The House on Blackberry Hill: Jewell Cove #1 (Jewel Cove)

by Donna Alward

  Because Edith had wanted to keep it hidden. Abby knew that, but she didn’t know why.

  At the bottom of the box was a small packet of letters. Aware of the fragile paper, Abby unfolded the first one cautiously. “This one is dated 1943. That was when Elijah was in the Navy.” Excitement ran through her words. Had she just found love letters from Elijah to his wife at home? “Listen to this.”

  She read the letter aloud.

  My dearest Edith,

  As I sit here belowdecks, my thoughts are of you and how much I hated to leave you. This ship takes me far away from you and Marian, away to another world that seems impossible to imagine. The only thing that keeps me going is knowing that one day this war will be over and, God willing, I will be able to return to your side.

  She looked up and met Tom’s gaze. “He did love her.”

  “Did you think he didn’t?”

  She shrugged. “I don’t know. A few things people have said. A feeling. But this letter … it was written by a man who loved her very much.”

  She looked down and continued reading, her voice soft.

  I know we can’t be together. I know how impossible it all seems right now. I have a job to do and so do you. But that doesn’t stop me from telling you how much I love you and long to be with you again. You are in my every breath, and in my dreams I hold you in my arms. What we had … what we have … is too beautiful to be wrong.

  Stay strong, my love, and when this is over I will see you again. Until then,

  Always yours,

  Kristian

  Abby looked up at Tom in confusion. “Kristian? Who on earth is Kristian?”

  Tom looked down at the letter and back into her eyes. “Kristian,” he said quietly, “is probably the reason this was hidden under the floor.”

  “Edith was having an affair.”

  “Looks like.”

  “But with whom? Who was Kristian?”

  “Maybe the rest of the letters will tell you.”

  Abby sat down on the floor and crossed her legs. Something about the date at the top of the letter kept drawing her attention. In 1943, Elijah came home, just ten months before Iris had been born. Iris. Abby picked up the picture of Edith and the baby hidden with the stash under the floor. The possibility hit her square in the chest. Good God, had Iris been Kristian’s daughter and not Elijah’s? It would explain so much. And if Elijah had known …

  Tom sat down beside her and took the letter from her fingers. “This is dated February of ’43, and judging by the tone of the letter, it sounds like Edith’s affair with this Kristian was already ending. Edith wouldn’t have been pregnant with Iris yet, not if Iris was born in 1944. That is what you were thinking, right?”

  She nodded, somehow let down. “I guess I let the romantic mystery of it all sweep me away.”

  “Oh, I don’t know.” His smile was slightly crooked. “This seems pretty crazy to me. At least you can’t say the house is boring. In a place like this, family secrets are almost a given, aren’t they?”

  She smiled back, somehow relieved that the dates didn’t add up.

  “Why don’t you read the letters in the garden? It’s warm out and it’ll get you out of the fumes.”

  “Oh, right. You’re starting the painting today.” She tucked the box under her arm and pushed herself to her feet. “And I’ve kept you from it.”

  “I don’t mind. It was kind of exciting. There’s a lot of history in these old houses, but most of it gets lost. I still don’t know how you knew to look here, though. Heck of a hunch.”

  “I was walking around, thinking about how to furnish this room, and the board creaked. It kind of felt like there was … I don’t know, no support under it.” She smiled weakly, knowing she was a terrible liar. “What can I say? I read a lot as a kid. I used to dream up stuff like this in my imagination all the time.”

  She hoped she’d sounded convincing. Because admitting she’d followed Edith up the stairs and into the nursery before she disappeared would not exactly make Abby the picture of perfect mental health.

  Tom seemed to accept her explanation as he too got to his feet. “Well, I’d better get to it. I’ll get to that switch today, too. Don’t want you to always be in the dark.”

  “Thanks, Tom.” She was hugely relieved that things were back to seminormal after last night. While Tom was crazy-attractive and kissed like a devil, she knew deep down that their attraction could only end in heartbreak … for her. Even if Tom were on the market, she wasn’t looking for a relationship. Relationships were messy, with emotions involved and the potential to be hurt at the end. And this would end. She wanted to find out about her family but after that the house was going up for sale. She had no reason to keep it.

