“What’s it about—a long-lost relative or something?”
“More or less.”
“Why did you never tell me about all this?”
“I knew nothing about it myself until a few days ago.”
“How long will you be gone? I mean . . . you’re not moving there!”
“Of course not,” said Loni with a chuckle. “I just need to sign some papers and arrange for the place to be sold. A few days at the most.”
“That’s a relief! So . . . cheers and congratulations and all that, I suppose.”
Even as he was speaking, the chime of his cell phone interrupted them. Hugh snatched it out of his pocket. “Oh, just a minute,” he said to Loni. “It’s the Speaker’s chief of staff. I need a minute with her.”
He jumped up from the table and hurried away.
Loni’s gaze followed him across the room. I really wanted to talk about this! she thought to herself. However, the subject did not arise again when Hugh returned. She did not force it.
She had hoped for time at the airport to talk further. She wanted to show Hugh the letter from the solicitor, share her thoughts, maybe get his advice. If they had a future together, this sudden change in her personal fortune had implications for his life as well as hers. This was her life, not a mere distraction.
She hoped they might have a cup of coffee inside together and chat without interruption. She was taken off guard when Hugh dropped her off at the curb.
“Where will you be staying?” he asked as he pulled out her suitcase and set it on the sidewalk. “Hilton, Radisson, Marriott?”
“I doubt those chains exist where I’m going, Hugh,” said Loni. “The letter called it a small fishing village.”
“Sounds awful! The smell of fish everywhere! What’s it called?”
“Whales Reef.”
“Ah . . . quaint. Well, I have a lunch meeting in town. Have a great time. Hurry back. I’ll miss you.”
Hugh planted a kiss on her lips, then hurried back to his car and drove away. With mixed feelings Loni stood on the sidewalk outside Departures and watched Hugh’s car disappear into the airport traffic. Not much of a sendoff as I sail to meet my destiny, she thought to herself.
When she turned to walk into the terminal, a sense of adventure gradually stole over her. She could not help being nervous, yet excited at the same time. It was exactly how she had felt when leaving for college. That opportunity had been provided by an inheritance from the mysterious Grandfather Tulloch.
Suddenly another inheritance from the same side of the family had landed in her lap, with shadows surrounding it of unknown family roots in Scotland.
She had grown since leaving home. She had launched out into the business world and was doing okay for herself. Yes, that previous adventure into the unknown had turned out well.
Perhaps this one would too.
68
Healing Tears
EASTERN PENNSYLVANIA
Loni’s flight would take her to Amsterdam—where she would set eyes on continental Europe for the first time—then to Aberdeen, farther north in Scotland than she had been the previous November. She would spend the night in the northern oil capital of Britain before flying two hundred miles still farther over the North Sea to the Shetland Islands. There, as Maddy had said, her destiny awaited.
She had not written in her journal for months. But on this occasion the book of personal reflections was no afterthought. It was the first item she packed. Even as the plane banked upward away from the eastern seaboard, she took it out and set it in her lap.
Two hours later, however, she still had not written a word.
On the day of her last entry, she had been returning from Gleneagles, vowing never to set foot in Scotland again. Now she was on her way back, under the most different circumstances imaginable. The confusion and uncertainty about her past had suddenly been replaced by a new uncertainty about her future.
Now her past was her future. Maybe that summed up the adventure!
It was a future bound up in a mysterious past revolving around the name Tulloch. The classic movies about time travel were not entirely fanciful. It really was possible to go back to the future. She was doing so herself. That’s exactly what this flight over the Atlantic was. To discover her future meant uncovering a past she never knew existed.
Thoughts of her past had always revolved around her childhood with her grandparents. Suddenly a great unknown world yawned behind those memories—a world stretching back in time to a distant heritage. Her genealogy was leading her across the sea to unfamiliar places with strange names and people she had never heard of. It was the lineage neither of Alonnah Ford nor Loni Ford, not even of Alonnah Emily Ford, but of the unknown Alonnah Tulloch Ford.
Who was this unfamiliar young woman with the strange name who had risen to dominate her life, this Alonnah Emily Tulloch Ford?
Who was “Loni” now?
She thought back to her visit to see her grandparents a few days earlier. The letter from Scotland had opened great reservoirs of love for them. All at once it came gushing into her heart. She truly loved them!
Whatever she might learn about her heritage, it was part of their story too. If her mother was indeed of Scottish descent, their son had married into the Tulloch clan. This was their destiny as well as hers.
It had been a good visit, thought Loni. She was seeing her grandparents through different eyes. Loni smiled. Maybe she was finally growing up.
At last she set her pen to the next page of her journal and entered the date.
Who are you, girl? she found herself writing. Are you Alonnah . . . or Loni . . . or someone you don’t even know . . . someone you are about to meet?
Her pen stilled as thoughts, emotions, images, faces, and memories flooded into her mind. Her grandmother’s face had brightened when she opened the door four days ago just as it had in June.
“Goodness gracious!” Mrs. Ford had exclaimed. “Two visits in less than a month!”
“Hello, Grandma,” Loni said with a smile. “Yes, I know. Surprise again!”
