“Well, they might withdraw the offer,” she said. “I mean, come on. It’s a good offer. I say we go ahead and sign on the dotted line while we still can.”
Morgan rubbed her forehead. It was beginning to ache. “I can’t commit to this,” she said. “I have to pray about it. You have to let me do that.”
And with that she hung up the phone, no longer interested in what her sister had to say.
C H A P T E R
50
Late that night, Jonathan lay on his cot, staring at the jail’s stained ceiling tiles where a leak had come through. He had hoped to get out that day, but Cade still seemed intent on keeping him locked up. Even with Gus in the cell next to him, Cade’s resolve hadn’t weakened.
The anguished look on Morgan’s face when he told her to sell Hanover House had haunted him since she left. He wondered if he was doing the right thing to ask her to sell. Was it selfish, or was he really thinking of her?
The thoughts kept him from sleep, and he wished he had the luxury of a telephone so he could call and check on her. He hadn’t meant to give her something new to grieve over. She had already lost her parents, had practically lost her husband, and now he wanted her to lose her house too?
He wished he could see her again tonight and undo the damage he had done.
The silence was getting to him, and he wished he had a radio or a television to watch, something to get his mind off of his thoughts. But there was only Gus, and he had avoided talking to him since they put him in the cell next to him. The man had mostly slept since he had been here, and he hadn’t seemed interested in conversation either.
But now, in the quiet of the night, he heard a soft sound.
“Amazing grace, how sweet the sound . . .”
It was Gus, singing quietly in his bed. He looked over at him in the darkness, saw him lying there on his back, staring at the same ceiling tiles. He listened as the man got to the end of the verse, and quiet settled back over the room.
“Do you mind?” he asked out loud, his voice echoing over the room. “I’m trying to sleep in here.”
“Sorry,” Gus said in that deep Jamaican accent. “I just be trying to pull a Peter. You know, when they sang in the jail and the walls fell down?”
Jonathan let that sink in for a moment.
“I always liked the mon Peter,” Gus said. “He be saying the wrong thing, all the time, like me.”
And like me, Jonathan thought, though he didn’t want to engage with the man.
“And then there was Paul, killed all them Christians. God forgave him that.”
Jonathan wondered if he had killed Thelma and Wayne, if his conscience was bothering him now, if he was consoling himself with the memory of forgiveness for a similar crime.
Soon he heard Gus singing again, quietly, in the night. Jonathan fell asleep to the sound of “Amazing Grace.”
C H A P T E R
51
Cade sat at the computer in his den that night, a yellow light illuminating the place where he worked. He had done a search on Gus Hampton in an attempt to find out what he could about the ex-convict he held in his jail cell, and now he tried to put the pieces together.
But as hard as he tried to concentrate, he couldn’t get his conversation with Blair today out of his mind.
Abandoning his work, he decided to do a search through his databases for Blair’s name. One article came up. He scanned its contents, about a house fire and the injuries sustained by the little girl who lived there. This was, no doubt, the article Blair had already found.
He typed in “Wayne Owens” and another article emerged. The article was titled “Man Arrested for Insurance Fraud.” Frowning, he clicked it and read as it filled the screen.
Wayne Owens, 28, was arrested today following an investigation into the fire that consumed his house and injured his three-year-old daughter. The charge was insurance fraud. A spokesman for the district attorney’s office cited evidence that Owens and his wife, Thelma, allegedly plotted to set fire to their house in order to collect the insurance money. Owens made no comment as the police arrested him.
Cade felt as if a fist had just belted him in the gut, and he sat staring at the screen. Wayne Owens, arrested for arson? Had he really caused the fire that did that to Blair?
He looked at the phone and thought of calling her, but he wasn’t sure there was any purpose in sharing this with her. Did she need to know that her recently murdered father had been arrested for setting their own house on fire? Was there any purpose in telling her that her own father had caused her injuries?
Yes, there was a purpose, he thought. He had promised Blair he would tell her whatever he learned. He intended to keep that promise.
He picked up the phone and dialed her number.
“Hello.” She sounded groggy, and he knew he had awakened her again.
“Blair, it’s me, Cade.”
“Cade?” she asked.
“Yeah. Sorry I woke you, but I just found something I thought you’d want to know.”
“About my folks?” she asked.
“Yes,” he said. “I did a search for your father’s name in the Charleston newspaper, and an article came up about his being arrested for insurance fraud.”
There was a long pause. “I never thought to do a search on his or Mama’s name. I only entered mine. Give me the date of the article,” she said. “I want to see it.”
He read it out to her.
“Thank you, Cade,” she whispered. “I’ve got to go.”
She hung up, and Cade sat holding the phone, despising himself for bringing her more pain, and wishing he could rush to her side to help her through this. But he knew she wouldn’t accept his help. This was something Blair would insist on dealing with alone.
Blair got to the computer as quickly as she could, and within moments had the Website with that article: “Man Arrested for Insurance Fraud.”
Blair read the article, her heart beating against her chest. She sat there, stunned, for a moment, then forced herself into gear and found another article. Then she scanned the next article and the next until she had enough pieces to discern the whole story.
