“Can I help you?” Claire asked.
“No, you may not. I expect you two to warm yourselves by the fire and enjoy the company of one another.”
When Sally vanished around the corner, Claire heard herself blurting out, “I told her. I spoke to Victoria.”
Jimmy squared his shoulders and lifted his chin, ready to accept his fate. “And?”
“She wishes you well, but she declines your offer.”
Jimmy moved closer to the fire. The light from the flames added shadow and depth to the lean lines of his face, making him look more attractive than she’d ever seen him. “I thought as much.”
“I’m sorry.”
“Nothing to be sorry about. It’s over and done.” He held his long fingers out in front of the blaze, warming them. He was too proud to complain. “It’s for the best.”
“Are you disappointed?”
“No. Relieved.”
Claire studied his angled features, watched as they slackened a notch, and recognized the truth behind the words. A smile flickered on her lips. She reached out and took his hand, wanting to wrap her arms around him.
“Supper!” Sally shouted from the other room.
She began to pull her hand free, but he held tight for a beat or two and then released it. They walked side by side into the dining room and took their places at the long, rectangular table.
Sally had prepared a feast that consisted of three roasted ducks, fried oysters, cornbread, stewed tomatoes, and mashed potatoes. On the sideboard, there were an apple and a pumpkin pie.
“You have outdone yourself, Sally,” Claire said.
“Not the fancy fare of Winter Cottage,” she said as Eric helped her into her seat at the end of the table.
“I believe you could challenge Mrs. Latimer, though I will deny it if you tell her so.”
“I won’t be the one to tell Ma she might have to crown a new contender,” Jimmy said.
That jostled nervous smiles from the boys, who relaxed a bit. As the meal progressed, the boys warmed up to Claire, and their laughter returned. She enjoyed the duck and even found it in her to tease Jimmy about the first time he drove the motorcar. He accepted her ribbing with an easy nature, and by the end of the meal, she felt at home on the shore for the first time in a long time.
After both pies had been devoured, they moved back to the parlor, where the boys opened their gifts. She’d made shirts for each and was pleased she’d guessed their sizes correctly. There was a lace collar for Sally and a scarf for Eric. She’d even fashioned a christening gown for the baby.
When it was time to leave, Jimmy and Claire refused Eric’s offer of a carriage ride, and they set out on the road back toward Winter Cottage. The air was brisk, and a full moon was rising.
Now that they were alone, all the things she wanted to say were swallowed by fresh nerves and fears. Words failed her. As they walked in silence, she grew more frustrated for anything to say that might break the damnable silence.
“Where will your ship be sailing?” she finally asked.
“The Caribbean and then on to England. We’ll be carrying oil.”
“Isn’t that dangerous?”
“Ah, it sounds worse than it is. Not so different than steaming up the coast to Boston.”
“It’s very different. There’s a lot that can go afoul on the open water.”
“And there’s a lot that can go right.” Moonlight caught the glint of his even white teeth as he grinned. “Are you worried about me, Claire?”
“Yes.”
“I’m glad to hear it. I was afraid I’d ruined things between us.”
“There’s never been an understanding between us,” she said. “But I was hurt you initially picked her over me.”
“I didn’t realize you were interested.”
The words raced to the front of her brain, and before she could censor them, she said, “I’ve been interested in you since the day you fished me out of the water.”
Silently, he studied her.
Without much thought, she reached out and took his hand in hers. All these weeks, these years of wondering what it would be like to kiss him had built up to this moment. She should have been nervous because that was what she did. But she didn’t give a thought to right or wrong.
His fingers felt cold as she intertwined hers. He looked down, but he didn’t pull away. Buoyed by the small victory, she turned and kissed him on the lips. He stood stiff, but when her lips lingered, he wrapped his other hand around her waist and pressed into her kiss.
He kept Claire’s hand, and they walked back toward the boathouse. He was leaving tomorrow, and she wanted him more than ever before. She stopped as they approached, knowing Jimmy’s room was on the second floor.
