Season of Angels (9781101612170)

by Kinkade, Thomas; Spencer, Katherine

  “Call her about what?” His father sounded edgy and angry again.

  “He told me that he would be willing to talk things out with you. Or even just say hello after all this time. He said he was thinking of calling you before he left for New Zealand but . . . he was afraid to.”

  Joe set his mouth in a harsh line, his tone bitterly sarcastic. “Gee, my brother was always such a stand-up guy, that really surprises me.”

  Left myself wide open for that one, Sam thought. He felt like he’d been hit by a clean right hook. At least his father knew that Kevin was thinking about this whole mess now, too. Still, he didn’t know what else to say.

  Joe had pulled some large baking sheets out of a rack and was covering them with parchment paper. Sam stood by and watched him. His father was still so strong, skillful, and able. His moves were quick and sure, as if he could easily cook in his sleep . . . and had perhaps at times done just that when fatigue overwhelmed him.

  “Dad . . . I’m sorry if talking about all this upsets you. I don’t mean to do that. But it’s like pulling a bandage off an old wound that never healed. It’s going to hurt a little before it can get better again.”

  “Great. Thanks for the warning. But I never asked you—or your grandmother—to do that. We’ve been over this. Why can’t you just leave it alone? Why do you have to stick your nose in where it doesn’t belong? Because your grandmother asked you? Well, I’m your father and I’m telling you to just butt out, okay?” His father’s voice had gone from a low growl to loud anger.

  Sam had not heard his father yell at him this way since his teenage years, and at first he shrank back. But he felt his own temper quickly rising. Sam knew he shared the Morgan trait for emotional drama, as his wife often reminded him. With an effort of will, he managed not to answer his father’s anger with anger of his own.

  “Are you done now?” he asked Joe, barely suppressing his own annoyance.

  Joe nodded, looking down at the empty baking sheets. “Yeah, I’m done. I said all I’m going to say about this. Now do me a favor and take off. I have work to do here.”

  Sam laughed and shook his head. “First you yell at me like I’m still a kid and then you give me that same old line you always used when you wanted to keep us from pestering you. It won’t work, Dad. I’m a grown-up now. Things change. People change, too.” He paused, wondering if his father was even listening. Joe wasn’t looking at him now as he dropped spoonfuls of the cookie dough on the trays in neat rows.

  “I’m doing this because I care about you. Don’t you get it? It’s not even about Uncle Kevin and Grandma. It’s about you. Holding on to this bitterness and resentment only hurts you, eats at your soul. Makes you less of a person . . . It’s practically a habit now, feeling angry and slighted by them. And it’s a role that you cast yourself into. Your brother has changed. He’s not playing the loser alcoholic anymore. He figured it out. You ought to just see him before he goes. He didn’t stay stuck like you.”

  Joe picked up his head and stared at Sam. His face was red with anger, and his eyes were wide and shocked. Sam saw a vein throbbing in Joe’s left temple.

  I’m giving him a heart attack, Sam thought with alarm.

  “Now you listen here, you have no right to say that to me. To take his side. How dare you.” His father pointed his finger at Sam, jabbing the air.

  Sam held up his hands in a gesture of surrender. He should have left a long time ago. Maybe his father was right. Maybe this wound was best left covered over and untouched. Maybe now was not the time.

  But before he could answer, he heard the door open and turned. It was Molly, back early.

  “I thought I heard your voice, Sam.” She dropped her briefcase and bags, then took off her coat and hung it on a hook. Slowly, she looked from her father to her brother, reading the entire situation in that one glance. Then she turned on Sam. “What are you doing here, bothering Daddy? Getting him all upset? Look at him. He looks like he’s going to burst a blood vessel or something.”

  Joe stood back from the table and was trying to calm himself. But his red face and angry expression told the whole story.

  Molly walked over to his side of the table. “Are you all right, Dad? You want some water? I think you ought to sit down.” Molly tried to lead Joe to a stool, but he shooed her back with his hand.