Her father had served time in jail. He had served several months, then their family had moved to Georgia.
Had they been refugees coming to Hanover House for shelter and safety from staring eyes and pointing fingers? Had Thelma and Wayne been trying to escape a rap sheet that told too much?
She got up and moved away from the computer, staring at the screen as if it radiated danger. This was too bizarre to fathom. It couldn’t be possible. Her parents had never done a deceitful thing in their lives. They had always been in ministry. They had been helping people as far back as she could remember.
Blair took the chair across the room and sat in it with her knees pulled up, her arms hugging them to her chest as she stared at the screen. It couldn’t be true. They were all lies.
After a moment she got up and forced herself back to the computer, quickly printed out the articles, then snatched them from her printer. Morgan had to see these, she thought. She had to help her discern what was truth and what was not. Morgan would know.
She ran back across the gravel to her house, the articles gripped in her fist.
Morgan sat upright in bed at the sound of the door opening, and she saw Blair’s silhouette in the light of the hall lamp.
“Morgan, I’ve got to talk to you,” Blair said.
Morgan reached for the lamp and squinted up at her. “Blair, I don’t want to talk about selling the House anymore. I told you—”
“It’s not that,” Blair said. She came and sat on the bed and laid the articles out. “I’ve found out about Pop and Mama.”
“What are these?”
“They’re articles that fill in the blanks,” she said. “Mama and Pop started the fire to collect insurance money.”
“No.” Morgan’s word cut through the night, and she got out of bed and stood staring down at her sister. �
��If it says that in those articles, then they’re lying.”
Blair’s eyes glowed with intensity, anger, sorrow. “Think,” Blair said. “Think back when we were kids. Was there ever a time when Pop was gone for months at a time? A time when he could have been in jail?”
“Jail?” Morgan asked. “Blair, you’ve got to be kidding. Our father?”
“It says here he was arrested for insurance fraud. And then in this article,” she flipped through the pages and found the one she needed, “it says that Pop was sentenced to a year. And then later on I found this little clip that tells that he was released early for some reason or another.”
“Let me see that,” Morgan snatched the articles out of her hand. “This can’t be. I would remember.”
“How?” Blair asked. “You don’t even remember the fire. Morgan, don’t you see? They lied to me about the grease fire because they didn’t want us to know they had done such a terrible thing and that it resulted in these scars. And they didn’t want us to know that Pop had served time, that when we came here we were the refugees and that the Hanovers had taken us in.”
“It’s not possible,” Morgan said, “and you know it. It’s just not.”
“Do you remember Pop ever disappearing for a few months, when you might have been given some explanation about where he was?”
Morgan sat down and racked her brain. “I remember you in the hospital. You were there for months. I remember the surgeries, and Mama cried and paced the floors back and forth, back and forth. I remember you coming home and Mama being so glad . . .”
“So where was Pop?”
Morgan looked up at her, and her voice fell to a whisper. “I remember him coming home from a long trip, my being shy about seeing him again. I remember him picking me up and swinging me around.”
“Then he was gone a long time.”
“I remember him putting me down and looking up at the upstairs window and seeing you looking out. He burst into tears, then ran up the stairs to see you. He was careful picking you up, but he held his face against yours . . .”
“He’d been in jail, Morgan,” Blair said. “He served time. The article says they were both charged, only Mama got off.”
Morgan closed her eyes against the truth and ground her teeth together. “Stop this,” she said, flinging the articles down. “I want you to stop looking for dirt on our parents. They haven’t done anything wrong. They were murdered, and it wasn’t because of some fire twenty-two years ago.”
“That wasn’t just ‘some fire,’ “ Blair blurted. “It was my face.”
“Pop would have never done anything to hurt you, and you know that.”
“But he did,” Blair said.
“Something’s wrong here,” she said. “This just isn’t right. I don’t believe any of it.”
“Then I’ll get more evidence.” Blair started out of the room.
“And what’ll you do then?” Morgan asked. “Are you going to be glad that our parents are dead?”
Blair turned back from the open door and leveled her dejected gaze on her sister. “I’ll never be glad they’re dead. I just want to know the truth, Morgan. And that’s been real hard to come by.”
She closed the door and hurried back to the library.
C H A P T E R
52
Morgan got to Hanover House early. In a fog of depression, she made breakfast for Rick, Mrs. Hern, and Sadie. When the dishes were washed and put away, she sat down at the kitchen table, staring at her coffee.
“Do I look all right?” Sadie asked from the doorway.
Morgan looked up at her. The girl had washed and ironed her clothes—a pair of khakis and a bright pink shirt that Morgan had given her.
“You look fine. Why?”
“I’m going to look for a job,” she said. “I’m not coming home until I get one.”
Morgan smiled and got up. She pulled herself out of her mood and gave the girl a more critical look. “I think we could do something to cover that black eye, Sadie,” she said. “A little makeup would do wonders.”
Sadie shrugged. “I didn’t bring any.”
