Season of Angels (9781101612170)

by Kinkade, Thomas; Spencer, Katherine

  “I read somewhere that the antique documents need to be kept in a special box like that and covered by a plastic sleeve. So I’ve been keeping them like that for a long time now,” Grace explained. “It took Dad a while to understand, but he knows now they won’t last otherwise.”

  “Grace keeps them right. As good as in the museum,” Digger insisted.

  Jonathan had been standing next to Tess and now sat beside her on the love seat. She counted five sheets of paper protected in plastic covers.

  “How many letters are there, Grace?” Jonathan asked, looking at the pages over Tess’s shoulder.

  “Three altogether. But we don’t have all the pages of one of them.”

  “May I see a page?” Jonathan asked her.

  Tess handed him one of the sheets, and he examined it carefully. Digger and Grace watched him, waiting for his opinion, Tess suspected.

  “Well . . . what do you think? Real treasures, right?” Digger said finally.

  Jonathan looked up and nodded. “Yes, they are. Truly. You’ve taken very good care of them,” he said, glancing at Grace. “From the paper and ink marks, I’d say these letters would be prized by any historical society.”

  Digger beamed with pride. “Hear that, Grace? This fella’s in the business. He says our letters are treasures.”

  Grace seemed proud, too, but was shy about showing it. “I heard what he said, Dad. We have to take care of them. We can’t be tossing that box around the house, like an old pair of shoes, can we?”

  Digger made a face like a little boy who’s been scolded but didn’t say anything.

  “When were the letters written?” Tess asked, scanning a page for a date.

  “Oh, way back there. When the village founders first came over from England. Sixteen thirty-three, I think it was. The settlers all came up here from Cape Cod in the spring, built shelters, set up their crops. Come fall, that’s when the sickness started. The Marsh Fever, they called it.”

  “That’s exactly right. At the end of the first year.” The old man could remember historical facts and even dates, Jonathan noticed. It was the present he had trouble with. “Who wrote these letters, someone in your family?”

  Digger nodded. “That’s right, my ancestor on my daddy’s side, Mary Newell Hegman. Her husband was Ezekiel. They had eight children and they all caught the fever. Seven died in their beds, and Mary was sent over to the island with the baby in her arms. . . . Oh, those were dark days, son. Dark days.”

  “Very dark,” Jonathan agreed.

  “People made some hard choices and had to live with it, come what may.” Digger sighed heavily.

  “What happened to Mary and the baby? Did they survive?” Tess asked.

  Digger nodded. “It was a part of the miracle. The good Lord had mercy. Mary came back after the winter cured and the child cured, too. He grew up to be a fisherman named Philip . . . same name as me. He kept the family line going. There would have been no more Hegmans in the New World if he hadn’t hung on.”

  Tess felt a tingling excitement as she heard the story. She glanced at Jonathan, sensing he felt it, too. She could tell from the light in his eyes and his excited expression.

  “Did Mary write these letters to her husband from the island? Does she mention anything about the quarantine and the . . . the visitors who came to take care of the sick ones?”

  He almost said angels. But he couldn’t quite manage it, Tess knew. She knew Jonathan even questioned whether human visitors had come to care for the sick.

  “The angels, you mean? Is that what he’s talking about?” Digger seemed confused and turned to Tess.

  “That’s right, Digger, that’s what he means.” She lifted her eyes and smiled at Jonathan.

  Jonathan smiled back. He knew Digger believed in the legend, and he wasn’t about to start a debate with the old man, just to prove a point. Tess already knew Jonathan was kind and wasn’t out to hurt anyone’s feelings or insult their beliefs, though he was committed to finding out the truth, if he could.

  “What do you think, Digger? Did angels come to nurse the quarantined villagers? Or was it some group of merciful folks from another settlement, or maybe even some Native Americans who helped them?” Jonathan proposed.

  “Wasn’t any other settlements nearby at that time. Lots of Native Americans, though. Wampanoag,” he added, naming the tribe that had lived in the area.