Hearing Loni’s car drive up, her grandfather hurried toward the porch from his workshop. He embraced Loni in a great hug. “What is the occasion, Alonnah?” A serious expression spread across his face. “Nothing wrong, I hope?”
“No, I’m fine. Actually . . . I have some news, something I wanted to tell you personally.”
“Come inside!” said her grandfather.
“Have you come to tell us you are engaged to that young man of yours?” asked Mrs. Ford as they made their way into the living room. “What was his name again?”
“Hugh,” laughed Loni. “No, Hugh and I are not engaged.” She took a chair opposite her grandparents on the sofa and pulled out the folded letter from Jason MacNaughton. “Something’s come up. Something that will probably change my life.” She paused, still holding the letter. “I received this a few days ago. It concerns my mother—well, indirectly I suppose you would say—and therefore, though even more indirectly, my father . . . your son, Chad.”
Mr. and Mrs. Ford glanced back and forth at each other as Loni stood and handed the letter to her grandfather. She resumed her seat while her grandparents read it together.
After a few moments they both looked up with expressions of astonishment.
“What a shock!” said Mr. Ford. “I hardly know what to say.”
“Do you know anything about it?” asked Loni.
“What do you mean?” he asked.
“Were you aware of these family connections to Scotland . . . my mother . . . have you ever heard of this man Macgregor Tulloch? Did you have an inkling of any such possibility?”
“No, nothing,” answered Mr. Ford. “Only that this is the name of your grandfather Tulloch who died in Philadelphia when you were thirteen—Alison’s father. We never knew anything about his past, or hers. Chad told us nothing about Alison.”
He paused and blinked a few times. A grief-stricken expression ca
me over his face. Loni had never seen such emotion on his face.
“We didn’t give him the chance,” her grandfather went on. “We regret that now of course. We regret many things. We were so caught up with the Fellowship having to remain pure, not mixing with worldly Christians, odd as it seems now, especially not with liberal Quakers. Our exclusivity blinded us to more important things.” He looked away, dabbing at his eyes.
“That isn’t all of the story, William,” said Mrs. Ford. “Chad cut off communication with us when he met Alison. He didn’t give us the chance to see how we might have been able to work through it. We didn’t hear from him for four years.”
“I know,” said her husband. “There was blame on both sides. There always is. But had we been more open, perhaps he would not have felt the need to cut off contact with us. But I take much of the responsibility on my shoulders. It is a grief I have to bear.”
Loni listened in silence, embarrassed to hear such a personal outpouring from the grandfather who had always seemed so stoic in her eyes.
A lengthy silence filled the room.
“I suppose I have been guilty of the same thing,” said Loni, “distancing myself from the two of you, turning away from the Quaker heritage you raised me in. I am sorry for that.”
Loni’s honesty was unexpected. It caught her grandparents off guard.
“I am so grateful for the training you gave me,” Loni went on. “I am appreciative that you took me in and cared for me, and for all the ways you loved me. You were the best grandparents a girl could have. I love you both so much.”
She rose and went to them. They made room for her between them on the worn and familiar couch. She embraced both in turn.
“I love you, Grandpa,” she said, leaning against his chest. “I am sorry for the pain I’ve caused you.”
He stroked her hair but could say nothing. His eyes were full.
A minute later Loni turned and stretched her arm around her grandmother. “I’m sorry, Grandma . . . I love you.”
“Oh, sweetheart!” began Mrs. Ford. She could say no more for her quiet weeping.
69
The Letter Box
When the emotion had passed, all three wiping at their eyes, Loni resumed her place across the room.
“Do you still have any of Grandfather Tulloch’s things?” she asked after a minute. “I remember some of them in the storeroom in the old barn, Grandpa. Is it possible something of my mother’s could be there too?”
“I doubt it, dear,” replied Mr. Ford. “But whatever we have is still there just as you remember it. I’ve not looked at it in years. You are welcome to whatever you can find.”
“Is that roll-top desk still there?” asked Loni. “I remember it having some papers and things.”
Mr. Ford nodded. “It’s there. All the way in back along with decades of junk and leftover bits from the business.”
“Would you mind if I had a look?”
“Of course not. It’s yours,” said Mr. Ford. “Your grandfather Tulloch’s things belong to you, and anything of ours you would like as well.”
“There is still some money in the account too, which we set up for the sale of your grandfather’s things,” added Loni’s grandmother. “It’s only a few hundred dollars. Most of it, of course, went to your college. We should get the last of it transferred into your name once and for all.”
“I’m not worried about that,” said Loni. “But I would like to look through the desk.”
She and her grandfather rose.
“I’ll put out some tea and a plate of cookies,” said Mrs. Ford as the two headed for the door. “Hot chocolate for you, Alonnah?”
“Sounds great—with a dollop of whipped cream like you used to make it for me. I don’t ever want to be skinny again!” she added with a laugh.
“I have some in the fridge. You’ll stay for supper and the night?”
“Thank you, Grandma,” replied Loni, turning back with a smile. “I would like that.”
