The Passions of Chelsea Kane

by Barbara Delinsky

  Chelsea’s chill spread a little. “Was that commonplace—women becoming pregnant out of wedlock and giving their children up for adoption?”

  “No. The riffraff kept their own whether they were legitimate or not. Katie Love was b’twixt and b’tween.”

  “In what way?” Chelsea asked.

  “Older. She had no other children. She was thought to be barren.” Her eyes flew past Chelsea to the parlor arch. Chelsea looked back, but there was no one there. “Then, too,” Margaret went on, “she was a quilter. We thought she was a bit above the others.” With barely a pause she said, “So where are you from?”

  Chelsea eyed the folder on Margaret’s lap. She wanted to know what had happened to Katie Love’s husband, why the people in the Corner hadn’t come to her aid, and whether there had been other women making arrangements to give up babies around that same time. She wanted to look through those papers, not talk about herself—and as to where she was from, she couldn’t believe Margaret didn’t know.

  For the sake of goodwill, she said, “I’m from Baltimore.”

  “Born there?”

  “Not in Baltimore itself, but that’s where my family’s home is.”Was, she thought with a pang, because come Labor Day a new family would be moving in. She had been back for several days the week before to sort through years of stashings in the basement and would probably need another trip or two before it was done. Kevin had been there. They’d talked some, but it had been awkward. She hadn’t dared tell him about the baby.

  She hadn’t dared tell Judd about the baby either, which was even more absurd. He came to her bed several nights a week. They did things to each other that even now, in memory, tripped her pulse. More so than anyone else in her life, he knew the ins and outs of her body. Before long the subtle changes that he couldn’t see day by day wouldn’t be so subtle. She had to tell him. But she was afraid it would stop him from coming, and she liked his coming.

  “Who are your parents?” Margaret asked.

  Chelsea took a deep breath that steadied as it slowly slipped out. “Kevin and Abby Kane. My mother died last year. My father is a neurosurgeon, just retired.”

  “Which one do you look like?”

  Chelsea smiled at the question. She remembered going places with her parents and being asked that by way of innocent small talk. She had always taken her cue from Kevin, who never so much as blinked when he answered. “I have my father’s stubbornness and my mother’s curiosity.”

  “But who do you look like?”

  Still smiling, Chelsea shrugged. “I was always more unconventional than my parents—different clothes, different hairstyles, different generation. We agreed that I’m just me.”

  “Donna looks like her father. Do you see the resemblance?”

  “Funny, I would have said that she takes after you.” She saw it in the shape of the face and the mouth.

  Margaret smiled. “She’s a wonderful daughter. Always sweet and considerate.” Her brow creased. “ ‘Twas a great tragedy, a great tragedy, when she lost her hearing. Did she tell you ’bout that?”

  “No,” Chelsea said. “I haven’t wanted to ask.”

  “She was ill. It was an infection that came on her quite suddenly. A fluke, the doctors all said. We took her to so many of them, but there was nothing they could do. Nothing they could do.” She continued to frown for another minute, then, with a tiny shake, perked back up. “I’ve always been closer to her than to the others. Donna and I think alike.”

  That wasn’t Chelsea’s impression at all, the most obvious example their views of Hunter Love. Donna had a sweetness to her, an openness, a vulnerability, that appealed to Chelsea. Margaret had none of that. She blew hot and cold. She was an odd woman. Chelsea couldn’t quite get a handle on her.

  “So,” Margaret said, wrapping her arms around the brown folder as though it were a shield, “tell me why you’ve come to Norwich Notch.”

  “You must already know,” Chelsea chided. She was beginning to tire of what seemed to be purposeless pleasantries.

  “Why you’ve really come.”

  “I’ve really come to revive the granite company and make good on my investment in it.”

  “Ahhh,” Margaret said with a nod. “They think you’re a witch, you know.”

  Chelsea drew back. “A witch?”

  “For living at Boulderbrook. They think you commune with the ghosts there.”