  “Yes, that’s right. . . . What do you think?” Jonathan repeated the question.

  “Oh, it was angels. No question, young man. Couldn’t have been anything else. When you consider the time of the year, the harsh weather, the land bridge impassable for weeks at a time . . . You say Native Americans come over in their bark canoes? When even a big, seafaring vessel could hardly handle those rough seas.”

  If there was one thing Digger knew—and still knew—it was the sea and the weather. He had a good point, too, Tess thought.

  Before Jonathan could answer, the old man said, “Here, you sit right there.” He pointed to the couch. “You read them letters. Take your time. Then you tell me what you think,” he added with a challenging note. “You decide for yourself. I don’t have to tell you what to think. You’re in a big university studying to be a professor, right?”

  Jonathan nodded. “That’s right.”

  “Well, you’re a heck of a lot smarter than me. So you decide for yourself,” he repeated.

  Jonathan carefully picked up a page again. He held it out so that Tess could read it, too. They sat shoulder to shoulder on the small couch, and Tess focused on the dark purple letters. The ink was made from berries, boiled bark, and even ash from the fireplace, and the pen, a sharped quill at the tip of a feather. The old writing was very hard to make out, and Jonathan’s nearness was a further distraction.

  “Can you read it, Tess?” Jonathan turned to her, his face very near. “I can hardly make out a word,” he confessed.

  “I think I’ve got the first line.” She pointed with her fingertip and read aloud. “‘My dearest heart, We arrived on the island safely. The baby is still feverish . . .’” She looked up at him. “I can’t make out much more after that. I think you would need a magnifying glass.”

  “Yes, that would help,” Jonathan agreed, sliding the page back into its plastic sleeve. He looked up at Digger. “I’m sorry . . . I think I will need some time to read these. The ink is faded, and the handwriting is hard to make out. I don’t want to rush and miss something important,” he added.

  Digger nodded. “Wouldn’t be right to rush. There’s a right way to do something and a wrong way. You don’t want to miss a word. What would be the point of that?”

  “Would it be all right if Jonathan borrowed the letters?” Tess glanced at Grace and then back at Digger.

  “Oh, it’s all right with me, as long as he handles them carefully and keeps that box in a cool, dry place, out of the sunlight. But I expect he knows about all that,” Grace replied. “But it’s not really my place to say. It’s up to my dad,” she added.

  Tess looked over at Digger. “It will only be for a few days, and he’ll copy them down and type it all out. Then he’ll give them back to you with the type-written pages, so that if you want to read them, you don’t have to take them out of storage.”

  Digger looked surprised at the idea. His bushy eyebrows rose into the edge of his hat. “You’d do that for me? That would be a good thing,” he agreed.

  “I’d be happy to,” Jonathan replied. “Or, if you’re not comfortable with me taking the letters off the premises, perhaps I could come back here a few times and try to transcribe them for you.”

  Tess could tell he really wanted to study the letters on his own, but didn’t want Digger to feel pressured. It was thoughtful of him to offer to study them here. That might be a good compromise, she thought.

>   But Digger surprised her. “Oh, that’s okay. I trust you, son. I have a sixth sense about folks and you’re a good one. I can just smell it on a person.”

  “Well . . . thanks,” Jonathan said. “Thanks for the compliment.”

  Digger nodded. “Sure thing. I can live without them letters in the house for a week or so. I do want to help you get the story right, so you can put it in a history book. Ain’t that what you’re aiming for?”

  Jonathan had to smile at that. “Yes, that’s exactly what I’m hoping.”

  Grace had left the room but now returned with a silver tray, holding a teapot and cups and a dish of cookies. They were plain butter and molasses cookies, brown on the edges, and looked homemade.

  “I’ve made some tea. It will take the chill out.”

  While it was cold outside, the apartment felt quite warm to Tess. But she knew that older people often felt chilled, so it was probably just right for them. Grace offered her a cup of tea and she took it, saying thank you.