Again he studied her, a muscle pulsing in his jaw. “Are you sure? Neither one of us can blame this on gin.”
“I’m sure.”
He pulled her inside the door and up the narrow staircase that led to the second floor. Moonlight streamed into the narrow room onto his neatly made cot. To the right was his fully packed seaman’s bag.
She tugged off her gloves and removed her hat, setting both on a writing table. She draped her coat over the desk chair and then unfastened the front buttons of her bodice. He stepped toward her but didn’t touch. She could hear his breathing made ragged by desire. She brought his hand up to her breast. His hooded gaze dropped to the creamy mounds, and he kissed each one.
For the next couple of hours, she found the boldness that had eluded her for so long. She stripped before him. Kissed him. And when he moved inside her, she boldly called out his name with breathless wanting. She didn’t think about tomorrow. Just this one perfect moment.
The town of Cape Hudson took care of its own. Whether it was a cleanup after a storm, a family on hard times, or a secret in need of keeping, the town closed ranks when the times required it.
That summer, the mood in town was shifting. Europe was at war, and though America had not entered the war, many of the town’s young men in the merchant marines had followed Jimmy, ready to brave the Atlantic’s increasingly dangerous waters.
The town would weather a hurricane in late September that would ravage the boats and homes on the bay and strip the fields bare. Days later, the town would also circle around an infant boy who came to be known as Samuel. This new baby would join the Jessups’ Christmas table, and he would grow up to be a seaman like Eric, the man whom everyone in town considered his father.
Only two people truly knew Samuel’s rightful heritage. One of those people was Claire, and she’d sworn never to tell.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
Lucy
January 17, 2018
In the predawn hours, Lucy lay in her bed, eyes closed, and rolled onto her side in a tight ball under the covers. The air was cold and the bed warm, and she was certain she imagined the sound of Nashville’s traffic on the street outside her apartment window, the strumming of a guitar, and the smell of eggs and bacon drifting in from a neighbor’s apartment. She heard breathing and imagined Raven lying beside her. It was a peaceful, quiet moment that was so sweet and perfect she wanted to hang on to it.
The breathing grew louder into whimpers and snorts, and the thump, thump of a dog’s tail forced her to crack open an eyelid. Reluctantly, she twisted her head to find Dolly staring at her.
“Dolly,” she muttered.
The dog sat up, barked. Time to go out.
She picked her phone up off the nightstand and checked the time—5:50 a.m. “No. Not doing it. Too early.” The dog nudged her. “I took you out just before bedtime.”
Dolly licked her face, forcing her to relent. “Give me a second. I just want to lie here a minute longer.”
Dolly woofed.
“Please.” She’d been reduced to bargaining with a dog.
Dolly nudged her with her nose, forcing her to sit up and swing her legs over the side of the bed. With a longing glance back at her bed, Lucy disappeared into the bathroom
. Minutes later when she emerged, she was dressed and had her hair pulled back into a ponytail.
“Come on, let’s get you outside.”
Out in the hallway, she glanced into the blue room and saw the girl curled on her side. In a matter of days, she’d gone from being strings-free to being responsible for a dog, a house, and now a kid. That Nashville apartment life she’d dreamed of was so far away it might as well have been on the moon.
She and Dolly were halfway down the steps when she heard Natasha cry out. “Lucy!”
Lucy paused on the step. “I’m here. Just letting Dolly out.”
The girl rushed out of her bedroom wearing sweatpants and a Donald Duck T-shirt. Her hair was a wild spray of black curls framing a face tight with panic. “I thought you were leaving.”
“Nope. Dolly just needs to pee, and I need coffee.” The grandfather clock in the hallway chimed six times. “Get showered and dressed, and I’ll make us some breakfast. I promised Hank I’d get you to school by seven thirty.”
Natasha rubbed her eyes and yawned. “I want to see the bones.”