  “There are no ghosts,” she said, believing it firmly. There had been more phone calls since that first night, clearly the work of a prankster.

  “Haven’t you noticed how the townsfolk keep their distance?”

  “I thought that was because I’m an outsider.”

  “That, too.” Margaret tipped up her chin with something akin to defiance. “You’ll never win, you know.”

  Chelsea was lost again. “Win what?”

  “The granite company. I heard about the deal you made. Oh, Oliver didn’t tell me. He doesn’t like to concern me with business, but others aren’t so cautious.” She shot an alarmed look at the archway. Because of the alarm, Chelsea looked, too, but again no one was there, and Margaret went right on. “The granite company has been in the Plum family for generations. You won’t be allowed to have it.”

  For a split second Chelsea was in her father’s den with the Mahlers suggesting she wasn’t a Mahler and shouldn’t have the ruby ring. Then the second passed, and she saw Margaret again, who was so very threatened by change.

  “It may never come to that,” she said. Judd was the one who ran things, and he was good at what he did, which meant that the cutters would keep up with every bit of work Chelsea brought in, which was really quite fine. A year was all Chelsea needed. By then she would have her baby, plus the information she needed to go on with the rest of her life.

  To reassure Margaret—and perhaps loosen the arms that were wrapped so tightly around the accordion-pleated folder—Chelsea said, “Believe me, I have no personal designs on the granite company. I have a successful architectural practice in Baltimore. I’ll be very happy to make my money and leave the company to the Plums.”

  “You aren’t the only one who wants it,” Margaret said as though she hadn’t heard Chelsea at all. “Hunter Love does, too. After all my husband did for him, he wants more. He’s an evil person.”

  “Not evil.”

  “He sets fires. Did you know that?”

  “Sets fires.”

  Margaret nodded sagely.

  “Where?” Chelsea asked almost conversationally.

  “At some of the nicest homes in town.”

  “They’ve burned down?”

  “No. But garages and woodsheds have been destroyed.”

  “Recently?”

  “Several years back. I’ve seen you with him, Chelsea. I would be very careful, if I were you. He has a dark side.”

  Chelsea had seen evidence of Hunter’s moods, but not once had she felt threatened. The closest he had ever come to causing her harm had been that day on the motorcycle. Yes, he had driven recklessly, but he had been subdued when she’d gotten sick, which spelled remorse in Chelsea’s book, not evil.

  “Has he ever been tried for arson?” she asked.

  “No. He’s very clever. Nothing has ever been proven. Just like with his mother’s death.”

  “Then how can you blame those fires on him?”

  “Because it’s obvious he set them.”

  “Does Oliver believe that, too?”

  “Yes.”

  “Still he keeps Hunter on at the company. That doesn’t make sense.” Unless, of course, Hunter was Oliver’s son, which would also explain Margaret’s antagonism. Personally, Chelsea didn’t believe Hunter was an arsonist, any more than she thought he was a murderer.

  “There are many things in life that don’t make sense,” Margaret said with a pinched look on her face. Her voice suddenly went higher. She held the folder more tightly. “It doesn’t make sense that I had daughters. If I had a son,
none of this would’ve happened. My son would be taking over the company, and there wouldn’t be anyone else involved in it. That’s how it should have been.” More softly she said, “That’s how it should have been.”

  “Margaret, dear,” came a call from the door, followed by the entrance of the woman Margaret had called Dots. She went straight to Margaret’s chair, put an arm around her shoulder, and said gently, “We need you now, Margaret. You said you wouldn’t be long.” She touched the folder. “Why don’t you give this to Miss Kane and let her look through it herself? I’m afraid we’re making a mess of things without you.”

  Margaret regarded her blankly at first. Gradually understanding came, followed by a gently scolding smile. “But I’ve told you what to do many times.”

  “One more time, then?” Dots took the folder from her and handed it to Chelsea, not quite meeting her eye in the process.

  Margaret rose. With Dots by her side and not another word to Chelsea, she left the room.