  “Jonathan here is going to borrow the letters, Grace. He’s going to study them and type up what they say, so we don’t have to worry about tearing the pages if we want to read them over.”

  “Oh, very nice. Why didn’t I think of that?” Grace asked no one in particular.

  “He’s got to read them slowly, so he doesn’t miss the part about the angels. It’s all in there . . . you’ll see,” Digger promised.

  Tess could tell Jonathan didn’t want to disagree but was probably thinking he wouldn’t find any conclusive evidence to support that claim. Still, she sensed they were both excited to see what they would find in these documents.

  “You see, some folks who were healed on the island went on to become healers, too,” Digger continued as he sipped his own cup of tea. “It was a gift passed down in families. Like blue eyes or singing.”

  “He understands, Dad. You don’t have to go on about it.”

  “I’m just explaining, Grace. No harm in that.”

  “I understand,” Jonathan said. Though Tess suspected he found this claim even more doubtful than the one about angelic healers. “Do you know anyone in town I can interview who is descended from this group? Someone who has the . . . the healing touch?” Jonathan asked.

  Tess watched Digger consider the question. He stroked his long beard. “Hard to say. People don’t like to flaunt that sort of thing.”

  Jonathan nodded. Tess was sure he thought that was because the claim was more fantasy, part of the legend.

  “There is someone, though,” Digger continued. “Claire North. People say her family line traces down from the healers, and she’s got the gift.”

  Tess nearly laughed out loud at Jonathan’s surprised expression.

  “Claire North lives on the island. She works at the inn over there,” Grace told Jonathan.

  “Yes, I know . . . I’m staying at the inn. I’ll ask her about that,” he said. Tess watched him take a breath and then reach for the box of letters. “Well, thank you both very much for your time and for letting me examine these documents. I really can’t tell you how much I appreciate your help, Mr. Hegman—”

  Digger interrupted him with a sharp laugh. “Ha! Can’t recall the last time anybody called me that. That’s rich, that is.” He looked over at his daughter. “Hear what he called me, Grace? Mister Hegman.”

  Digger practically melted into his beard, chuckling.

  Tess glanced at Jonathan and smiled. He seemed a bit bewildered, not totally understanding what he had said to send Digger into this spasm of mirth, but he also seemed amused by the moment.

  Grace sighed while they waited for Digger to stop chortling. “I think my father is getting tired. You probably ought to go.”

  “Yes, of course. I was just about to. Thanks again. It’s been a real pleasure meeting both of you,” Jonathan said sincerely as he shook the old man’s hand and then shook Grace’s. “I really appreciated our talk and your help. I’ll take very good care of the documents. Please don’t worry.”

  “I ain’t worried, son, not one bit. You seem like a fine, responsible young man . . . and you got Tess peeking over your shoulder, keeping an eye out for me, too.” His playful smile lit up his old blue eyes. “You’re a lucky fella, you know that?”

  Tess blushed, catching Digger’s meaning. He thought something was going on between her and Jonathan. Something more than friendship and a mutual love of history. Well . . . maybe there was. Jonathan also looked taken by surprise, his smile suddenly frozen. She sensed he felt a bit embarrassed, too.

  But before Digger could say more, Tess leaned down and gave him a quick hug. “See you soon, Digger. Take care of yourself.”

  “Same to you, dear. Grace has got me working hard these days. It’s the Christmas rush, you know.”

  Grace made a face and shook her head. Jonathan could only imagine Digger dealing with her customers.

  “Yes, it’s the rush. We’re all set, right, Dad?” Her father solemnly nodded. Grace turned to Tess and Jonathan. “I’ll show you out. I have to go down anyway to lock the door.”

  At the bottom of the steps, Grace handed them both their coats. “Thank you again for your help and hospitality,” Jonathan said.

  “It was no trouble. We like to have visitors. Gets a little quiet around here.” Grace smiled briefly at him, then opened the door. “You both be careful. Just take it step by step on that path. I haven’t had a chance to shovel yet.”