  Tom replaced the floorboard as Abby went downstairs and made some toast and tea for breakfast. She heard the tapping of his hammer, replacing the nails and locking away the secret compartment, now empty.

  She sat in the garden among the tangle of shrubs and rosebushes and sipped her tea. Looking down at the box in her hands, Abby couldn’t imagine the meager contents of the box would take too much time to go through.

  She picked up the letters and untied the faded ribbon holding them together. The paper was thin but the words were easily discerned. As Abby read the stack, there was no doubt in her mind. Edith had been having an affair. Each letter was filled with love and tenderness, and the emotions expressed on the written pages made her feel slightly like a voyeur, peeking into private moments.

  At last Abby came to the final letter in the box. More worn than the others, the last letter was short and completely devoid of the flowery language Abby had come to associate with Kristian and Edith’s romance; the scribbled lines caused her to put down her teacup and a chill washed over her skin despite the heat of the sun.

  I’m coming home. Wait for me, meine Liebling. The three of us will finally be together.

  Her brow puckered at the endearment that was written in what she suspected was German. Her gaze skimmed to the top of the page once more as a strange feeling washed over her. It was dated October of 1943.

  Ten months before Iris’s birth.

  CHAPTER 11

  Tom loved the satiny feeling of wood beneath his fingers. It was almost like it was still alive and he treated it that way, deferring to each species’ particular characteristics. Right now he was working with a smooth, hard oak, something rugged and timeless. His plans were for an entertainment unit, stained a dark walnut, with doors that would hide away the television and components. When closed, it would resemble a wardrobe and melt into the décor of the library without a problem.

  Of course there was a chance she wouldn’t want it, in which case he’d maybe sell it. That’s what he did with most of his handiwork.

  He kept telling himself that, especially when he started to feel rather uncomfortable about the fact that he was making a piece of furniture for her. Or when he started examining his motives for doing so. Did he have feelings for Abby? It appeared he did, on some level. He wouldn’t have kissed her otherwise. Wouldn’t be thinking about her all the time.

  Still, it wasn’t like he was in love with her. And the piece was as much for the house as it was for her, wasn’t it?

  He’d only ever made furniture for a woman once before, though, and that little fact nagged at him like a black fly bite that needed scratching. He’d been starting out then, learning his craft, and he’d made a coffee table out of pine for Erin. He’d pictured giving it to her and then making end tables to match and putting them in the apartment they would share …

  He’d been pretty young and naïve back then. And when Erin had married Josh, Tom had taken an axe and found great pleasure in smashing the table to splinters, then burning it on the brush pile.

  He frowned, looked at his measuring tape, and then measured again just to be sure before taking the piece of wood to the table saw to cut.

  The shrill whine of the saw was fading and the discarded end thrown in
to a pile when he looked up and saw Rick Sullivan standing in the doorway to his workshop.

  “Hey,” he said, pushing his safety glasses to the top of his head. “What brings you out here?”

  Rick appeared sober for once, and Tom was glad. Everyone in town knew that Rick had struggled since coming back from the Middle East. No one was allowed to hail him as a hero—he’d turn around and walk away from any group or individual who tried to portray him as one. He had a prosthetic where his left hand used to be.

  But Rick only needed his right hand to lift a bottle, trying to drown out the demons who chased him. Tom had more patience than most with Rick because he understood how easy it could be to get pulled under when despair took over. That didn’t extend to making excuses for him all the time.

  Rick came farther inside the shop. “What are you building this time?”

  “An entertainment unit. Just getting started on it, though.”

  “The Foster place must be keeping you busy.” Rick picked up a piece of bird’s-eye maple and examined it, then put it back down again.

  “Pretty busy, yeah. But I still like doing this in my downtime. It … calms my brain.”

  Rick’s gaze met his, and understanding flowed between the two of them.

