Blood Kin

by Judith E. French

  Daniel grinned good-naturedly. His teeth were white and even, making his slightly crooked smile a killer. “The ones with holes in both knees are in the washer, Miss Emma. I’ll wear them tomorrow just for you.” He glanced across the table at Bailey. “I hear that you’ll be spending a few more days on Tawes. Any chance I could enlist your help in repairing the grape arbor today?”

  “I’d appreciate it,” Emma said. “I’ve got to check my crab traps this morning. And if I let him slip away, Lord knows when he’ll get back to mending it. It looks like a good year for the Concords, and I don’t want them spilling all over the ground.”

  Bailey had the feeling that she’d been set up, but she couldn’t think of a good excuse not to help. It wasn’t as though she was on a schedule. She wasn’t certain she wanted to spend time in close proximity to Daniel Catlin, and she wasn’t sure she didn’t. He was a damned attractive man, and she’d been living like a cloistered nun far too long. Sometimes, when she listened to the exploits of her fellow unattached teachers after a holiday weekend, she felt as though she’d been raised in a different century.

  It wasn’t that she didn’t enjoy sex. Hell, sex had always been the best thing she and Elliott had going for them, and the pleasure had lasted long after the flames of infatuation had died out. The fact was, except for one night on a forgettable cruise to the Bahamas, her ex was the only man she’d ever slept with. And the way her life had been going, that wasn’t about to change anytime soon.

  So what harm would it do to flirt a little with the resident carpenter? It wasn’t as though she was about to take up residence on the island. A few days, a week, and she’d never see Tawes or Daniel again. What did she have to lose? She was already divorced and in her mid-thirties. Her biological clock wasn’t simply ticking; the hour hand had already slipped past eight. If she didn’t allow herself a little fun, pretty soon she’d be one of those bloodless, schoolmarm stereotypes.

  “All right,” she agreed, “but I warn you: My fence-mending skills are right up there with my cow milking. Pretty nonexistent.”

  “All I need is a pair of hands and a strong back.”

  She glanced down at her hands, noticing that her nail polish could use a touchup. “Two hands, present and accounted for. I won’t vouch for the strength of the back.”

  “That’s settled,” Emma said. “Now, eat up, so I can clear away these dishes and get to my day’s work.”

  And thus, quite easily, Bailey found herself drafted into the project and holding a cedar crosspiece in place while Daniel drove nails into the spot where the wood intersected with the post. He worked in silence, giving simple instructions with a minimal amount of words.

  The sun was bright and drops of dew still sparkled on the grape leaves. Between the strikes of the hammer and the rasp of Daniel’s handsaw, Bailey was captivated by the beauty of the early morning. To her left a panorama of bay stretched from horizon to horizon, the blue-gray water as smooth as a mirror, crowned by a cloudless robin’s-egg-blue sky. Directly over her head, gnarled grapevines arched on a frame so seasoned by weather and time that it seemed almost part of the living branches. The salt breeze that blew off the water smelled as sweet and invigorating as fresh dark roast, and the drone of bees and the occasional rat-tat-tat of a woodpecker eased the tension in the back of her neck and lifted her spirits.

  She felt sixteen again, full of giddy anticipation without knowing why. “Tawes really is a magical place, isn’t it?”

  “Mmm.” Daniel pulled a nail from the half dozen held between his lips, set it, and drove it home with sure, powerful strokes.

  God, but he had nice shoulders. He didn’t have the bulky muscles of a gym jock, but his Hard Rock Café T-shirt left little to her imagination. It wasn’t such a leap to consider what it might feel like to be held in those strong arms. “You were born here?” she asked in an attempt to divert her thoughts from damp sheets and heavy breathing.

  He nodded. “Born and bred, as Tawes folk say.”

  “So you know my great uncle?”

  He removed the nails. “I suppose. As well as anybody.”

  “Could you take me to meet him?”

  “Nope.” Daniel tucked the nails back into his mouth.

  It was the second time he’d turned her down, and the rejection stung. “I know I’ve already met him, but it wasn’t under the best of circumstances. I really think I need to ask him some questions.”

  Daniel turned away, sorted through several cedar lengths, and lifted one into place. He eyed it for length, then took it down and began to saw off about three inches.