Mr. Ford and Loni made their way to the huge barn that had long ago been converted into his woodworking shop and storage warehouse. Sights and smells assaulted Loni’s senses with delicious nostalgia: wood, dirt, tools, oil, sawdust, varnish, diesel, the ancient broken-down John Deere tractor, even faint reminders of straw and hay from a time long past when the barn had housed cows rather than furniture. Every inch filled her with memories of her years growing up here. Her grandfather’s hands dark with stain and oil as he restored a vintage antique, the happy summers working together in the showroom—these were some of the fondest memories of her youth.
She followed her grandfather deep into the recesses of the barn as he pulled one chain after another dangling from bulbs high overhead. Each new burst of light revealed open beams and rafters from which hung a century’s accumulation of dusty cobwebs. Winding through boxes and stacks of boards and plywood and wood scraps, they reached the farthest end of the building. In the corner Loni saw the old desk exactly as she remembered it.
There was the key still protruding from the lock at the base of the roll-top.
“Here it is,” said her grandfather. “Wherever it came from—I place it as American, not very old judging from the brass fittings—probably 1950s. It is yours, Alonnah. I’ve never even looked inside it since the day we brought it here. Frankly, I had all but forgotten it.”
Loni slowly turned the key and rolled up the top. It slid as effortlessly as if it had been constructed the day before. What craftsmanship! she thought with a smile.
“I’m sure you want to be alone with your thoughts,” said her grandfather, turning back the way they had come. “I will leave you to see what you can discover.”
Loni stood for a long moment gazing down at the desk. It was cluttered with papers, files, a few books, odds and ends of assorted junk. It mostly appeared uninteresting and valueless—receipts, invoices, orders for furniture, small bills. Cubbyholes and drawers were stuffed with pencils, pens, half-used rolls of masking tape, nails and screws, containers of dried glue and ink, fasteners, old batteries, reading glasses, a few coins, a magnifying glass, small tools, pocket knives, rulers, tape measures, sketches of furniture, scissors, and decades of accumulated miscellany. A small can of marbles was shoved to the back of one drawer. Loni ran her fingers through them with a smile. Were these from her grandfather’s boyhood?
One by one she opened the small drawers of the upper desk, then the large lower drawers to the right and left. Nothing attracted her eye that seemed likely to shed light on her mother’s family or her grandfather Tulloch other than a myriad details of his business. The most interesting discovery was a box of business cards that read Tulloch Fine Furnishings and Antiques—Old World Craftsmanship with Modern Functionality: Grant Tulloch, Philadelphia, Pennsylvania.
How interesting that both her grandfathers spent their lives in the same business. She took one from the box and placed it in her pocket.
Loni continued to explore the cubbyholes and drawers for anything she might have missed, taking care to pull the large drawers all the way out so that she could probe to the back of each one.
In the middle drawer of the left side she discovered a sheaf of tax filings and legal-size letters and envelopes. That might be interesting, she thought, to learn more about her grandfather’s business.
She continued to rummage about, moving again to the drawers on the right. Reaching the bottom drawer a second time, she pulled it completely out. Behind more piles of folders and business invoices, she caught a glimpse of a partially buried black wooden box with papers strewn over the top of it. She reached in, removed a handful of papers, then took out the box. It measured about eight-by-ten inches and some three inches high. A tiny key was inserted into the lock on the front of the lid.
A tingle surged through her. Whatever was inside this box, she sensed she had discovered something important.
Hurriedly, she cleared away the desktop, set the box on it, then slowly turned the key. A tiny
click sounded as the lock gave way. She lifted the lid.
An audible gasp of astonishment escaped her lips.
The box was full of letters! Beside them lay an unusual necklace with small stones hanging from one another and a locket beneath them, all suspended from a gold chain. The stones were clearly valuable. She reached in and lifted it out, examining each of the delicate fittings. With her fingernails she carefully unclasped the locket.
She gasped again as her eyes fell on the tiniest photograph possible, faded with time, of a young woman’s face. Her heart was pounding. She stared at it for several long seconds as if being drawn back in time . . . through years, through decades, perhaps even more. Was she imagining it or did the features of the unknown face bear a faint resemblance to her own?
Fingers trembling, she closed the locket, held the necklace of intricate design in the palm of her hand a few seconds longer, then turned again to the open box in front of her.
The letters now drew her attention.
The envelopes were obviously old, the paper yellow and faded.
Setting the necklace aside, with a reverent hand quivering again with anticipation, she lifted the top letter from the stack. The name on the front of the envelope, in faded black ink, penned by an unmistakably masculine hand, read Emily Hanson.
She caught her breath at the words.
Emily . . . her own name! The envelope was postmarked from Scotland.
But Emily Hanson . . . who could it be?
Loni opened the envelope and withdrew two sheets from inside. On the top was written the date 1924.
Dear Emily, she read.
It has now been a month—
Loni stopped. Still holding the sheets of the letter, she closed her eyes and took a deep breath.
She could not read further. This private and intimate correspondence had not been meant for her eyes. If a time came when she felt it appropriate to read them, she would do so . . . but not today.
She folded the letter and replaced it in the envelope.
The Inheritance Page 29