Bones. Right. Tack that onto her list of newfound issues. And don’t forget Natasha’s crazed father, Brian. “School first. Besides, it’ll take all day for them to make any headway.”
“I don’t like school.”
Lucy started down the stairs. “Don’t want to hear it, kid. Not before coffee.”
She left the girl staring at her as she let Dolly out into the brisk, cold morning air. The sun wouldn’t rise for nearly an hour, but the morning sky was bursting with countless stars. Light from Nashville always overshadowed the night, and she rarely got the full effect of the stars and moon. As Dolly sniffed and ran around, she couldn’t help but be in awe of the beauty both around her and overhead.
The dog hustled back into the house, and she locked the door behind her. There’d been no calls from Brian Willard, but better safe than sorry.
Fifteen minutes later, Dolly had gobbled her food while Lucy sipped her first cup of coffee and greeted Natasha as she trudged into the room and sat on the barstool by the center island. Her hair was still a wild spray of curls in serious need of taming. “Coffee?”
“With a lot of milk and sugar.”
“Coming up.”
She poured a cup half-full of coffee, then topped it off with milk and a couple of teaspoons of sugar. She grabbed a paper napkin, set it in front of Natasha, and placed the cup on it. The kid still looked wild-eyed and worried.
“So do you come here often?” Lucy teased.
Natasha looked up over her coffee cup, rolling her eyes. “This isn’t a bar.” Sauciness chased some of her fear away. Better.
“So you don’t want me to take your breakfast order?”
“People don’t eat in bars.”
“Sure they do. But I don’t have nachos or burgers right now. How about eggs and toast?”
A smile teased the edge of her lips. “Okay.”
“Okay, what?”
“Thank you.”
She selected a country-western tune on her phone, and while it played, she rummaged for pans and all the fixings.
“Do you always listen to country-western music?” Natasha asked.
“Always.”
“I’m not crazy about it.”
“And I suppose you like all that techno stuff that isn’t even real music.”
“It’s real.”
A cast-iron skillet heated on the stove as she broke eggs into a bowl. “I like the kind of songs that require a person to play a musical instrument and sing with their own voice.”
Natasha slurped her coffee. “Could I get a tattoo like you?” she asked.
The sudden pivot had Lucy retreating. The egg in her hand missed the side of the bowl, and when it cracked, half the shell landed in the mix. “No. You’re twelve.”
“I don’t see why that matters. I’m pretty grown up for my age.”
She picked eggshells out of the collection of yolks. “It matters.”
“Can I get blue hair like yours?”
“Why do you want blue hair?”
“I hate my hair.”
“I like your hair. Women pay top dollar for those curls.”
“It’s not straight and blonde like yours. It’s all curly and kinky.”
She pushed a wooden spoon through the cooking eggs and put a couple of slices of bread into a toaster. “After breakfast, I’ll fix your hair.”
“It’s not going to look like yours.”
“It’s not supposed to. You have your own style, and you rock it.” Lucy served up breakfast on plates, grabbed a couple of forks, and set it all on the island. Butter from the fridge and more coffee for both.
She bit into the eggs and was almost tempted to take a selfie to commemorate the fact she was up before sunrise and eating real food. “How did your mom use to do your hair?”
“I don’t know.” Her frown was sad, not angry. “I should know that.”
“It’s okay that you don’t remember. I’m already having trouble remembering Beth’s face and voice.”
“You have the tapes.”
“True. But that’s not the Beth I knew.”
The girl pushed her eggs around, and when she tore off a piece of toast, she fed it to Dolly.
Lucy took another swig of coffee and rose. “I’ll be right back.”
“Where are you going?”
“Trust me.” She hurried upstairs and, from her bathroom, grabbed a wide-bristle brush, dry conditioner, and a bag filled with hair fasteners and clips.
When she returned, Natasha had taken a few more bites, and Dolly was conning the kid for another nibble. “Stop feeding the dog.”
“But she’s hungry.”