  Determined not to be put off, Bailey laid a hand on the handle of the saw. “Why not?”

  His dark eyes hardened. “Because he’s as apt to take a shot at you as not. He doesn’t like visitors. Guards his property lines like a pit bull.”

  “I’m not trying to offend anyone. I think I have a right to know the facts about my mother—about who my father was.”

  He stood up. “You know who they are. They raised you.”

  “It’s not the same,” she protested. “You can’t understand what it’s like to grow up without knowing anything about your grandparents—aunts and uncles, cousins. I don’t even know what my heritage is. Am I German? Dutch?”

  “English. Maybe some Welsh. A little Nanticoke. The Taweses came from Cornwall, same as the Catlins.”

  “No one will tell me anything. I warn you, I’m going to talk to my uncle Will, with or without your help.”

  Daniel shrugged. “Suit yourself, but don’t ask me to be part of your getting your head shot off. Will’s a hot-head, and stubborn. He’s not about to change for a woman—even if she can claim Tawes blood.”

  “Maybe.” She rose to her feet and tried to keep from showing the anger she felt at his indifference. “But I won’t know until I make an attempt, will I?”

  Bailey found Matthew Catlin on his knees weeding around the tombstones in the far corner of the church cemetery. “It used to be that each family kept up its own plots,” he explained. “But lots of our younger generation have left to work on the mainland now. They find Tawes too . . . What is that expression? Laid low? Laid-back? Too slow and old-fashioned. Fishing and crabbing have fallen off. Some say the bay is dying, killed off by pollution and overfishing. I can show you first-person accounts from the seventeenth century, in which men claimed they’d found oysters the size of dinner plates, and fish were so thick you could walk from island to island without ever getting your feet wet.”

  “So caring for the cemetery falls to you?”

  “No, no, I wouldn’t say that. No need to worry about the Tawes family, or the Parks, the McCreadys or a half dozen other families. Just some, and it wouldn’t do to let those forgotten folks be neglected.”

  “Your grandfather was a pastor as well, wasn’t he?”

  “Father, grandfather, and great-grandfather, not to mention the uncles, cousins, and even a great aunt—although she went over to the Quakers when she married a Dickerson from the Eastern Shore. Mother had hopes that Daniel would study for the church as well, but . . .” Matthew sighed. “He wasn’t cut out for it. Nor for being a farmer or a waterman. Smart. Did well in college, but he always had a restless air about him. Had a high-paying job with the government for years.” He shook his head. “Gave it all up last fall. Quit and came back here to pound nails. Lots of people thought Daniel was crazy to give up the pension. Not much money in being a carpenter.”

  “I was hoping that I might have a look at some of the church baptismal records this morning. Mr. McCready said that I was christened here as an infant.”

  Matthew yanked out a dandelion and added it to the growing pile of wilting weeds. “Hmm. What would that be? Thirty? Thirty-odd years ago?”

  “Thirty-five.”

  He looked thoughtful. “My father was pastor here then. He would have been the one to officiate. Trouble is, Father was better at delivering fire-and-brimstone sermons than keeping his records in o
rder. I have a meeting after lunch, and tomorrow is full. Give me a few days and I’ll take a look and see if I can locate the book for that year. But don’t get your hopes up—the seventies are pretty sketchy.”

  “Oh.” She’d hoped to get a chance to read them today, but it sounded as though Matthew was going to be as pleasantly unhelpful as the rest of them. She forced a smile. “There is another idea I had. I’d like to go and talk to my great-uncle Will. Could you give me directions to his home?”

  “Will Tawes?” The pastor frowned, and for just an instant Bailey thought she read panic in his eyes. “Mr. Tawes has a bad reputation on the island,” he said stiffly. “Not mentally stable. He isn’t a member of our congregation. Hasn’t attended church in . . .” He scoffed. “Not since his brother’s wedding, as far as I know.”

  “Mr. McCready says that Will—”

  “You can’t accept Forest’s opinion. He defended Will at the trial. One of his first cases. They lost, and Forest has always felt as though it might have been his fault—that if he’d had more experience, he could have kept Will from going to jail.”

  “How long did he serve?”