  THE THING ABOUT HISTORY WAS THAT, LIKE PIECES OF A QUILT, it was made up of threads and swatches. In Chelsea’s case that meant postcards and photographs, blue ribbons, achievement pins, pressed flowers, report cards, ticket stubs, and printed programs for everything from her elementary school talent show to her high school graduation. It also meant cartons filled with books, the remains of four years of dormitory rooms and another few of assorted apartments, posters, sports equipment, and clothes. Chelsea had always been a saver, as though the more she accumulated, the more of a history she would have, and hence an identity. She had plenty to sort through.

  It was mid-August, and she and Judd were in Baltimore on business. With the cutting shed in operation, Judd had small samples of granite, cut, polished, and etched, from each of five working quarries to show to Chelsea’s contacts. Using Harper, Kane, Koo as their headquarters, they had spent the day in a steady succession of meetings. They were spending the evening at the house.

  The basement smelled of time and moisture. It was dominated by a large heating system that was black with age. The laundry was against one wall—washer, dryer, sink, ironing board. Nearby was a spare refrigerator and freezer that at one time would have been filled in preparation for holiday entertaining but was empty now, unplugged and open. Tall metal shelves stood against other walls, holding blanket bags of clothes, small appliances, and memento boxes. There were several piles of sealed cartons, some Kevin’s, some Chelsea’s, then, scattered in random groups, all that was left to sort and pack.

  “The country club swim champ?” Judd asked. He was sitting on an overturned carton near Chelsea, holding the ribbon he’d taken from a bulging shoe-box.

  “That was during my conformist period. Soon after, I declared the other kids on the team total bores and resigned.” She took a stack of photographs from the box. “That’s me”—she glanced at the back of the top photo—“at the age of eight, according to Dad’s notes.”

  Judd studied the print. “You look like a boy.”

  Chelsea agreed. She turned to the next photo. “Mom never missed my swim meets. She was a swimmer herself. She did it for therapy.”

  He took the photo. “She was a very attractive woman.”

  “She was vibrant. Full of life. Active mentally, if in no other way, right up to the end. She loved celebrations. There were always dinners and birthday parties and holiday bashes. She would have loved the color and excitement of Fourth of July in the Notch.” Assuming she was comfortable with the idea of the place, Chelsea mused.

  Taking back the photo, she flipped through several more. “There’s my father,” she said, though unnecessarily. Judd had seen the photos of her parents in her bedroom at Boulderbrook.

  “Dignified as ever.”

  “Oh, he’s dignified all right,” she couldn’t help but say, since the hurt she felt was so close to the surface. “Hardheaded, too. I was hoping he’d come back from Newport today to see us.”

  “He’ll be here tomorrow.”

  “I know, but I see him so little. It would have been nice if he’d made the effort.”

  Judd knew she was adopted. He didn’t yet know she’d been born in Norwich Notch. She wanted to tell him, just as she wanted to tell him she was pregnant, but something held her back. A part of her wasn’t sure how he’d take the news. She rather liked the arrangement they had and wasn’t ready to change it.

  It occurred to her that the same thing was true about Norwich Notch. She hadn’t learned anything about herself at the historical society, other than that March of the year she’d been born had been unusually mild. She hadn’t done anything about advertising the silver key, hadn’t gone looking for a midwife who’d been bribed. One part of her wanted to stand up in church, announce when and where she’d been born, and offer a reward for information leading to the identity of her birth parents. The other part didn’t want to upset the tentative life she’d made for herself in the Notch. There were aspects of the place that she liked. She wanted to have her own baby there.

  “He may be having a hard time with this,” Judd said, bringing her back to the basement with an encompassing look around.

  Chelsea sighed. “He was the one who wanted to sell the house.”

  “It was a practical decision. That doesn’t mean it’s easy. Sometimes the things that make the most sense are the hardest to do.”

  She heard a sadness in his words and knew he was thinking of Leo, whom she had yet to meet. Judd rarely mentioned him, and she didn’t prod. She didn’t feel she had the right, given all she was hiding herself. But every so often there was a pensiveness to him that had heartache written all over it.

