Daughter of Ashes

by Marcia Talley

  As I studied the photographs on the listing, my spirits gradually lifted. ‘I feel like I’m back in Dartmouth, Paul. The house looks like an English cottage, rose arbor and all. And the price is certainly right.’

  ‘It’s an estate sale,’ Caitlyn explained. ‘The widow is hoping the house will move quickly.’

  I handed the printout to Paul who flipped through it, his eyes scanning it carefully. When he reached the bottom line, he glanced up at Caitlyn, his brow furrowed. ‘Looks charming, but it’s one hundred thousand less than the place on the Wicomico.’

  ‘Well,’ Caitlyn confided. ‘It needs a bit of work.’

  ‘How much work?’ I wanted to know.

  ‘You said it looked like an English cottage, Hannah. That’s because it is an English cottage. The main part of the house was built in 1765. Maryland was still a British colony then. It’s been added to over the years, of course, but with some sense of style and respect for the home’s historic origins.’

  ‘Sounds intriguing. When can we see it?’ Paul asked.

  Caitlyn pulled an iPhone out of a side pocket of her handbag and tapped a few keys. ‘How about tomorrow after lunch?’

  After we’d agreed, figured out where Chiconnesick Creek was – Tilghman County, just north of the border Maryland shares with Virginia – and Caitlyn had left, I fixed two glasses of iced tea and joined Paul on the back patio. I settled into a lounger, took a long sip of tea and said, ‘I wish Naddie were still writing murder mysteries instead of dabbling in watercolors.’

  Paul turned his head and studied me over the top of his sunglasses. ‘Why?’

  ‘Because I have a victim for her.’

  Paul laughed, then closed his eyes as if deep in thought. ‘Let me guess. For a novel called Final Closing?’

  ‘I’m sure that title’s already taken, but yes.’ I stirred my tea with an index finger, then dried it on my shorts. ‘Kendall Barfield slumped over her desk with a knife sticking out of her back. I would pay extra for that. It would totally ruin the cut of her Ralph Lauren blazer, of course.’

  Paul snorted into his glass. ‘You’re a hard woman, Hannah Ives.’

  ‘Well,’ I said, sipping my tea, ‘it’d be cheaper than a therapist.’

  TWO

  ‘Fortune is like the market, where many times, if you can stay a little, the price will fall.’

  Francis Bacon, Essays, Civil and Moral, ‘XXI: Of Delays,’ 1909–1914

  Following a relentlessly healthy breakfast of yogurt, granola and whole wheat toast, washed down with mugs of robust French roast coffee, Paul and I climbed into his elderly Volvo and set off for Maryland’s eastern shore. Using the address Caitlyn had given me, I programmed the GPS, a Tom-Tom device that Paul had nicknamed ‘Stella’ because her voice reminded him of his high-school girlfriend. I tried not to be grumpy as I suction-cupped Stella to the windshield.

  ‘According to Stella, the trip will take two hours and thirteen minutes,’ I announced as Paul took the exit off Rowe Boulevard and merged with the heavy traffic on Route 50 heading for the Bay Bridge. ‘We should be able to pick up a bite of lunch in Elizabethtown before it’s time to meet Caitlyn, assuming they have restaurants in Elizabethtown, that is.’

  ‘Several,’ Paul said. ‘I Googled around this morning. There’s a bakery on High Street that sells designer coffee. Just across the street is a family-run café called the High Spot, kind of a local watering hole, I gather. Used to be a hardware store. There’s a pub called the Crusty Crab and a more upscale restaurant on the town wharf we could investigate today, too, if you like. It’s called the Boat House, as I recall.’ He hiked a thumb, indicating the back seat. ‘Printout’s in the canvas bag.’

  ‘Excellent,’ I said, after reaching for the bag and shuffling through the pages Paul had printed, checking out the sample menus. ‘The Boat House sounds perfect. According to this,’ I said, waving the printout, ‘they serve world-famous crab cakes.’

  ‘Boat House it is, then.’ After a moment, he said, ‘I visited the Barfield and Williams website, too, and printed out the complete specs for the cottage. It’s stapled at the back.’

  But I’d already found the PDF describing the property and was reading through it. ‘I regret to inform you that the cottage has a name.’ I paused for effect. ‘Legal Ease. Must have belonged to an attorney.’

  Paul groaned. ‘Ya think?’