  “Nine years. Went to prison a bitter man and came back worse. No.” He shook his head. “He’s not someone you want to associate with. He’s dangerous.”

  “That’s what your brother said.”

  “Is it?” Matthew looked slightly puzzled. “Daniel should know. Sometimes I think they’re a lot alike.” He gathered the weeds into a basket. “I hope those baptismal records still exist. Unfortunately, we had a fire a few years back, and . . .”

  “I hope they aren’t lost.”

  “We’ll remain optimistic.” Matthew rubbed his back. “Tomorrow I have church business, and there’s Birdy Parks’s birthday on Friday. I might get to those records Friday morning, but the following day, Saturday, is our archeological group’s monthly dig day. Five, six of us—four ladies and two men—go with me to our new site in Creed’s skiff.”

  “What kind of site?”

  “Quite exciting. An Indian fishing camp, at least we think it is. We’ve found some Woodland-era pottery and some points and fishhooks. If you’re interested?”

  “Yes. I’d love to come. If I wouldn’t be—”

  “Always room for one more enthusiastic digger. Dave’s visiting his son in Oxford, but his wife will be there. Alice. You’ll like her.”

  “And you go by boat?”

  “Too much marsh to reach the site by land. I depend on Creed to get our group safely to our digs.” He chuckled. “We—that is, Grace and I—own a twenty-foot Boston Whaler. My Grace is quite competent at the tiller, a regular Captain Ahab, but she hates the marsh and she hates mosquitoes. I, on the other hand, am hopeless when it comes to tides and engines. My parents nearly disowned me. I’ve lived on an island my entire life, and I can’t even swim. I thank the good Lord for Creed Somers and his trusty skiff.”

  “He brought me over to the island. Quite a colorful man, Captain Somers.”

  “Yes, colorful. Unfortunately, poor Creed is a soul possessed by the curse of alcohol. But when he hasn’t been at the bottle with his drinking companion—that wayward Baptist woman, Ida Love—he’s a decent man and a fine sailor. Creed Somers will take anyone anywhere in his skiff for hardly more than the price of gas.”

  “Will he?”

  “Yes, indeed. You might think of hiring him to give you a tour of the island. There are some lovely coves, even some uninhabited islands that are a haven for waterfowl. You should see as much of Tawes as you can. It won’t be here forever, you know. Every year we lose land to erosion. It just washes away into the bay. That’s what happened to our old cemetery. The water came in and claimed it. Lots of old Tawes families’ graves claimed by the bay.”

  “I’ll keep that in mind. I brought my sketchbook and pencils. I may find time to attempt to some sketches.” She smiled at him. “I was wondering, did you know my mother, Beth? Do you remember her?”

  “Matthew was away at college.” Grace walked toward them briskly. “He wouldn’t have known her. She was much younger, and her uncle kept her secluded. Few people knew her well.” She fixed her husband with an amused stare. “I saw the opening of your next sermon on the table. It needs work. It’s not like you to use clichés, dear.”

  “Perhaps I’d best give it a little more thought. You’re usually right about my sermons.”

  “It’s just that I know how eloquent you can be. If you’ll excuse us, dear, I have cookies in the oven. And Matthew has spent far too much time this morning playing gardener.”

  He held up his hands in surrender. “Duty calls. Don’t forget the dig. Saturday. Nine o’clock sharp at the dock.”

  “Should I bring anything?”

  “Insect repellent. Buy some from Doris. And get Emma to pack you a lunch. We usually come back about four.”

  “You haven’t bullied Bailey into accompanying you to that marsh, have you? Matthew is certain he’s going to find an intact Indian dugout. He’s been searching for fifteen years.”

  “This is a good spot, the best.”

  “I’ve heard that before. I warn you, there are mosquitoes the size of seagulls. It’s dirty and hot. Not exactly—”

  “It sounds like fun,” Bailey said. “I’d love to see it, as long as we aren’t breaking any state laws about disturbing historical—”

  “Not a problem,” Matthew assured her. “Mildred Bullin is a retired archeologist. Our dig is fully sanctioned. We record our finds properly and turn everything over to the state for preservation. We—”

  “Yes, yes, dear. Go along, now.” Grace made shooing motions. “Matthew has no sense of time. And if I don’t shepherd him, he’ll be late for his finance meeting.”