  Grace shut the door, and Jonathan and Tess started down the steps. At the bottom, he took her hand. “Here, hold on to me. There isn’t much snow, but I think it’s iced over.”

  Tess wound her fingers with his, as if it was the most natural thing in the world. “Okay, thanks . . . whoa . . . you’re right. It did get worse.”

  They walked along silently for a moment, concentrating on keeping their balance.

  “So, what do you think? How did you like meeting one of the village’s most famous and revered citizens?”

  “He was everything you promised, and more. I can see why people love him so much. He’s a genuine character.”

  “Totally genuine,” Tess agreed. “They just don’t make ’em like that anymore.”

  “No, they don’t. I really enjoyed talking to him. And it was good of him to let me borrow the letters. Thank you for asking. I wanted to ask, but didn’t want to pressure them,” Jonathan admitted.

  “I didn’t see how you were going to get anything out of those letters without being able to study them for a while. It’s amazing that the documents have held up so well. Luckily, Grace knows a lot about antiques. I guess she knew that they needed special handling and found out what to do.”

  “Yes, she did a good job with that. I can’t wait to see what I’ll find. If the letters really were written by a woman left on the island, they might provide some conclusive evidence—one way or the other.”

  “About angelic visitors, you mean?” Tess asked.

  “About any visitors at all,” Jonathan said. “Digger doesn’t seem to think the Wampanoag boats could have made it out to the island in the winter. He thinks the water was too rough.”

  Tess nodded. “I did hear him say that. But he has his own ideas about what happened. So I guess you would have to consult with an expert on the Wampanoag in order to confirm that.”

  “That’s just what I was thinking,” Jonathan agreed. “I’m just entertaining possibilities, Tess. My mind isn’t made up yet,” he promised her. “Until I read the letters, I don’t know what they’ll say.”

  “And you don’t know what Claire North will say either, speaking of possibilities,” she added. “You didn’t even know about that wrinkle in the story.”

  He didn’t answer for a moment. She knew that this lead was the wildest and most unbelievable yet and wondered if Jonathan wou
ld even bother interviewing Claire. Or just write off the whole idea as an exaggeration of a partly senile, old man.

  “Okay, it’s another avenue to explore,” he conceded. “But I’ve been living under the same roof as Claire North for almost a week now. I think I’d notice if she had . . . superpowers.”

  Tess wrinkled her nose. “He didn’t say she was flying around in a cape and boots and catching bank robbers.”

  “She’d wear an apron and boots,” Jonathan corrected her. “And go after folks who are bad cooks, or insisted on eating take-out food.”

  Tess laughed at his description as they reached the sidewalk. The treacherous path was behind them. But as they proceeded down the street toward his car, Jonathan didn’t let go of her hand. Which was fine with her.

  “I don’t know, Tess. Maybe I’ll read these letters and interview Claire and I’ll believe in angelic visitors, too. You never know. Anything is possible,” he said finally. He smiled at her, the corner of his mouth turned up. “Happy now?”

  She thought about his question a moment. “Yes . . . I am happy.”

  They stood face-to-face, so close that the puffs of frosty air from their breath mingled. He stared into her eyes for a long moment and didn’t speak. She thought he was going to kiss her and could hardly breathe. Instead he said, “Would you like to get a bite to eat? We could go somewhere nice. Somewhere very un–Clam Box?”

  “Are you asking me on a date? I mean, a real date?”

  Jonathan looked like he wanted to laugh, but didn’t. “Well . . . yes, I guess I am. Is that okay? I mean, you don’t have a boyfriend stashed away somewhere, do you?”

  She opened her big leather bag and looked inside. “Nope, no boyfriend in there. I don’t have one stashed anywhere, actually. And I’d love to have dinner with you—someplace very un–Clam Box. But I can’t tonight. I have to get home. My folks are going out, and I have to watch my brother.”

  “Oh, okay.” Jonathan looked disappointed. “Maybe some other time then? Soon,” he added.