  “Thanks for the drive a few weeks ago,” Rick offered, putting his right hand in his pocket.

  “I didn’t mind.” Tom wasn’t about to deliver a lecture on drinking. He knew if he did, Rick would turn around and walk out.

  “We go way back, don’t we, Tom?”

  There was something in Rick’s voice that made Tom pause. He looked over at his friend. Rick had let his hair grow a little after leaving the Marines, losing that jarhead look, and he didn’t have the big build of the Arseneault men. Just a shade under six feet, he fit into the “lean and tough” category. Since coming home, he’d lost some of that wiry physicality, but the hard lines in his face remained. He looked like he’d seen far too much for a man his age.

  “Way back to first grade.” Tom grinned, pulling over a sawhorse and sitting on it. “When Jimmy Dawes cleaned my clock for touching his Spider-Man lunch box and you punched him and told him to leave me alone.”

  Rick grinned. “Jimmy needed to get over himself. Still does.”

  Tom laughed. “Pull up a pew, Rick, and tell me what’s on your mind.”

  Rick grabbed a second sawhorse and perched on the seat. “Couple of things. First of all, is it going to be a problem if I come to this shindig your cousin’s planning for Saturday night? She said no, but I knew you’d tell me straight.”

  “If Sarah invited you, she wants you to come.”

  “It’s not Sarah I’m worried about. Jess hates me. And let’s face it. You and me—we’re friends. Josh and I are friends. Sara invited me to be peacemaker, I think.”

  “And you’re not comfortable with that.”

  “The whole situation sucks shit, and we both know it. But Josh is … was … my best friend. I’ve never taken sides, but…”

  “I think it’s great you want to be there for him, Rick. God knows he won’t accept any support from me.”

  Rick angled him a curious look. “Would you even offer it?”

  “I don’t know.” Tom felt an old, familiar anxiety wind through him. “It’s too weird. But I don’t hate him, if that’s what you’re asking. I never did.”

  Rick nodded. “I know that. I think Josh probably knows that, too.”

  “Well, he could probably stand to see a friendly face, so I don’t see why you shouldn’t come. You don’t even have to talk to Jess, though why she has a bug up her ass about you is more than I know.”

  Did Rick’s cheeks flush the slightest bit? It was hard to tell with the early summer tan already darkening his face.

  “I came for another reason, too,” Rick said. He gave a half-smile. “Don’t know why I need it because everyone in this town knows me and has since I was in diapers, but I applied for a job with Jack Skillin’s charter operation. He wants references.”

  Tom could understand why. Rick hadn’t exactly been a model citizen lately and any employer was taking a risk. It had nothing to do with his disability and everything to do with his very public drinking problem.

  “You’re asking me for a reference?”

  Rick sighed. “Yeah, I am. You’re one of the few people who still talks to me in this shit town. And before you say it, yes, I know why that is. I’m trying to get my drinking under control, Tom. I know it’s a problem.”

  “You going to be working the boats?”

  Rick huffed out a bitter laugh. “Nope. I get to work the sales shack. But it’s something. I’ve got to do something or I’m gonna go crazy. Besides, working the dock means I’m around if my mom needs me.”

  Finally, Tom thought. He’d felt for a long time that Rick had too much time on his hands. He was like a powder keg waiting for someone to light the fuse, and now he was dealing with his mom’s illness on top of everything else. “The drinking thing … is that going to be a problem on Saturday?”

  “I don’t always drink myself stupid,” Rick said dryly. “I do know how to have a few and lock it down. I just choose not to most of the time.”

  Tom wasn’t quite sure he believed him, but he was prepared to give Rick the benefit of the doubt, especially if he was finally looking for a job and trying to get his act together. “I’ll back you up. You can tell Jack that.”

  “Thanks, man.”

  “Yeah, well, life’s a hell of a deal, isn’t it? We can all use all the help we can get.” He got up and took the glasses off the top of his head, putting them on a workbench. “Come on up to the house. I’ve got a few sodas in the fridge and some leftover pizza from Gino’s. We can sit out on the deck and watch the fish jump.”