  “I’m fine, Molly. Stop fussing.” He finally did sit down and just glared at Sam.

  “Okay, I’m leaving. You can all calm down. I’m sorry, Dad, but—”

  “Just go, Sam. You’ve said enough.” Molly’s tone stung, like a sharp, cold slap. “Look how you upset him. Was it worth it? What has Uncle Kevin ever done for you . . . for any of us? I can’t believe you would put Daddy through all this heartache for absolutely no good reason.”

  Sam sighed. His sister didn’t get it, either. It was like talking to a wall. Talking to two walls. Sam knew when he was beat, but he couldn’t resist one last reply.

  “I know you think you’re helping him, Molly, protecting him or something. But you’re not.”

  “Just leave, Sam.” Molly had been hovering over their father but now stood up and moved toward Sam, looking as angry as he had ever seen her.

  Sam stared at her a moment, then turned and left the shop.

  Just outside the door, he closed his eyes and took a long, deep breath and squeezed his eyes closed. Was he crying? He couldn’t even tell. When had he fought like that with his father . . . and his sister? He couldn’t remember.

  Dear God, what’s happening to our family? Did I do the wrong thing coming here? Please help us sort through this painful mess. I don’t want my father and sister to be angry at me forever, too . . . the way they feel about Uncle Kevin. They don’t seem to hear a word I’m saying. Help them understand, especially Dad. Please let him see he can put down this load he’s been carrying. Carrying for much too long.

  * * *

  Jonathan didn’t get to Lilac Hall until eleven. Professor Pilsner had called just as he was leaving the inn, asking for an update on his research. Once his advisor got going, it was hard to gracefully exit a conversation. Jonathan usually relished these talks, feeling privileged to be on such close terms with the esteemed scholar. But as Professor Pilsner rambled on, all Jonathan could think of was Tess, waiting at Lilac Hall. He had told her that he would meet her there at half past ten, and he didn’t even have her phone number.

  He knew that he could have called the Historical Society and asked someone to find her, but that seemed a little complicated and maybe making too big a deal of his delay. Still, he hated the idea that she might be waiting and growing annoyed with him. Or worse yet, feeling hurt, thinking that he didn’t care enough about her to show up when he said he would. He knew it had only been a few days since they met, but he did care. He cared a lot. He wasn’t sure how and when that had happened, but he knew it was true.

  After he drove through the gates and parked his car beside the mansion, he practically jogged to the building, trying to catch his breath as he walked into the big entry hall and looked around. Mrs. Fisk and a boy who looked like he was in high school stood at the visitors’ desk. But there was no sign of Tess.

  He wondered if she was already upstairs, in the reading room he had been using. He started up the steps and heard a voice, calling him back downstairs.

  “Sir? You didn’t sign in yet.”

  “Oh, right, sorry.” Jonathan hopped down the steps and walked up to the desk. Mrs. Fisk slipped the sign-in book over to him, and Jonathan quickly filled in the information and showed his identification.

  Mrs. Fisk looked it over very slowly, making Jonathan impatient. Finally she signed the approval slip and handed it to him. “Letters and diaries from the 1600s are on the second floor, North Room. Michael will go up and help you.”

  The high school student stood by smiling; he
was eager to have something to do, Jonathan guessed.

  “That’s all right . . . Tess Wyler has been helping me. I think she might be upstairs already.”

  Mrs. Fisk looked at him curiously. “I’m sure she’s not. Tess isn’t here today.” She smiled mildly at him. “Michael can help you. Don’t worry.”

  Jonathan felt a jolt of disappointment. From the way the woman smiled at him, he was sure it showed.

  “You’ll need to put your belongings in a locker,” she reminded him. “Michael will meet you back here.”

  “Right, I was just about to do that,” Jonathan replied, though he had in fact forgotten. He walked back to the lockers and stowed his coat and bag, taking out his laptop and a pad and pencil. He met Michael again at the bottom of the staircase, and they climbed together without talking. All Jonathan could think of was Tess. He had left the inn in such a good mood, anticipating seeing her, and now felt his spirits sink, like a stone tossed in a well.