  I read on. ‘Waterfront, two acres, so far so good.’ I looked up. ‘Boat dock, it says. I wonder if there’s enough water for Connie and Dennis to tie up their sailboat?’

  ‘The Chiconnesick is pretty shallow, two to three feet at mean low water. I doubt it could accommodate Sea Song, even at high tide. Her draft is four and a half feet.’

  ‘Oh,’ I said, disappointed.

  ‘But if this all works out,’ Paul continued brightly, ‘we can certainly look into buying a small power boat for zipping around the Bay. And for fishing, too, of course.’ He caught my eye and winked before turning to concentrate on merging into the EasyPass-only toll lane at the entrance to the bridge.

  ‘Wish we could just toot over from Annapolis in a boat,’ I said about ten miles further on, thinking about the long drive still ahead of us.

  ‘Wouldn’t save all that much time, sweetheart,’ Paul pointed out as he eased to the right and took the exit where Routes 50 and 301 part ways at the Queenstown Outlet Mall. ‘And it’d be a long, wet ride, particularly in a chop.’

  ‘Or if it’s raining,’ I muttered. ‘Wishful thinking, I guess.’

  While Paul drove south keeping an eye out for the county’s notorious speed traps and his cruise control set to fifty-five, I studied a map in the eastern shore guidebook I’d picked up at the Ivy Bookshop on Falls Road on a recent visit to Baltimore with my younger sister, Georgina, who lived nearby. In the section describing Tilghman County, I learned that Elizabethtown, its county seat, was named after Elizabeth of Bohemia, the ‘Winter Queen,’ the only daughter of James I of England to survive into adulthood. Her brothers, Henry and Charles, had Capes in Virginia named after them, so it seemed only fair. ‘Did you know that Chiconnesick means “land where the bluebirds sing?”’ I asked my husband. ‘Bodes well for birdwatching, if you’re into that sort of thing.’ I turned a few pages, read on. ‘The early settlers apparently bought the land from the Piscataway Indians in exchange for six Dutch blankets.’ Thinking about the asking price for Legal Ease, I sighed and added, ‘Those were the good old days.’

  I closed the guidebook and tucked it into my tote bag.

  A fender-bender on the Choptank River bridge just north of Cambridge delayed us long enough that I saw all hope evaporate of getting lunch at the Boat House in Elizabethtown before meeting with Caitlyn. As we waited, engine idling, at the head of a long line of vehicles for the tow truck to clear away the mess and haul it away to the body shop, I reached for the emergency power bars I’d packed in my handbag, unwrapped one and handed half of it to Paul, who polished it off in two bites.

  On the outskirts of Salisbury, where Route 301 peels off to Ocean City and the beach towns along the Atlantic shore, we joined Route 13, the backbone that bisects the Delmarva peninsula – what the native Americans had called ‘Nassawadox,’ the land between the two waters – with bucolic towns and villages scattered along either side.

  I’d almost forgotten about the GPS until shortly after passing the turnoff for Pocomoke City, when Stella came to life and said, In one mile, make a right turn.

  We obeyed, winding along a two-lane state road for several miles until the fields of corn and soybeans gradually gave way to the houses of Elizabethtown, a prosperous-looking colonial town with a single traffic light. As we waited at the intersection of High and King for the light to turn green, I counted only one empty storefront along the block, a former pharmacy with Wm Chase & Sons spelled out in black and white tiles on the sidewalk out front. A sign posted in its display window read Blue Crab Art Galley – Coming Soon, so apparently the town had the
vacancy situation well in hand.

  Stella directed us through the traffic light, past another block of shops, left over a small wooden bridge and down a deeply shaded street lined on both sides with lovingly restored, high Victorian homes. At the edge of town, the cornfields resumed. After about five miles, Paul slowed when Stella confidently directed us down a dirt track – two ruts with grass growing tall along the hump in the middle. ‘Is she serious?’ he asked, applying his foot firmly to the brakes.

  ‘Caitlyn said it was out of the way,’ I reminded him.

  ‘This out of the way?’ Paul leaned forward, checked Stella’s display and frowned suspiciously. ‘I’m betting it’s further along.’

  As Paul crept forward along the paved road, I peered through my window, scanning down the long rows of corn. Almost immediately I spotted Caitlyn’s lime-colored VW bug on the far side of the field. ‘There’s Caitlyn’s car, so I think we’re in the right place.’

