A Man of His Word

by Karen Kelly

  Alice added the new possibilities to the pad. “Do you want to call these before trying the other county?”

  “Might as well.” Annie lifted the phone off the handset and punched in the first number. After a pause she said, “Hello, my name is Annie Dawson. I’m a relative of Maude Holden Atwater, and I’m trying to reach her grandchildren. If you are related to Maude, please contact me. Thank you.” After leaving her telephone number, Annie’s phone beeped as she pressed the off button.

  “The next number is …” Annie pressed the numbers as Alice read them and again waited. Looking at Alice, she was tempted to cross her eyes at her, until suddenly a live voice sounded in her ear. She had prepared herself only for answering machines, but Annie regrouped quickly. She repeated the same information she had left in the previous voice mail. She listened quietly and then responded. “Thank you very much. Yes, I will keep looking. Have a good day.”

  Annie hung up and said, “Very nice woman, but she has no Maudes in her family tree.”

  “Time for the next one.” Alice had done her fair share of making “cold calls” in her business and knew keeping pauses to a minimum was the key to success. “Hey, let me have the laptop. I’ll do the searching, and you do the calling.”

  Annie slid the computer in front of her friend and cradled the phone in her hand as Alice called out the third number, and then the fourth when it was needed. Alice moved the search over to Windham County and read numbers out to Annie from the towns of Moosup, Killingly, and North Grosvenor Dale. One was proclaimed a wrong number, one man hung up on her with a gruff “nope” before she’d finished her query, and she left three more messages.

  Annie settled the phone back on the handset after leaving the last message and took a deep breath. “This has gone so well that I’m craving chocolate.”

  “We could make some brownies while we wait for people to call us back,” Alice suggested, refusing to give up hope yet.

  Annie shrugged. “Might as well. But what are the chances someone’s going to return my call?”

  Alice closed the laptop. “I don’t know. But I do know you have yet to come across a mystery that has remained unsolved. Maybe Maude’s family was out Christmas shopping.”

  Annie turned to level a look at her friend. “You’re right, Alice. That fact had slipped my mind.” She wagged a finger at her friend. “But don’t let it go to your head.”

  Alice opened her mouth for an answering quip, but paused. A laugh bubbled out instead. “I was going to say, ‘What fun would it be if it didn’t go to my head?’ Then I thought of Reverend Wallace’s sermon, and—well, I’m going to try not to be prideful.”

  “How many of the folks who listened to that sermon are having similar experiences?” Annie wondered aloud as they moved back to the kitchen. “I know I have.”

  “I don’t expect to hear about it from anyone else, if they have. We’re still in New England, ayuh.” Alice lowered her right eyelid in a wink.

  Annie chuckled and started pulling out the ingredients and baking utensils for brownies. By unspoken agreement they allowed their conversation to drift to other topics, granting their minds a chance to be refreshed while their hands cracked eggs, measured flour and sugar, and beat sugar with butter.

  Alice had just slid the pan of brownies into the oven when the phone rang. Annie, whose hands were under water washing the batter bowl, said, “Alice, would you grab that?” The hopes of both women leapt a little.

  Alice dashed to the library. Annie quickly rinsed her hands and grabbed a towel to dry them. She was heading to the library when she heard Alice say, “Hello, Reverend Wallace. Yes, I’ve decided to give up my career to become Annie’s personal assistant.” Annie’s heart sank, until she considered why Reverend Wallace might be calling.

  She stepped over the library threshold. Alice spoke again into the phone, her voice slipping into an imitation of Mayor Butler’s highly efficient secretary. “I will transfer you to Mrs. Dawson now.”

  Annie took the phone from her personal assistant. “Good morning, Reverend.” Her eyes glanced at the clock on the desk. “Oh, make that good afternoon!”

  “I’ve lost track of time many a day too, Annie,” Reverend Wallace sympathized. “Do you have time to hear what my friend told me?”

  “Absolutely!” Annie answered. “Alice and I have been trying to puzzle things out all morning.”

  “My Latin skills have been vindicated. Laima is not Latin; it’s the Latvian name for the goddess of fate.”