  “Thank you for your help,” Bailey said. “And if you could look for those records, I’d appreciate it.”

  “What records?” Grace asked.

  “My christening. I’d hoped to find—”

  Grace pursed her lips. “You must remember that Tawes is a conservative community. I don’t mean to dash your hopes, but it’s possible, even likely, that my father-in-law didn’t record the ceremony in his official records. You were, after all, born—there’s no gentle way to put it—out of wedlock. You’re the innocent party, but it’s traditionally been the custom to seal adoption records to protect all concerned, especially the adoptee. You’ve obviously had a good life with loving parents. Perhaps that’s where you should leave the matter.”

  “Both my birth mother and the mother who raised me are dead. My adoptive father has a new life on the West Coast. Who could possibly be hurt by my knowing something about my roots?”

  “You could. More than you seem to realize.” Grace brightened. “Since you’re staying awhile longer, please join us for Sunday services. And don’t forget my invitation to lunch afterward. I won’t take no for an answer. Now, if you’ll excuse us.”

  Grace’s voice took on a nagging tone as she caught up with her husband, but they were too far away for Bailey to catch what she was saying.

  “Don’t bother to set a place for me,” Bailey muttered under her breath. She’d been thinking of taking them up on their offer to go to church, but Grace’s overbearing manner set her teeth on edge. Although her parents hadn’t been religious, Bailey had often found herself drawn to the quiet and peace of old houses of worship. She might or might not attend Sunday services, but she had no intention of sharing Grace’s table anytime in the foreseeable future.

  Leaving the cemetery, Bailey walked to the harbor to see if Creed’s boat was there. When she didn’t see it, she sat for a while with her knees drawn up, watching the ducks and the seagulls. The scene was so lovely she itched to draw it, and wished she’d brought her sketchbook and charcoal instead of leaving them in her suitcase.

  A pregnant woman in her late twenties wearing yellow shorts, sandals, and a green maternity top that read BABY ON BOARD came down the dock carrying a brown paper bag. “You must be Eliz
abeth Tawes’s niece, the one everyone is talking about.” She offered her hand. “I’m Cathy Tilghman. I teach at the elementary school here in town.”

  Bailey shook her hand. “Bailey Elliott. I teach fourth grade in Newark.”

  “I knew it,” Cathy said. “You have the look.”

  “Really?” Bailey laughed. “Is teacher stamped on my forehead?”

  “No, and the Tawes gossip neglected to say what you did for a living, but I thought, If she’s watching ducks, she’s interested in the world around her. I’ll bet she’s a teacher.”

  “Guilty. I love kids and any animal that won’t bite or kick me.”

  “Well, let me introduce you to Molly Mallard. Mike is around here somewhere. He’s the proud daddy, but I have a suspicion that he may be a bigamist. There’s another hot babe sitting on eggs under the dock.”

  Bailey laughed. “The nerve of him.”

  “I was going to name the ducklings,” Cathy continued, “but Jim—that’s my husband—Jim warned me that I’d be brokenhearted if any of the diddles didn’t make it. And it’s rare for a duck to raise all of her brood.”

  “Hey, Molly,” Bailey said. “Glad to make the acquaintance of you and your children.”

  “Aren’t they cute? I love coming down to the dock to watch them. I beg leftovers from my neighbors.” She opened the bag to reveal bread crusts and cornflakes. “I love feeding them. The ducks, not the neighbors. Jim says I’ll make welfare birds out of them, but . . .” She laughed. “You can see how much attention I pay to what he says.”

  Bailey took a handful of the offered feed and the two sat side by side, tossing bits to the mother duck and her ducklings and chatting as though they’d been friends for years.

  “So, what do you think of Tawes?” Cathy asked after a few minutes.

  “Beautiful. Different. Some of the people . . .”

  Cathy laughed. “That’s what I thought when I first came here. I’m from Princess Anne, on the Eastern Shore. Jim and I met at Salisbury State. He warned me what I was in for. It took a little getting used to, but I love it here. I really do. I want to raise kids here—three, at least. Jim’s mom and I get along great, and she offered us her house rent free when she moved in with her sister across the street.”