Morgan turned her toward the stairs. “Let’s go to my room and see what we can do.”
They went into Morgan’s room, full of Jonathan’s things, exactly where he had left them. Morgan ushered Sadie to a small makeup table in the bathroom. Around the sink were Jonathan’s razor and shaving cream, a bottle of aftershave, some Lava soap.
“I heard about your husband,” Sadie said. “I’m really sorry.”
Morgan nodded. “I’m hoping he’ll get out today. It’s absurd, their keeping him in there.” She pulled out the drawer in the table and got a small jar of foundation. “I think this might be close to your color.” She got a sponge pad and began applying the makeup to the bruised area of Sadie’s face. “Let me know if it hurts,” Morgan whispered.
“It doesn’t hurt,” Sadie said. “I really appreciate this.”
Morgan smiled. “It’s fun. I haven’t played makeup in a long time. My sister never wanted to when I was young. She hated mirrors.”
Sadie was quiet.
“Sadie, did a boyfriend do this to you?”
Sadie seemed to struggle for an answer. “I was in a wreck.”
“Really.” It was a statement, not a question. She stopped dabbing and regarded the girl who had so many secrets. “It looks great. You can’t even see it.”
Sadie looked in the mirror, surprised at the change. “Wow.”
“How about a little blush?”
“Okay.”
She applied the makeup with a deft hand. “You’re a pretty girl, Sadie. I have a feeling you don’t know that.”
Sadie looked embarrassed. “Thank you.”
“When you apply for jobs, tell them to call me if they need a reference. I’ll put in a good word for you.”
“I will,” she said.
When the girl had gone, Morgan decided to pray. It had been difficult the last few times she had tried. Anger and despair over what God had allowed to happen to her parents had paralyzed her. But Sadie needed intercession, so she went to the throne. And she found open arms and peace washing over her like a warm tide.
While she was there, she prayed for the decision about the house, and for Blair too, and her destructive quest to find out things about her parents that neither of them really wanted to know.
C H A P T E R
53
With the clothes Sadie had borrowed from Morgan, her hair clean and brushed, and her bruises carefully covered, Sadie had her hopes up that someone would give her a job. She walked down Ocean Boulevard, going from establishment to establishment. Commercial businesses crowded both sides of the road, tourist traps with colorful, useless products to sell.
She stopped at a hotel half a mile down the beach and inquired if they were hiring. She was politely but firmly told there were no positions open. She crossed the busy street to a gift shop where several tourists milled around. Swallowing back her tension, she approached the counter.
A tall woman, who resembled Popeye’s Olive Oyl, stood beside the cash register, arranging a point-of-purchase display.
“Excuse me. Are you the manager?”
The woman looked up at her with her big eyes. Her voice lilted as she said, “Well, yes, I am. The owner, actually, if that makes any difference.”
Sadie liked the sound of her voice and the kindness in those big eyes. “I’m looking for a job,” she said. “I’m a hard worker. I’m staying at Hanover House, and Morgan Cleary can vouch for me.”
“Oh, honey, I’m so sorry about Thelma and Wayne,” the woman said. “Terrible, terrible thing.” She sighed heavily, then seemed to shake her thoughts back to the question. “I’m afraid I can’t afford to hire anyone. I run this place by myself. Where you from?”
Sadie stood straighter and lied. “Hilton Head.”
“Hilton Head?” the woman asked, giving her a surprised once-over. “You don’t look like anybo
dy from Hilton Head.”
She didn’t know what that meant, but she didn’t appreciate it.
“Are you an ex-prisoner?”
Sadie frowned. “No. I’ve never been to jail, and I never will.”
“So how’d you break your arm?”
“I was in a wreck,” she lied again. “I just came here because it seemed like a wonderful place.”
“Oh, it is. I didn’t mean to offend you. It’s just that you don’t look like an ex-con either.”
She didn’t know what ex-cons looked like. She thought of sweet Mrs. Hern. Would anyone have guessed that she had served time? And would her mother come out of prison someday with a tainted, used-up look that told people where she’d been?
“I’m sorry to bother you.” She started back to the front door, but the woman stopped her.
“You know, there’s an opening over at the paper.”
Her eyes widened. “The newspaper?” she asked.
“Yep. Nancy Simmons was telling me yesterday she was looking for someone who could help her put the paper together. Her assistant had a baby and quit. Doesn’t pay a lot, just a little over minimum wage, but it’s something.”
Sadie wanted to kiss her. “It sounds perfect. Can you tell me where the office is?”
After getting directions and being sent on her way, Sadie had more of a bounce to her step. When she arrived at the little house with the Cape Refuge News sign out front, she stepped onto the porch and knocked. There was no answer. She tested the doorknob and found the door was open. She stepped inside.
“Hello?” She waited a moment and heard machinery in the back, no doubt cranking out the latest issue. They probably hadn’t heard her. She stepped tentatively inside, looking around at the little desk at the front and the cluttered office off the hallway. Then she stepped to the archway at the back of the house and peered inside.
“Hello,” she called again. This time she caught the attention of a woman standing behind the machinery.
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