by Rachel Hauck
“Wow. Amazing is an accurate word.”
“Hillary helps at the shop all the time now. Just shows up—”
“Tim, you coming?” David called from the huddle. “Hey, Charlotte.”
She raised her hand to wave. “Hey, David.”
“Yeah, in a minute,” Tim hollered over his shoulder.
“Listen, you go with your family. I’ll see you, Tim.”
“Can I call you?”
“No, Tim, please.” Charlotte stared toward the western slope of the church grounds, hand on the sanctuary door.
“Charlotte, just so you know, friend Tim misses you.”
“Yeah, but at the moment friend Tim and fiancé Tim still look an awful lot alike to me.”
Chapter Twenty-One
Tim
One last time, Tim reviewed his plans for today’s restoration pitch. The Rose Firm got the nod last minute and he wanted to bring his A-game.
Tim paused on a picture of a chain gang, black men in leg irons, conscripted by the convict-leasing program. He liked to add sculptures of remembrance to his restoration projects. Who worked and lived here before? How did they dress? What did they look like? How can we learn from history? Not repeat the mistakes?
He’d worked with his favorite bronze artist for a memorial plan to go with the restoration of a Saltonstall mine office. His memorial sculpture would commemorate the end of the convict-leasing program in 1928.
Rehearsing his conclusion, “Freedom, at all stages and by all means, must be celebrated,” Tim surfed through his research material for the picture of the women who worked to end the program. He would hold it up and suggest an etching or bronze plaque with their image to be posted by the sculpture.
As he returned the picture to the stack, he reached for his water bottle, took a swig, and stared at the woman in the center. Emily Ludlow.
She stood out to him for some reason. Like he knew her. He certainly welcomed her passion and fire for justice.
The black-and-white image was tattered around the edges. It had been borrowed from Cleo Favorite and the Ludlow estate by his assistant, Javier. He’d promised to return it as soon as he made the presentation.
“Booyah to you, Mrs. L., for fighting injustice. When it wasn’t popular.” He swigged his water again and leaned in for a closer look. He’d been a kid when she died but all through elementary school, his teachers taught civic lessons based on Mrs. Emily Ludlow and her husband, Daniel.
Something about her expression, her celebratory smile, her eyes. Tim snatched it closer and leaned toward the light.
Expressive eyes. Bow lips. Tall and commanding. Looked as if she could lasso the moon and ride it over the horizon. She looked familiar.
Tim glanced at the time. One o’clock. He needed to get his head out of this swirl, grab some lunch, and make sure the slides were good to go for his four o’clock meeting with the downtown restoration commission.
“Tim.” Javier stuck his head through the door. “Someone to see you. Monte Fillmore?” He shrugged, making a face. “He said you’d know what it was about.”
“He’s here? Yeah, send him in.” Tim crossed the room and greeted Monte with a firm handshake. “Please, have a seat.” He offered one of the chairs around a small conference table. “Can I get you a cup of coffee? Bottled water?”
“Thank you, no, I’m fine. Don’t reckon you expected to see me.” Monte stood at the fifth-floor window and peered out over the city, a shoe box tucked under his arm. “Nice setup you got here. Good view.” His strong tone reminded Tim of leaders and mentors he’d encountered in his life journey. “Used to have an office off 22nd North myself. Owned my own insurance agency for forty years.”
“I remember your radio jingle. The tune kind of stuck in a guy’s head.”
The man laughed, a spark igniting his crinkled eyes. “Yeah, well, that was my silent partner’s idea.”
“Silent partner?”
He sat up with a huff. “My wife. She wrote that little ditty you heard. Listen, after you called, it got me to thinking.” He shoved the Nine West shoe box over to Tim. “When we broke down Mom’s house, we found this in the back of her bedroom closet. It’s nothing much, just trinkets from Phoebe Malone’s office. Guess Mom was saving it for Charlotte and I meant to take it to her, but in the busyness of her funeral, dealing with her will and accounts, keeping my own family and business afloat, I never got around to it. The contents didn’t seem all that important. Mostly newspaper clippings and a few photos. I left the box on the kitchen counter for months until my wife went to bake Christmas cookies and moved it. Then we kept shoving it further and further out of sight. I thought I’d run into Charlotte one day and remember, but never did. Then you called.”