  Annie reached over for the notepad and a pen, jotting down what the reverend had told her. “Latvian, eh? This just keeps getting stranger and stranger.”

  “Remember, it’s the advent season, Annie. ‘The people walking in darkness have seen a great light.’ Perhaps a similar great light will illuminate the truth you are seeking also.”

  “That’s my hope, Reverend Wallace. I guess I just need to ora et labora, as Stella taught us.”

  “Indeed! Please let me know if I can help you in any other way.”

  “Thank you, Reverend. Have a good day.”

  “You also, Annie. Goodbye.”

  Annie set down the phone and turned to Alice who had read what was on the notepad. “Latvian goddess of fate? What could that possibly have to do with Cumberland County, Maine?”

  “I can’t wait to find out!” Annie exclaimed. The two friends started to head back to the kitchen, but another ring from the phone reversed their direction.

  “Hello?” Annie answered. “Yes, this is Annie Dawson.” Her eyebrows rose as she took in what the caller was saying. Again, she grabbed the pen and wrote Anemone Miner, daughter of Rebecca Atwater. “Thank you so much for returning my call, Anemone. I have found an item in my grandparents’ attic that once belonged to William Holden, and I’m hoping to find other things he might have sent to his other nephew and niece, Glenn and Lillian. Does your mother happen to have anything that was passed down from her father?”

  After a minute’s silence, Annie said, “I’m so sorry to hear that. It must have been a very difficult time.” More silence. Curiosity was getting to Alice.

  “Oh, thank you!” Annie scribbled more on the pad. “I hope we can talk more soon and get better acquainted.” Nodding at the person she could not see, she finished. “Yes, I would like that. Goodbye, Anemone.”

  “My guess is that was a potentially helpful call.” Alice bent over to read the pad. “Who are Anemone and Ronald?” From the kitchen, the timer for the brownies began to buzz.

  They dashed back to the kitchen to rescue the chocolate treat from the oven. Sliding her hands into mitts, Annie retrieved the pan and set it on a trivet on the counter to cool.

  “Anemone is the daughter of Rebecca Atwater,” she began, reaching for the teakettle to fill it with water and put it on to boil. “Rebecca was a free spirit and flighty. After she gave birth to Anemone, she left the care of her in the hands of her parents. Anemone said if her grandfather had any family documents or heirlooms, he probably would have given them to his son Ronald.”

  “Is Ronald in Connecticut? Did you get his phone number?” Alice asked, taking two plates down from a cabinet.

  “Ronald moved to … wait for it …” Annie grinned, “… Cape Elizabeth!”

  “Well, don’t just stand there, go call!” Alice waved both hands toward the door, as if she was trying to create a draft to blow Annie to the library. “I’ll get the tea ready and hunt up some lunch.”

  “OK, OK.” Annie raised her hands in surrender. “You sure are bossy for an assistant!” she said over her shoulder as she turned toward the door.

  Alice hummed as she puttered around the kitchen and found some cooked chicken in the refrigerator. She made enough chicken salad for the two of them and washed some greens.

  In the library, Annie made what she hoped would be her last phone call of the day. She geared up to give her voice-mail message again about Maude.

  “Hello?” One simple word, lyrically spoken
by a female voice like no one Annie had ever heard.

  “Hello, my name is Annie Dawson. I’m a distant relative of Maude Atwater; she was my grandfather’s aunt. I’m trying to reach Ronald Atwater, who I believe is Maude’s grandson.”

  “Yes, that’s right, he is,” came the musical voice on the other end of the line. “He’s out for the day, but I’m Elsa Atwater, Ronald’s wife. And you said your name is Annie?”

  “Yes, Annie Dawson. My grandfather was Charles Holden. After he and my Gram passed away, I inherited their home in Stony Point.”

  “Stony Point is a lovely little town!” Elsa exclaimed. “Why, you’re not far away at all. You must come visit Ronald and me. Are you free for Sunday dinner? About one-thirty?”

