would make things better. I closed my eyes, deeply inhaling the rain-scented air. The sound of it falling first against the distant trees, then racing through the forest sent shivers up my spine. The first fat drops soaked into the sun-bleached porch, dappling the wood with wet spots. Currents of sizzling rain splashed up to dampen my dress, but I didn’t move. A flash of lightning lit up the afternoon sky, followed by a crash of thunder.
Poor Betsy. I hoped she had found a safe place before the storm hit, and wasn’t driving in the rain. I stayed cozy beneath the overhang of the porch, watching until it blew itself out. Funny how a thunderstorm could change the mood of an ordinary day. I’d always loved storms—wait! How did I know that?
Just like that, a memory came rushing back. Me, held safe in my father’s arms. A large wooden porch where I’d watched storms. Flowerpots swinging madly back and forth and petals floating down like snow. His broad smile and laughter. My heart fluttering . . . yet, I sensed it would be all right when I saw his joy in the storm. “Nothing to fear, my girl.”
Another clap of thunder drew me out of the past. My father—dark hair, eyes, and a big bushy mustache. I smiled. Yes, I remember how it tickled my neck and . . . and . . .
I raced inside to retrieve a pencil and my notebook. With my eyes closed, once more I tried to visualize the new scene playing across my mind. I opened them, and began to write:
I sit playing on the porch. In my hand, I hold a small red ball and several metal pieces. I bounce the ball and scoop . . . bounce the ball and scoop. It’s a rhythm thing, and I’m pretty good. The metallic voices of my mother’s pots and pans sing through the screen door. A thick aroma of chicken frying in the pan and crisp potatoes sizzling spilled out to mingle with Mama’s rose bush. The red, perfumed breath is sweet, and my head spins with delight.
My father sits a short distance from me, reading from his tattered, black Bible. He swings back and forth. The squeak as the chain rubs against the hook high overhead is comforting. This is a place I am happy, comfortable, and safe.
The porch is mostly in the shadows this time of the day. A cool breeze lifts the heavy wave of curls flowing over my shoulder. All is well until I see the figure of a strange man approaching. He is tall and thin, dressed in a dark suit. He wears a hat and bends to open the gate as he continues up our walk.
The man’s eyes are trained on me. Such unusual color, with an intensity that makes me nervous. He greets my father, extending a hand outward, but turns back to me. “And who is this lovely young lady?”
I forget my good manners, suffering a sense of shyness and edge closer to my father. My father, normally in his dark coat, has removed it and is relaxing in his white shirt with the sleeves rolled up. How strong and tan his arms are, but now I miss the jacket, as it would give me something to hide behind.
“Don’t be afraid, darling. Say hello.”
I smell the scent of Bay Rum cologne emanating from my father, a robust fragrance that tickles my nose and reminds me of strength. He’d never let anyone harm me. This gives me the courage to steal another shy glance at the stranger. “Hello.” I swallow hard, trying to find my voice.
My father runs his hand through my curls with a measure of sympathy. “Why don’t you run inside and tell your mother our guest has arrived. Perhaps you’ll find your tongue.”
We both know it isn’t polite to ignore someone when spoken to. “Yes, sir.” The slight reprimand in my father’s voice grieves me. Bashfulness isn’t something I am accustomed to. My cheeks burn knowing I have disappointed him, but he gives me a reassuring wink as I run inside the house.
I find my mother in the kitchen. The curtains are drawn to keep the sun out of the already stifling room. She pulls out a long tray of rolls from the oven. Her cheeks are moist and red from the heat. I think the hint of color makes her even more beautiful. Her lovely hair is carefully pinned away from her face save the one extended strand that never seems to cooperate. “What is it, baby?” She smiled at me in that way she has.
“Company.”
“Oh, my. He’s early. Well . . . I suppose it can’t be helped.” It is as if she has momentarily forgotten me in her haste. She hurries about the kitchen, paying little attention to me, then, as if remembering, she stops. Her lips curve. “It’s so warm in here, darling. Wait for me in the foyer, where it’s cooler. I’ll bring refreshments for you to take out.”
I nod, not wishing to question her at this point. She seems nervous. Once more, I experience apprehension. Who is this man? I steal back into the parlor and sit where I can listen, but not be seen. Snatches of conversation float to me through the open window.
“Thank you for keeping the arrangement . . . I wasn’t sure . . . with everything that has happened . . .” The stranger’s voice trails off.
“Of course. Your father was a Godly man. I’m happy to honor our agreement. I was troubled to learn of your parents passing. Such horrific circumstances. Have the police any leads?” my father asks.
I cannot hear all they are saying. There are dogs barking, and they are speaking quietly. “—honored for our girl—”
“She is beautiful—” and “—I’m a lucky man.”
“—is my only worry.”
I strain to catch more when my mother’s voice causes me to spin around. “It isn’t polite to eavesdrop.” She is standing laden with our best service tray. On it, a pitcher of lemonade and two glasses. Heat creeps to my face. Attempting to avoid eye contact, I study my feet. My bare toes peek from beneath my skirt. “W-ho is he?” I venture.