Tim lifted the lid from the box. Yellow, crackling newspaper clippings floated free. He took them out one by one, scanning the headlines.
Ludlow Foundation Offers Its First Entrepreneur Grant
Emily Ludlow Celebrates Ninety
Professor Colby Ludlow Honored at UAB Banquet
Emily Ludlow, Dead at Ninety-One
Ludlow Estate to Establish Foundation for Business and Education
“Interesting mix. Wonder why Phoebe collected Ludlow articles? Was she related?”
“Not sure, but my wife’s family came from the Canton line, Emily’s family before she became a Ludlow. She doesn’t know of any family with the Malone name. So we don’t think Phoebe and Charlotte are part of the Ludlow-Canton tree.”
Tim stacked the clippings, shoved aside pens and pencils, and found a picture of Phoebe and Charlotte. A chill ran through his chest.
Beautiful Phoebe with her long, thick, winged hair. Beautiful Charlotte, with a gapped-tooth smile, expressive eyes, and bow lips.
He looked up. The chill in his middle warming. Expanding. Tim flipped over the picture. Our First Day in Birmingham.
“Phoebe was rather eclectic. An artist. An engineer. Smart as a whip. I used to debate her politics once in a while, but it gave Mom high blood pressure, so we stopped. No flies on the woman, though.”
“They don’t dare land on her daughter either.”
“Sorry I don’t have more to give you. A name or a reason. Mom once said to me Charlotte’s father was a nonfactor.”
“Easy to say if you’re not Charlotte.” Tim studied the picture. Beneath their faces were a thousand conversations he longed to hear.
There was one more picture at the bottom of the box. A photo of a college-age Phoebe with a group of . . . friends? Fellow students?
Tim read the back. Silver Lake Summer Project ’81. FSU. Professor Ludlow’s Geniuses.
“Ludlow? Did you see this photo, Monte?”
Tim studied the image with Monte peering over his shoulder. In the center of the group was a handsome man with a cocky stance. The four-by-six picture made details hard to detect, but the man looked to be in his forties, corduroy blazer, long layered hair.
“When was this taken?” Monte said. “I see Phoebe, but I’m not familiar with the Ludlow in the picture.”
“It was taken in ’81.” Tim sprang from his chair and grabbed the research folder.
“What’d you see, Tim?” Monte angled the picture toward the light of the window.
“I see a spitting image. Tell me what you see.” Tim lined up the group picture of Emily with the group picture of the professor. “The professor here.” He tapped the man’s face. “And Emily Ludlow here.”
“Well, I’ll be. There’s a bit of a family resemblance as well as the same name. You think Colby Ludlow was related to Emily?”
“Yep. And I think Phoebe Malone might have been in love with him. Just a wild guess.” Tim collected his notes and research and closed his laptop, jamming it into the case, his blood racing. The familiar look of Emily’s eyes in the picture. He’d seen that expression a hundred times. On Charlotte.
If he hurried, he could run up the mountain, check out the Ludlow estate for more clues, and be back in ti
me for his meeting. “Monte, thank you. But I need to go. I appreciate you coming down.” He grabbed his phone. His keys.
“Call if you find out anything,” Monte said, following Tim out the door.
“I will. I will. You’ve been a big help.” Tim knocked on David’s door as he passed his office. “David, I’ll see you at the meeting. Call my cell if you need me.”
“Tim, where are you going? Did you go over the slides?”
“Yeah, no, but I will. See you at the meeting.” Tim punched the elevator button, cutting a side glance to Monte, who was holding down a big grin. “So, what’s so funny?”
“You,” he said. “And pretty much all young men in love.”
“Love? I’m just trying to help a friend.” Tim stepped onto the elevator with Monte.
“Help a friend?” Monte punched the first-floor button. “That’s what you kids are calling it these days? In my day, it was called love. Heart-thwapping love.”
Emily
Mother set a beautiful Christmas table, with ivory china and hand-cut crystal and her own mother’s silverware, buffed and polished to mirrored perfection.