  “Elsa, I … I’d be delighted.” Annie stammered a little, astounded by Elsa’s quick welcome. “I look forward to meeting you and Ronald.” Elsa gave Annie directions to their home and reiterated her joy at hearing from a family member of Ronald’s. Pad in hand, Annie burst into the kitchen as Alice was placing lunch on the table.

  “Have I got news for you!”

  10

  When the white steeple of Spurwink Church came into view, Annie knew she was almost there. The grasses of the salt marsh she was driving past may have been a dull, lifeless tan, but the heavy clouds and freezing rain had left behind a startling blue sky that reminded her of early fall. She had thoroughly enjoyed the ride. Just on the other side of the church building—a hybrid of federal, gothic, and greek revival styles Annie had often seen since settling in Maine—a sign marking Spurwink Avenue signaled it was time to turn.

  Annie glanced down once more at the address Elsa had given her: 348 Spurwink Avenue. A couple of minutes later, large white numbers painted on the side of a forest green mailbox—a sentinel at the end of a long driveway—made it easy to find. She turned off the road and stopped in front of a porch, its white paint standing out against the gray-green of the house. At least one gardener lived there; Annie could tell from the beds bordering the porch and mailbox, and the hooks set into the porch ceiling. She thought of Gram as she took a deep breath and knocked on the door.

  The door was flung open by a petite woman who radiated energy.

  “Annie! Welcome to our home!” A tumble of tight black curls framed eyes that were deep blue enough to almost look black at first glance. She reached up to wrap her arms around Annie’s shoulders in a quick hug. Annie couldn’t help thinking as she returned the hug how different Elsa was from most of the other Maine natives she had met. Maybe she wasn’t a “Mainiac,” as her grandson loved to call them.

  “Thank you for your kind invitation,” said Annie. She fought the urge to peer into the room that adjoined the entry hall, looking for Ronald.

  “Let me take your coat. Ronald is running an errand for me, but he should be back soon.”

  Annie smiled as she unbuttoned her coat and slid it off, handing it to Elsa. After hanging the coat in the closet to the left of the door—the house must be younger than Grey Gables to have such a thing—Elsa reached out a small hand to touch a sleeve of Annie’s sweater.

  “Bel—, beautiful!” Elsa stammered a little, as though she’d mixed up what she was planning to say. “Your tunic, I mean. The colors and pattern are lovely.”

  “I just finished it a couple weeks ago,” Annie confessed. She did not confess how long she had debated with herself about whether to wear it or not. The baroque tabard-style tunic was so different from the styles she usually wore, but the intricate pattern of the moss-green openwork sleeves and waistband combined with the darker shades of heathered blues, greens, and purples was too much for her to resist.

  “You are quite an artist, Annie! I love how the black blouse you have underneath shows off the pattern on the sleeves and waistband.” Elsa chuckled. “And I’m sure it helps during these cold months, when you don’t need the extra air conditioning. We only met a moment ago; is it too soon to ask if you’d make a sweater for me?” She pointed to her L.L. Bean sweater. “I’ve never been one for handwork. I play with color through my gardening and a little painting.”

  Annie followed her into the living room; she could tell from the room around her that Elsa possessed a natural gift for color.

  “If this room is an example of your color play, Elsa, I hope I’ll be able to come see your garden next summer. It must be stunning.”

  In front of a massive stone fireplace glowing with a cheerful fire stood overstuffed chairs, angled inward with a plump ottoman providing a footrest for both chairs. Elsa waved Annie to one of the chairs.

  Before sitting, Annie peered quickly at the large painting over the mantel. She wasn’t surprised to see in the black connected swirls the initials E.A. For someone who did “a little painting,” Elsa’s style seemed highly developed and striking to Annie.

  Annie sat, sinking down into the embrace of the chair. “I’m curious, Elsa. Did you paint the picture for the room or decorate the room around the picture? This may be one of the most inviting spaces I’ve ever seen.” She could imagine Elsa and Ronald spending their cold-weather evenings here before the fire, talking over the day’s events and sharing the ottoman. Not that she could imagine Ronald since she hadn’t seen him yet.