  Where was she? Was she sick? Had she just called in sick, purposely avoiding him? No. That was silly. He had the feeling she really liked him. Besides, agreeing to meet at the Historical Society wasn’t a real date. Maybe she had another reason. He hoped it wasn’t a boyfriend.

  He placed his computer on the table, next to the pad and pencils. Michael stood, looking at him. “What can I find for you?”

  “I’ve been studying a journal written by Sophia Ames who lived in Cape Light during the time of the quarantine.” Jonathan told him the exact date. “I think the microfilm is in the cabinet, up there.”

  Jonathan pointed to the cabinet where Tess had found the journal. Michael looked up at the shelf, seeming stumped. “I’m sorry, sir. I’m sort of new here . . . I’ll go get Mrs. Fisk. She’ll help you.”

  Jonathan sighed and sat down. “Good idea,” he said.

  He turned on his computer and pulled up the file with his notes on the epidemic. Mrs. Fisk soon arrived, announced by a rattling sound, produced by the big key ring that hung from a dark green cord she wore around her neck. He knew it as unfair, but she reminded him of a housekeeper in some gothic novel, like Rebecca or Jane Eyre. She even dressed the part. He wondered what Tess thought of the woman. Michael followed at her heels and was soon sent up a wooden ladder to fetch down the container Jonathan needed.

  Jonathan set up the machine, then forced himself to focus and concentrate. Sophia’s complete journal had not survived the years. About twenty pages, some of them just fragments, had been preserved on microfilm. It was a shame the pages weren’t consecutive as large chunks of time were missing. But he did find entries about “the fever.” Sophia wrote about plans to quarantine the sick, mentioning the names of a few of those “unfortunate souls” who were being sent to the island. Her own husband didn’t survive the disease long enough to be among those quarantined, and Jonathan found a heartbreaking account of John Ames’s rapid demise from Marsh Fever, along with Sophia’s fears that it would take her as well. But there was no mention of strangers who arrived to tend to the sick on the island. There were no accounts of visitors, other than the villagers from Cape Light, who occasionally came to bring provisions and check on those who were quarantined. Jonathan doubted he would ever find documentation of the magical strangers who supposedly arrived to heal the sick ones and then disappeared, without a trace.

  He had an idea about the truth behind the legend but, so far, no proof. He knew that if he was going to publish a paper in a scholarly journal and submit it to peer review, he had to be thorough. He couldn’t propose a theory then risk some other scholar coming here and finding a single document that might discredit him. He had to examine as much of the firsthand material as he could find. He had a lot of reading to do, that was for sure. But it will be well worth it, he thought. No pain, no gain in the history game.

  The only problem was, he felt too hungry and distracted to concentrate. Between his phone call from Professor Pilsner and rushing to meet Tess, he had skipped the inn’s hearty breakfast that morning and run out with only a cup of coffee and a carrot bran muffin, which had been tasty but not nearly enough to keep his engine running.

  He closed his computer, thinking he would go down to the lunchroom Tess had shown him. But he wasn’t sure he would be allowed in without Tess, and it wouldn’t be much fun without her.

  Down in the entry hall, he took his coat from the locker and headed out to his car again. The village isn’t all that far, he told himself. I can grab a quick bite and go back to Lilac Hall for three or four hours before they close.

  He cruised down Main Street and without thinking parked in front of the Clam Box. Though he had promised himself he would never return, he couldn’t resist taking a look to see if Tess was there. He walked to the door and pulled it open. There were a few tables filled, but he didn’t see Charlie behind the long counter today. That was a good thing, he thought.

  He did see Tess waiting on a table near the back. And that is a very good thing, he said to himself. He stood by the door, waiting for her to notice him. Finally she looked up and met his glance. She looked surprised but pleased to see him, he thought. He felt his heart beat a little faster than normal and told himself he was acting like an idiot. Okay, she seems glad to see you. Even though you’ve practically stalked her today. But try not to be a total nerd?