The creamy linen threads of the tablecloth hosted the lamplight and the glow of the candles. On the crimson table runner, she’d placed crisp, fragrant fir boughs.
Father sat at the head of the table, Mother the foot. Phillip and Emily sat center, with Mr. and Mrs. Saltonstall directly across from them.
Howard Jr. dined on Mrs. Saltonstall’s right. And his visiting lady friend dined on Emily’s left.
Molly and Jefferson, with two additional servants, carried Mother’s dinner of onion soup, roasted duck, mashed turnips, and gravy in and out of the kitchen. Along with Molly’s heavenly bread and jam.
But of all the delectables, Mrs. Saltonstall raved over Mother’s iced tea. “You must give me this tea recipe, Margaret. It’s divine.”
“It belonged to my grandmother.” Mother blushed with the compliment. “Since we are family”—she gazed at Emily—“or soon to be, you shall have it before you leave tonight.”
“I, for one, am glad the children moved up the wedding. Don’t know where we got the notion long engagements were a good idea.” Father spoke over his forkful of duck.
Under the table, Phillip squeezed Emily’s knee, sending a firebrand to her heart. She took an unladylike bite of her bread to hide her gasp. Since choosing not to wait until spring for their marriage, Phillip had returned to his former ways, becoming more and more amorous.
Emily patted her mouth with her crimson and cream napkin. Greedy. He’d become greedy. She couldn’t wipe the word from her heart. She’d been most grateful the other night for the complexities of her corset.
“Did Phillip tell you, Howard?” Mr. Saltonstall wiped his lips and chin with his napkin. “He cleared Emily of her charges.”
“Our lawyer did quite the job.” Phillip reached for his goblet. “The chief was most agreeable. He’ll expunge the charges, but I think it’s most clear, Emily darling, that you are to steer clear of the coloreds.”
“Except I’m wearing Taffy’s dress for our wedding.” Emily adjusted her napkin on her lap as silence settled around the table. She peered from face to face. “I’m sorry, but I cannot be quiet about my choice. We can arrange for the dress to come here without infringing on any silly law or being accused of insurrection.”
“I suppose the groom has no say.” Phillip kept his eyes on his fork and knife slicing through his duck. “But I’d like you to wear Mrs. Caruthers’s dress, darling. It seems to be the most pleasing to all. The most acceptable.”
“You are correct, Phillip. Grooms have no say. I’m sure you do not want your bride fainting in the middle of the wedding because her gown cuts off all her air and blood flow.”
“I have a say since I’m paying the bills.” Father raised his voice. “Emily shall wear the dress of her choosing.” Oh, bless you, Father. “Here’s what I’d like to know. Who swore out a warrant against Emily? I’ve tried my contacts with the police and there seems to be a brick wall guarding the information.”
“I found the same wall, sir. The only assurance I received through my barrister was that the charges would be expunged.”
“Then we will be grateful for small blessings,” Mrs. Saltonstall said. “Maggie, I declare, you and Molly outdid yourselves tonight. I never tasted a more succulent duck.”
Jefferson appeared in the doorway in his waistcoat, his own dinner napkin dangling from his hand. “Begging your pardon, sir, but you have a visitor.”
All eyes settled on the Irish butler.
“Might I ask who comes at dinnertime? Is it an emergency?” Father sounded annoyed.
“He says it’s quite urgent, sir. He did not give his name. I told him you were dining with family, but he insisted.”
“Excuse me, Cam and Henrietta.” Father bowed to his guests, then to Mother. “My dear, begging your pardon.”
“Hurry, dear. Molly’s chocolate cake for dessert.”
Emily watched Father go with a curious slither of Who? running across her mind. Rarely did Father’s business come to the front door.
The chatter around the table moved to wedding details. There’d been much to do with the accelerated date. Mr. Saltonstall had secured the Phoenix Club for the reception. The gentlemen’s club had a fine ballroom.
Mother made arrangements with the church and paid for extra seamstresses to sew the bridesmaids’ gowns and the rest of Emily’s trousseau.