  ‘Hold on to your teeth,’ Paul joked as he backed up, turned right and steered cautiously and bumpily down the road with tall grass whoosh-whooshing against the undercarriage.

  Caitlyn’s VW was parked on a gravel drive next to the most charming cottage I’d ever seen outside the Cotswolds. If Jane Austen had greeted us at the front door, complete with dark ringlets and frilly cap, I wouldn’t have been surprised. Instead, it was Caitlyn who awaited us, dressed in white jeans and a floral T-shirt, leaning against a white picket gate, her thumbs rapidly stabbing a text message into her cell phone. When she caught sight of our Volvo she smiled, made a final stab and tucked the phone back into her handbag. ‘Well, what do you think?’ she asked when we pulled up to the gate and stepped out of the car.

  ‘It’s lovely,’ I gushed as I closed the car door behind me.

  Caitlyn grinned. ‘I told you so. Great curb appeal, don’t you think?’

  Behind me, Paul grunted. ‘If it had a curb.’

  I shot him a look, then took several steps backwards to widen my view. I whipped out my own iPhone, aimed and took some photos, trying to capture as much of the scene as I could. The stone wall, yellow with dried moss. The half-timbered stucco. The way the lace-curtained dormers peeked out of the shingled rooftop like friendly eyes. ‘It’s like something out of a Beatrix Potter illustration, isn’t it, Paul?’

  ‘As I’m not Flopsy, Mopsy, Cottontail or Peter, I’m withholding comment until we can see inside,’ my husband replied with a grin.

  Caitlyn lifted a wrought-iron latch and pushed the wooden gate open. ‘No time like the present, then.’

  The moment we stepped through the gate, I was a goner. As we strolled along the flagstone path that curved gently up to the dusty red front door, I fell hopelessly in love with the huge oak tree that dominated the yard, including the wooden crutch that propped up one of its low-hanging branches. I was charmed by the plantings along the path, cascading over the rims of blue ceramic pots. I wanted those leaded windows, those shutters, those window boxes where screaming orange begonias bedded down with pink petunias, trailing purple sweet potato vine. I coveted the wooden bench, too, borne on the backs of stone turtles. I pined for the bird bath, even fancied the topiary swan – which needed a trim – but, no matter, I was good with pruning shears.

  ‘Hannah? You coming?’ Paul called from the murky depths of the entrance hall while Caitlyn held the front door wide.

  Light fixtures like inverted trumpet vine blossoms, green with the patina of age, flanked the door. I wanted them, too.

  Inside, an open staircase led directly to the second floor. ‘There’s a modern bath upstairs with two bedrooms adjoining,’ Caitlyn informed us, waving a hand casually upward then chugging on. ‘But you’ll want to see the downstairs first.’

  The claustrophobic entrance hall spit us out into a bright living room with an enormous stone fireplace at one end and a drop-dead view of Chiconnesick Creek at the other. Paul slammed on the brakes and sucked in air. ‘Whoa!’

  From her spot in front of the wall-to-wall picture windows, Caitlyn grinned. ‘Exactly. This is all part of the original house,’ she continued. ‘The kitchen and dining room, too.’

  I blessed the kitchen – which had modern stainless-steel appliances and marbled granite countertops – but the dining room was dark and pokey, with barely enough room for a table that would seat six. ‘Can we knock this down?’ I asked, running my hand along the wall that separated the dining room from the kitchen. ‘And it’s not just my aversion to flocked wallpaper, either,’ I grinned, although it featured acid-green flowers that even a Victorian housewife would have found hideous.

  Paul smiled. ‘Hannah’s been watching too many makeover shows on TV.’

  ‘You’d have to consult a builder,’ Caitlyn said, ‘but it seems to me that anything’s possible, as long as it’s not load-bearing.’ We trailed back into the living room after her. ‘Through this door here you’ll find the master suite addition, which I know you’ll adore,’ Caitlyn chirped, herding us quickly along. She paused at the door and swept her arm to the side like a game show hostess. ‘And the previous owners balanced off the master suite with an office and laundry room addition over there.’

  ‘Everything’s so tidy and clean,’ I commented as we wandered into a master bedroom dominated by a king-sized bed, which was staged with enough decorative pillows to bed down the entire U.S. Army.

  ‘There will be issues, I’m sure,’ Paul said as he peered appreciatively into the walk-in shower that would comfortably accommodate his lanky six-foot-two-inch frame. ‘There usually are in a house of this age.’