  Elsa’s laugh reminded Annie of springtime. “I painted it for Ron on our silver anniversary. He insisted on hanging it over the fireplace, rather than his office like I thought he would. It didn’t occur to him that the colors didn’t exactly work with the color scheme of the room. So little by little, when I’d get home after teaching, and Ron was still at work, I switched out the wall color, upholstery, and accents to draw on the colors of the painting.”

  “Everything works together beautifully.” Annie looked around the room. “You could easily be a professional decorator.”

  “You’re very kind, Annie. And perhaps you’re right. But my first love is teaching, and I can’t imagine leaving the children any time soon.”

  Annie suspected those children were the better for Elsa’s choice. Her classroom must be a place of wonder with all of her creativity.

  “I never answered your question, did I?” said Annie. “I’d love to make a tunic for you, as soon as I finish my current project for the Santa’s Stocking charity.”

  Elsa clapped her hands together, eyes sparkling. “Oh, thank you!”

  The sound of a door opening came from beyond the living room.

  “There’s my whipping cream,” Elsa said, rising, “and my husband. We can eat now.”

  Annie followed her hostess into the next room, the kitchen. It had not escaped Elsa’s touch and was bright, functional, and cheerful. Standing next to the oversized white porcelain kitchen sink was a thundercloud of a man. Ronald, I presume? Annie thought.

  “Ron, dear, what’s wrong?” his wife asked. “Were they out of whipping cream?”

  “Nah.” Ronald’s face lightened a hint as he addressed his wife. “It’s in the fridge.”

  “Oh good. Thank you.” Elsa hooked her arm with one of Annie’s, drawing her closer to her husband. Annie wasn’t sure she wanted to be so close. “Ron, this is Annie Dawson, the great-grandniece of Grandmother Maude.”

  Ron’s stare stabbed at Annie’s face, dissecting her features in search of a family resemblance. “Don’t look much like a Holden.”

  “Grandpa always said I resembled my Gram in the face,” Annie tried to keep a friendly smile on her face. “But I did inherit the Holden stubbornness, he always said.”

  “Don’t sound like a Holden either.”

  With each sentence Annie had spoken with her Texas twang Ron’s face had grown even stormier.

  “My mother moved from Stony Point to Texas before I was born, but I spent many summers here when I was a child and teenager. I love Maine, as my grandparents did.” Annie realized she was speaking from her heart, not simply trying to prove herself to this suspicious man. Stony Point was no longer just a nice change-of-pace place; now it was her community, regardless of how long
she’d lived there or what her accent sounded like.

  Elsa opened the oven door and drew out a large covered casserole dish. “Annie, please come have a seat. Ron, please bring the rolls and salad.” She carried the dish to the adjoining dining room and set it in front of the centerpiece in the middle of the table.

  “I hope you like Yankee pot roast; it’s one of our favorites during the cold weather.” She removed the lid, setting it on a tray that rested on a buffet table along a sidewall.

  “It smells delicious!” Annie hesitated, wondering if it mattered which seat she took. Ron reduced her choices by marching to the head of the table and sitting. The two other table settings were positioned on either side of him so when Elsa began to move toward the buffet side, Annie took the other side. Ron’s demeanor made her unusually self-conscious, and she couldn’t help resenting it. How different husband and wife were!

  Elsa served the pot roast, and it proved to be as sumptuous as the aroma had hinted it would. But every time Annie glanced in Ron’s direction, she found him glowering at her from under his bushy eyebrows. She may as well have been eating the evergreen, red berry, and pinecone centerpiece.

  “Annie, please tell us what you are hoping to learn from Ron.” Elsa selected a roll from the basket and buttered it thoroughly. “You mentioned something about an old Bible.”

  Annie inwardly blessed Elsa for bringing up the subject. She didn’t think she would have dared.

  “Last week I was in my attic, playing with my grandchildren during the storm,” Annie began. She told how they had found William Holden’s judge’s Bible and the strange notations it contained. Concentrating on Elsa’s kind face, she shared about the process of translation and the letters she had found in the guest bedroom. She finished her story with her hopes that other family members may have kept correspondence from William that would offer more clues for understanding the Bible notations. “I’m beginning to believe the notations center on one specific case. It seems to have entangled William’s conscience for years.”