“Oh, darling, I forgot to tell you.” Phillip motioned to his father. “Dad and Mom have gifted us with the Highland home. No need to house hunt. We have a place all ready for us.”
“That’s very generous, Mr. and Mrs. Saltonstall.” The Saltonstalls’ home sat in the shadow of Red Mountain not but a few blocks from Father and Mother’s. It was lovely. But not Emily’s home. “But, Phillip, I thought we’d find our own home.”
“Why? The Highland house is perfect.” He took a bite of his duck. “And free.”
“We are delighted for you to live there, Emily,” Mrs. Saltonstall said. “The décor is practically new. We remodeled and never moved in.”
Emily hid her emotions behind her glass of tea. But it was Mrs. Saltonstall’s décor. Heavy and dark.
Father burst into the room, his face red, his eyes narrow beams of light. “Phillip, excuse me, but I require your presence.”
“Is everything all right?” Phillip tossed down his napkin as he shoved away from the table.
Howard Jr. stood. “Do you need me as well, Father?”
Mr. Saltonstall joined the brigade. “May I assist?”
“No, no. Phillip is all I need.”
Father’s interruption popped the delight in the atmosphere, dimming the light and merriment. Emily visually checked in with Mother, who wore her usual mask of all is well. Especially in front of company.
The clock in the hall ticked off the time. The table conversation was thin and scattered—the lovely December weather, the Christmas program at church, Mr. Saltonstall’s consideration of the newfangled invention of electric lights for the Christmas tree, then of Howard Jr.’s football prowess at Harvard. Mother inquired of his lady friend, Jennifer Barlow, and how she liked Birmingham compared to Boston.
On the half hour, when Father and Phillip had been gone a good twenty minutes, Molly appeared to clear the dishes. “Shall I cut the cake, ma’am?”
“No, we’ll wait for Mr. Canton. But do bring the coffee, Molly.”
Mr. Saltonstall shoved away from the table and started toward the door. “I wonder if I ought to see what’s going on in there.”
“Howard is dealing with this, Cam,” Henrietta said. “Please don’t pace.”
Ten more minutes ticked off. Then Father entered the room with a serious, brooding countenance. “Emily, may I speak with you, please.”
She gazed at him, hesitating, trying to ascertain what was going on. Then she, too, pushed away from the table.
&nbs
p; “Certainly, Father.” What could he possibly want with her? Her stomach knotted and cramped. Was she to be arrested again?
“In the library.” Father stood aside to let Emily go first.
“Father, is everything all right?”
He halted her, lightly holding her arm. “You know your own mind, Emily. You always have. You’re a smart girl, and your mother and I have taught you to be wise. To seek the good Lord for wisdom.”
“Father, what is it? You’re scaring me.” Emily pressed her hand to her waist.
“Steady your heart. Listen. Don’t respond until you’ve thought. Ask questions like I taught you.”
“Yes, Father, I will.” Emily entered the library, planning to remain at ease until she saw Daniel with his cap in hand. “What are you doing here?” He wore a thick, high-collared sweater and a Norfolk jacket. His eyes narrowed at her, shadowed with concern. But his smile warmed her through to her backbone.
“I came to speak to your father. I didn’t realize you had guests. I’m sorry to intrude.”
“But yet you did. What is the meaning of this?” She smoothed her hand over her silk gown embroidered with gold and trimmed in fur. The three of them, Father, Daniel, and Emily, stood in a loose circle. “You didn’t answer my question.” She flipped her gaze to Phillip, pacing and smoking along the back length of the library.
“I needed to speak to your father.”
“So you said.”
“He came to accuse me, that’s what he came to do.” Phillip hammered out his cigarette in Father’s ashtray and joined the circle.
“Accuse you of what?” Emily glared at Phillip. He could be so dramatic and comical.
“He’s got his cap set for you.” Phillip waved his hand in Daniel’s direction. “He’s a liar. Howard, I believe I’ve had enough of this tomfoolery.”
Phillip took two steps back before Father moved around to block him, his broad hand against Phillip’s shoulders.
“Let’s just sort this out. Daniel, why don’t you tell Emily your story.”