  ‘Pedigree, my dear,’ I corrected. ‘Not age.’

  ‘It’s not, “Do you have termites?”’ Paul expanded on the thought, opening a door that led to a linen closet, peeking in and closing it again. ‘It’s “How have the termites been treated, and how often?”’

  ‘According to the owner, the house was last tented five years ago, but you’ll have an inspection, I’m sure,’ Caitlyn interjected as she opened one of the French doors that led from the bedroom out onto the deck.

  We followed. Paul rested both hands against the railing, took a deep breath, leaned forward and let it out slowly. ‘I could get used to this.’

  Below us, the lawn sloped gradually down to the shore where a wooden dock extended about fifty feet into the creek. At the far end a power boat bobbed, secured to the dock with blue and white lines, the ends of which had been neatly coiled on the planking like braided rugs. A splash of neon blue among the cattails and jewelweed turned out to be a kayak, inverted onto a wooden rack.

  ‘The boats convey,’ Caitlyn said.

  Paul whistled. ‘You’re kidding.’

  ‘Nope. As I said, she’s a motivated seller. Legal Ease was always his retreat, not hers. She’s looking forward to buying a condo in Scottsdale and to spending more time with her grandchildren.’

  Paul turned his back on the view, sat back against the porch rail. ‘The asking price. How much wiggle-room is there?’

  Caitlyn shrugged. ‘A bit, but honestly, I don’t think the house will last long at this price point.’

  Paul scowled. He hated to be pressured. ‘We’ll need to factor some renovations into the equation, of course, as well as repairs.’

  Caitlyn’s smile seemed a bit forced. ‘Of course.’

  Paul rolled forward onto the balls of his feet. ‘My wife and I will have to discuss it, but we could have an offer for you by tomorrow. Can you promise not to schedule any additional showings until then?’

  Caitlyn remained silent, studying his face as if gauging his sincerity. ‘OK, but if I don’t hear from you by noon …’ Her voice trailed off.

  ‘You will, one way or the other.’ Paul checked his watch and switched gears. ‘Hannah and I are looking for a nice place to have a late lunch and talk this over. We hear the Boat House is good.’

  Caitlyn shook her head. ‘Closed on Wednesdays.’

  ‘Where would you suggest, then?’ I asked.


  ‘Well, if you want local color, I’d go to the High Spot. You’ll run into everyone there, sooner or later.’

  While we wandered through the garden waiting for Caitlyn to secure the front door and replace the key in a lockbox hidden in a decorative watering can, I said to Paul, ‘We’ll have to rename it, of course.’

  ‘What? The cottage?’ Paul adjusted a shutter hanging crookedly from a rusty hinge and grinned. ‘How about we call it Crumbles.’

  I smiled back at him. ‘Let’s just call it home.’

  THREE

  ‘More tears are shed over answered prayers than unanswered ones.’

  St Theresa of Avila, 1515–1582

  Alas, because of a curriculum planning meeting Paul had forgotten until a colleague called him with a last-minute question, we had to skip the High Spot café and hustle back to Annapolis. Paul could function for days without food, running on diet cola and fumes, but I was faint with hunger, so he took pity, stopping at a Subway just north of Pocomoke City. I dashed in for a spicy Italian foot-long sandwich – half with jalapeños and half without – which we shared as we drove, staving off starvation.

  We stopped for gas on the outskirts of Easton and switched drivers. With his hands free, Paul made arrangements with Caitlyn for a quick house inspection, and after the appraiser’s report came in later that evening, Paul studied it, did the math and made an offer.

  Two days later, we were back on the Eastern Shore. Caitlyn had telephoned that our offer for Legal Ease had been accepted, so we agreed to meet her at the High Spot in Elizabethtown to talk specifics and, hopefully, sign the agreement papers.

  Losing my dream home because of Kendall Barfield’s unethical shenanigans still stung, so I tried to clamp a lid on my excitement by tabling any redecorating plans, at least until the ink on the contract for Legal Ease had dried. Yet not even the weather that day – a cool, misty rain – could dampen my spirits.

  Parking was plentiful on such a gray morning, so we pulled into a spot on Elizabethtown’s leafy town square, scrabbled in the pouches behind our seats for umbrellas and climbed out onto the puddled sidewalk that surrounded the square.