She shakes her head and clicks her tongue. “Not someone you need to concern yourself with at the moment.”
“I’m sorry, Mama. I—”
She smiles. “Let’s not worry about it now, shall we? Come, take this tray and serve our guest before this precious ice melts.”
I stare at the chunks of ice my Mother has sacrificed to add to the glasses. And again wonder what manner of guest is this that he should receive the rare treat of an iced beverage. I blink myself from my musing and take the tray. It is heavy for my small arms as I struggle to get through the door. Mother rushes back to the kitchen.
The screen slaps behind me. Conversation comes to a halt as they both look at me. The stranger rises and removes the burden from my trembling limbs, setting it down on a small table. He has removed his hat and smiles at me. “My, such a heavy tray for such a petite young lady. How old are you now? You were just a tiny thing the last time I saw you.” He smiles at me, and I notice that he is rather handsome.
“Ten, sir.”
“And already helping your mother. What a good girl.”
I smile at his kind words and cast a look to
my father.
“You know . . . I seem to recall that I have something for you in my pocket.” The stranger gives me a wink.
“Me?” I gasp.
“Yes. Let me see . . .” He pats himself all over as if he hasn’t a clue where he has put it.
I giggle at his antics, feeling my shyness fade. I am eager to discover what it could be. A doll . . . or toy . . . No, of course not. Gifts of that nature could never be hidden on his person.
“Ah . . . Here it is.” He withdraws a slender white box wrapped in ribbon.
Once again, I wait for my father’s approval. He nods and gestures his consent.
With awe, I take the proffered gift, holding it in my hands, wanting to savor the moment for as long as I can before I start to unwrap it. Inside is another small case. I lift the lid and withdraw the daintiest chain. It is like a trickle of golden water, at the end drips a perfect, graceful pearl. Never have I seen anything so wonderful, so grown up. With my mouth opened, I can only whisper a thank you.
He smiles at me again, those beautiful eyes probing as if they can see my soul. I think he must be the most handsome young man ever. “Would you like me to help you put it on?”
“Please,” I answer in my most adult voice. My hands quiver as I pass the necklace and present my back to him. How often I have seen my mother do this with my father. “I thank you again.”
“My pleasure. It’s a real pearl . . . And do you know why it reminded me of you?”
I swallow hard and shake my head.
He gently spins me around to face him. “This is a symbol of purity. A beautiful, perfect jewel for my perfect little Jewel.”
Chapter 30
Jack pulled into the Burger King parking lot, Sam on his tail. Having spent the morning doing research, they were ready for a break. They were anxious to talk about their discoveries without the watchful eyes of Sam’s nosy boss, Irene.
She rolled into the spot next to him, hopped out, and propped herself against her car before he could slide out his driver’s side door. Wow, she looked amazing today, with slimming jeans and a loose fitting tank top. Her sun-kissed cheeks flushed from the warm day. Her windows were still down from the drive over, and the air had tossed around her fiery red hair giving it that soft, wind-blown look.
Was it appropriate to stall for a few more minutes and just enjoy the view?
“Aren’t you coming? I thought you were hungry.” Sam turned to stare at him.
Uh, yeah. “Be right there.” He grinned and scooped up the file folders containing printouts of their research.
He fell into step beside her, holding the door open, and allowing her to enter before him. Cool air washed over them. It was early May, and already the heat was notable.
Several people stood in line ahead of them, two rather hot and dirty-looking workmen, an older gentleman wearing shorts, knee socks, and a baseball cap emblazoned with: Just Call Me Grandpa. He acknowledged the man with a polite smile. Grandpa nodded back.
Jack couldn’t miss the way the workmen’s eyes devoured Sam, chuckling and nudging each other. He placed a protective hand on her waist. His jaw tightened as an unexpected twinge of jealousy surged. “What would you like? If you grab a table, I’ll order.”
“I’m not so much hungry as thirsty. I’ll have bottled water and a Whopper Jr. No onion, please.”
“Got it. No onion.”
If Sam sensed her overzealous admirers, she didn’t let on. She found a quiet table near the back. They had a lot to discuss.
Jack waited for his order, happy that the workmen had placed theirs to go. When it was ready, they headed out with their two super-size sacks, casting longing glances in Sam’s direction. Grandpa got his tray, found a side booth, and pulled out a crossword puzzle to work while he sipped coffee and nibbled fries.
The bored-looking teenager behind the counter finally shoved the food tray toward Jack and sighed. “Here’s your order.” She turned to the next customer before Jack could thank her.
Sam was busy shooing a fly when he slid into the chair across from hers. There was vengeance in her eyes as she swatted the pest with determination. “I hate flies,” she hissed through clenched teeth.
“Wow, remind me to never make you angry.” He removed items from the tray and set it aside to give them more room.