  “Table for one, sir? Or are you meeting someone?” Tess asked in a very professional tone.

  “I had hoped to meet someone today . . . but she stood me up,” he teased back.

  Tess looked shocked. “You’re kidding. Well, maybe she had a good reason. I hope you’ll hear her out. . . . Would you like a table by the window today, or a booth in back?” she added before he could reply.

  “The window would be fine.” He followed her to an empty table and she handed him a menu. “The specials are on the board. We’re out of the firehouse chili. Can I get you something to drink while you’re deciding?”

  “Water will be fine.” He looked up and smiled at her. He guessed she was remembering the mammoth spill that had happened the last time. He didn’t want to tease her, though.

  She soon returned with the water pitcher and efficiently filled his glass, then put a small travel umbrella next to his place setting, which she seemed to have produced from thin air.

  “Just in case you happen to be reading the original Dead Sea Scrolls or the Gutenberg Bible while you’re dining. Instead of a newspaper or magazine, like a normal person.”

  He picked up the umbrella and smiled. “Thanks. Very thoughtful. I do remember now that the service here is excellent.”

  “It is. Much better than the food. Why aren’t you eating lunch at the inn?”

  Because I wanted to see you, that’s why. “Too far,” he said. “I want to get back to Lilac Hall and do some more work today. How’s the clam roll?” he added, glancing at the menu.

  “As Nietzsche said, ‘That which does not kill us makes us stronger.’” Her pencil was poised over the order pad.

  He laughed. “In that case, I’ll try the turkey club on whole wheat, no fries, and a cup of tea.”

  “Good choice. I’ll be back.” She walked away again, and Jonathan watched her head to the kitchen. Then he looked over at the little red umbrella on the table. She didn’t mind poking fun at herself, did she? He felt happy again, and he knew it was only because he had caught up with her.

  Tess soon brought his sandwich and tea, but had three more tables to wait on. Jonathan ate slowly, then ordered pie for dessert and had two more refills of tea. He was practically the only one left in the diner by the time Tess returned to his table for the fourth or fifth time.

  “Would you like anything else today?” she asked again.

  He looked up from the folder of papers he had been reading.

  “I’d like you to sit with me a few minutes when you have a break. Is that possible?�
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  She looked surprised by the request, but pleased. “Charlie is out today, and you’re my last table. So I think it will be okay. Just let me tell Trudy.”

  She walked off to talk to the other waitress, an older woman with dark red hair. Then she returned with a mug of coffee. She drank her coffee black, he noticed, no milk or sugar. He needed both.

  “So, did you survive at the historical society today without me?”

  Just barely, he nearly replied. “Mrs. Fisk and a volunteer named Michael were very helpful. Though she does remind me of the housekeeper in Jane Eyre or some other gothic masterpiece.”

  Tess laughed out loud. “Doesn’t she? With that hairdo and those keys around her neck? I thought the same thing when I first met her. She looks like she must have been living in the mansion since it was first built. But she’s actually very nice and knows every scrap of paper in the collection.”

  “Oh, she was very knowledgeable, no question.” But it’s much more fun to work with you and sound out my ideas and hear what you have to say, he wanted to tell her. But all he could do was sit back and smile.

  “My hours were changed,” she explained. “They need me there tomorrow instead of today. So I grabbed a few extra hours here. Sorry I wasn’t able to get in touch. I guess I could have called the inn,” she added. “But I didn’t want to bother you.”

  It wouldn’t have been a bother at all. But he knew what she really meant. She felt awkward hunting him down.

  “No problem. I was just teasing you before.”

  “So, did Mrs. Fisk lead you to any other treasure troves of information?”

  “I’m still working with the Sophia Ames journal, and I’ve found some good bits of information there. She does mention the fever and how her husband died. And she does mention the quarantine, which was proposed a week or two after his death. She wrote in her diary that his death was a cruel blow, but how much harder it would have been to have seen him taken away to the island, and to be separated from him in his final hours.”