  For over an hour they sat on Tom’s back deck, feet propped up on the railing as the sun went down and the water of the cove morphed from peachy-violet to gray. They ate Tom’s cold pizza, drank Cokes, and said little, letting the quiet night work its magic. Tom’s thoughts went from Josh and Erin back to Abby.

  Abby was about as different from Erin as she could get. Not just in looks, though there was that, too. She might be paying him to fix her house but she didn’t need him. She was independent and more than a little strong-willed. Sweet, but at the same time he got the feeling that she always made her own decisions and didn’t let anything stand in her way.

  He thought of Erin buckling to parental pressure over the demands of her heart. The idea of the stubborn Abby doing such a thing made him laugh.

  “What’s so funny?” Rick asked, swilling the last bit of soda from the can.

  Tom shrugged. “Nothing, really. Just thinking about people.”

  “Anyone in particular? That Foster woman, maybe?”

  No one ever said Rick was stupid. Tom threw the crust of the last piece of pizza back into the box.

  When Tom didn’t answer, Rick leaned forward and put his hands on his knees. “Talk around town is that she’s fixing that place up to sell it. Doesn’t look like she’s going to be around for long.”

  There was an unspoken warning in Rick’s words. “Yeah, I’d be stupid to start something there, wouldn’t I?”

  “Hate to see you get the shaft twice, bro. What about Summer Arnold? She always had eyes for you, you know.”

  Tom chuckled. “Summer Arnold’s not really my type. Maybe it’s the nose ring and pink hair.”

  “Just hate to see you get your hopes up.” Rick brushed crust crumbs off his jeans, and Tom noticed the awkward movement of his prosthetic hand. “You already got the crap kicked out of you by love,” Rick said. “It’s not worth it.”

  Tom was surprised at the bitterness in Rick’s voice, but he couldn’t deny the truth in the words. Abby had never made any secret of Jewell Cove being a temporary address. She’d be leaving. If he were a smart man, there’d be no more kisses in the foyer or any other part of that house.

  The more he thought about it, the more he real
ized that making the entertainment unit was a dumb move. Abby certainly wouldn’t care less, and after the renos were done, Tom wouldn’t have a reason to be in the house again.

  As Rick got up and said good-bye, Tom knew that the picnic at Sarah’s was the perfect time to establish things as friends … no, as business associates. That was all there could ever be between them. He’d only been fooling himself to think otherwise.

  * * *

  Abby had felt a pressing need to find more answers ever since discovering the letters, so she spent one sunny morning in the attic, shoving the boxes and chests she’d already been through to one side of the windowless room. Books, clothes, old bedding … most would remain packed away for now until she could decide what to do with them. Some, sadly, were destined for the dump after too many years being shut up in the airless space. Those she put closer to the door, working up a bit of a sweat as the temperature in the attic rose and the physical labor of moving things around heated her up. But there were other boxes that she knew she’d come back to another day—books for the library, clothing to be examined for holes, different knickknacks, shoe boxes of black-and-white photos. Some were family treasures she knew she should keep. She understood now why there’d been pressure to make this place a museum. Besides its age, there were so many antiques and period items from the past that it made sense.

  A museum would certainly fill the house with people, but that wasn’t what Abby had in mind.

  What this place needed was laughter. Friends. Family. It needed someone who could take it and make it a home. And that someone wasn’t her.

  Marian had felt the same way about the house, though, and while Abby wasn’t any closer to solving the mystery of the family split, she was starting to let go of a lot of her resentment. It was hard to hate a woman who had taken this big empty house and filled it with young women who needed her help, though Abby did wonder why Marian had chosen that particular cause. Abby swallowed, remembering how alone she’d felt in the weeks and months after her father’s death when she was nine. She’d felt so lost; torn away from her home to live with a mother she barely knew, without her dad and without Gram’s love and stability. She and Gram might have grieved together, but her mom hadn’t wanted to hear her crying at night. At the time it had been easier to keep all her feelings locked inside.