  “Your dad?”

  “Some think I should put him away.”

  She gasped. “Don’t do that.” Then she caught herself. “You have to decide what’s best for you and for him.”

  Judd’s legs were spread, creased trousers falling smoothly over their length. Now he leaned forward, put his elbows on his knees, and let his hands hang helplessly between. “Hard to know what’s best. He needs constant care. He’d get that in a nursing home, maybe better than he’s getting it now. He went for a walk yesterday afternoon while Millie was asleep in the house. He’d gone nearly a mile before Buck found him. Good old Buck.”

  Chelsea knew he was thinking that another time they might not be so lucky.

  “Problem is,” Judd went on, “there are times when he knows just who I am. I’d hate it if one of those times came, and he was off somewhere in a nursing home, asking for me and feeling abandoned.”

  “Are you uncomfortable making this trip?”

  “No. Sarah Hewitt is with him. And Buck. So he’s with friends. If he asks for me, Sarah’ll tell him where I am and when I’ll be back.” He paused, thinking. “Sarah’s good. She knows what to watch for. He turns on the stove, then forgets that he wants to cook. When he goes for a drink of water, he forgets to turn off the tap. If there isn’t someone with him, we end up with water all over the floor. Someday he’s apt to reach for a light switch while he’s ankle deep in it.” He straightened his fingers, turned his hands over, studied his palms.

  Chelsea slipped an arm around him, giving comfort the only way she could. She had no answers. Judd would have thought of every possibility. As had been the case when Abby had been so sick, there were no happy choices, only choices to minimize the pain.

  “So,” he said, still looking at his hands, “you don’t think I should put him away?”

  “No.”

  “Even considering the danger?”

  “Even then. Keep him with you.”

  “There may come a time when I can’t.”

  “Face that time when it comes.”

  He turned his head, looking first at her mouth, then at her eyes. “Is that what you did?”

  “Mom got progressively weaker. She developed pneumonia and had to be hospitalized, and the choice was for her to stay in the hospital, where her condition could be constantly monitored, or bring her home. We knew
it was more risky at home. But she spent her entire married life in this house. She loved it here. I don’t care what anyone says, there’s nothing like home.” Chelsea took a deep, sad breath and looked around. “Maybe you’re right. If disposing of all this is hard for me, it must be worse for my father. It’s the end of a large part of his life.”

  Judd took the photographs from her and flipped deeper into the stack. “Who’s this?”

  “My mother’s sister Anne.”

  “She looks annoyed.”

  “She was. We were supposed to spend Christmas in England that year, only Mom took a fall and broke her arm two weeks before, so everyone had to come here.”

  Judd looked at the picture for a minute, then turned to another.

  “That’s me and my two best friends,” Chelsea said, and checked the back. “We were twelve.”

  He skipped ahead. “Who is this guy? He keeps popping up.”

  She grinned. “That’s Carl.”

  “Ahhhh. The phantom partner.”

  Carl had been in New York for the day, so Judd hadn’t met him yet. He glanced at the back of the photograph. “The two of you were nine here.” He found another picture of them together, this one with Chelsea the taller. “And fourteen here.” The next one he pulled out was the most recent of the batch. “And thirty-something here. Amazing.”

  “That we stayed friends so long?”

  “That it never grew into anything more.”

  The photograph in his hand had been taken in Newport the summer before. It was a color snapshot that showed matching white grins, matching auburn hair, and matching shirts and shorts appropriate to the deck of the Harpers’ sleek yacht. Abby had been sick that summer. Everyone understood that she might not make it back the next year, and Chelsea, for one, was having trouble accepting it. Carl had been a huge comfort to her.

  She hadn’t thought of that in a while. In recent months thoughts of Carl had brought thoughts of Hailey and her baby, along with thoughts of hurt and betrayal. For the first time now, as though the wound of finding him in a compromising position had finally begun to heal, she felt a flicker of fondness for him.