“Sorry. Those nuisances bring out the devil in me.”
Jack chuckled. “I can see that. Here’s your water.” He handed her the bottle.
“Thanks.”
“One Whopper Jr. no onions.”
“I hate onions too.” She looked a bit sheepish. “Though not as much as flies.”
“Ah . . . I’m learning more about you every day.”
“In case you haven’t guessed by now, I’m a little quirky.” She unwrapped her burger, pulled off the top bun, and inspected for what he assumed to be stowaway onions.
“You should know I like quirky.” He opened a packet of ketchup and squirted it on the edge of his wrapper.
He watched her for several moments, seeing what he hoped was pleasure twinkling in those green irises. She said more with a glance than any other woman he’d ever known. Okay, enough flirting, Jack. “So . . . what’s your take on those records we found today?”
She twisted the cap off her water as she switched gears. “We already knew the good doctor left the States early to join the war effort. Thanks to that article in the Virginia Medical Monthly we have an approximate time of when he left. But what we don’t know is what happened to Jewel afterward.”
“No, but from those military records, we know he never made it back.” He tapped a finger on the manila file folder. “And this newspaper clipping says there was an investigation into Jewel’s disappearance. I wish we could find more information or talk to the policeman who handled the case.”
Sam shook her head. “Like that’s going to happen. I’ve hunted through the microfiche, and I can’t find any evidence they ever found her. I know I’m missing something, but there are literally hundreds of articles to wade through.”
“How do you find more information on a small town disappearance . . . especially on a case that happened over a hundred years ago?” The water bottle crinkled in Jack’s hand as he tightened his grip.
“We know the detective’s name . . . it’s a long shot, but it’s possible he has a child or someone who may remember something. Or Addie . . .” Sam snapped her fingers. “We could find out more information on her if we had a last name.”
“You’re right. Both are long shots.” Jack took a sip of water. “But at this point, it’s the only thing we have to go on.”
“I’ll keep digging. I’ll try to track down someone who might still be living or give us some insight. It had to be a big deal at the time, right? A doctor’s wife goes missing?”
“That’s a lot of mights. But thanks, Sam. I appreciate you doing this for me.”
“For you?” She shook her head. “Uh-uh, she isn’t your Jewel anymore, she’s ours. I want to find out what happened to her every bit as much as you do. We won’t rest until we know the truth.” She glanced at her watch. “Finish up, we’ve got to meet Jeff and Cindy at one to clean out that room. Who knows . . . we could find another letter from Addie that will shed more light on things . . .”
*****
Hours later, waist deep in boxes and musty old furniture, Samantha plucked at her damp shirt. If only she could stir up a small breeze as she waded through the clutter. She found herself drawn to one trunk in particular. Covered in dirt, she did her best to clear the dust, hesitating a moment before lifting the latch. If it was possible, she wanted to savor the anticipation, the thrill of discovery. It didn’t matter much what she found inside, whether it be books, clothes, or ancient papers. It was sure to contain objects from the past, objects touched by the hands of those who had come before her. The chest itself proved to be a treasure, as she tried to imagine the things it had seen, the places it had been.
She couldn’t help
laughing at herself. You’re such a dork. Realistically, it had occupied this same house its entire existence. Its only purpose had been a storage container for unwanted items, but that was such an unromantic thought. Besides, for this gal, the ordinary objects of the past were the beloved riches of the present.
Standing sentry over her prize, she surveyed the room full of antiques. The objects were a collector’s dream. Jack and Jeff strained over a massive armoire while Cindy seemed satisfied pawing through cardboard boxes of books. The girls, Megan and Amanda, had fashioned furniture from Dixie cups for an old dollhouse they’d unearthed. No one paid the slightest attention to her.
Later she would let Jack know about her find. He was sure to be as excited as she was, but for now, this was her prize to relish alone. Unable to resist the temptation any longer, she flipped the rusty clasp and raised the lid. The cranky hinges resented the intrusion and protested with a loud groan.
Inside, someone had gone to great lengths to fold and pack the fragile dresses. She withdrew one of the scrumptious lace designs. Definitely Edwardian Period, perhaps a little later, but somewhere around there. What luck they were so well preserved.
With care, she unfolded the flimsy material, marveling over the petite garment. It looked as if it should belong to a child rather than a grown woman. There were tiny boots, brushes, and combs. These things should be displayed in a museum, not folded away in a chest for moths to digest. The beading, lace, and satins were breathtaking—it would cost a fortune to create their equal today.
She placed the fancy frock to the side and continued to peruse through the trunk, promising herself a more thorough inspection when the trunk wasn’t surrounded by such clutter. No sense in taking a chance of damaging something. Near the bottom she found a wrapped bundle, quite thick and cumbersome. She pulled the object out and peeled back the sheet enveloping it.
Her breath caught as she ran her hand along the lovely embroidery and beaded work. She had heard of quilts being stored in cotton to preserve them. This one seemed in pristine condition, save a small watermark around the edge.
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