“She’s already been fed this morning. She’s running a scam on you and playing you for a sucker.” Lucy set her hair supplies on the island. “Finish and I’ll begin.”
Curiosity pushed aside some of the apathy. “Begin what?”
She shrugged. “Finish.”
“Fine.” The girl gobbled down several more bites, and when the plate was clear, Lucy picked it up and set it in the sink. “How do you know about my kind of hair?”
“I worked with a few African American gals. I used to listen to them talk about hair. I’m no expert, but I bet I can make something happen.”
“Sometimes Mom braided my hair.”
“I can’t braid, but I have an idea.” She moistened a paper towel, wrung out the excess water, and then smoothed the damp towel over the girl’s hair, which she realized was more tangled and delicate than she first thought. Next she smoothed the leave-in conditioner on her hair and worked it through.
Natasha sighed and closed her eyes. What was it about getting your hair done that made life seem a little better? Slowly, she worked through the tangles, separating the curls and smoothing them out.
“I haven’t had my hair done in a long time,” she said. “Brenda didn’t have time, and that’s not the kind of thing you’d ask Hank.”
“No, he doesn’t strike me as a hair-and-beauty expert.”
Natasha giggled. “Not even close.”
“There must be a place around here that does hair.”
“There’s Christy’s across Route 13.”
“Okay. I’ll see what they have. I could use a trim too.” She smoothed more conditioner on the ends and then after drying her hands brushed the front of Natasha’s hair flat. Next came the red headband to hold back her hair. The overall effect was pretty cute.
“Go have a look in the mirror upstairs, and don’t forget to brush your teeth.”
Brown eyes brightened with what felt like real emotion, not the pretend smiles the kid wore as a mask. “Okay!”
She jumped up, and Dolly, without a second glance, followed her up the stairs. Lucy cleaned the kitchen and made a couple of sandwiches for lunch. She tossed in a bag of chips and an apple. By the time Natasha came downstairs, backpack slung over her shoulder, she was smiling.
“You like?” Lucy asked.
“Not bad.”
“High praise.” She checked the time on her phone. “We have to go.”
The drive to school took under fifteen minutes. She pulled up to the bus ramp. “Have a great day.”
“New hair, a funeral, and a dead body. This is going to be the best day ever.”
“We aim to please.”
Natasha kissed Dolly and scrambled out her door. She was halfway out of the Jeep before Lucy realized she’d not taken her lunch. She rolled down the window, called out, and Natasha bounded back and grabbed the bag.
Lucy shifted her Jeep and drove back to Winter Cottage. When she arrived, the sheriff’s cruiser was on-site alongside Hank’s truck. They’d maneuvered a ladder down into the well, and Hank looked ready to climb down.
She parked behind Hank’s truck and, hooking a leash on her collar, pulled Dolly out.
Hank watched the pair approach as he pulled on black latex gloves. “Natasha off to school?”
“The package has been delivered.”
“No issues?”
“Smooth sailing.” She smiled at Rick. “Morning, Sheriff. Can I get you two coffee?”
“Thanks,” Rick said easily. He removed a tarp from the back of his truck and spread it to the right of the well. “Maybe after we see what we’ve got waiting for us down in the hole.”
“Sure.”
Rick slipped on a headlamp and clicked it on before climbing over the side of the well onto the ladder.
“Do you all know when the well was first sunk?” Lucy asked.
Hank shook his head. “I went over the papers on file at the clerk’s office, and apparently six wells have been sunk on the property in the last hundred years. But it’s more likely it predates 1918.”
Rick started down the ladder, the light shining off the circular stone sides that extended down fifteen feet. He inched lower and lower until finally he ducked out of sight.
Hank grabbed a digital camera from the front of his vehicle and began taking pictures. Tensing, she inched closer and peered down. Rick’s headlamp cast a narrow band of light on the stone walls, the shallow puddle of water in the bottom, and the collection of bones that lay against the north wall.
“Do the bones look human?” Hank asked.
Winter Cottage Page 18
