by Sally John
Ruthie tapped Sam’s cheek. “That little crease. Hannah had it. It folded up whenever she talked. My mother said it gave her face character and it showed she was full of goodness. Have a seat.”
Sam sank onto the nearest chair, at a loss for words.
“Gran.” Jack sat on a loveseat. “How do you remember a little thing like that?”
“Little?” She laughed. “Mother compared me to Hannah Carlson almost every single day of my life, and I always came up with the short end of the stick. I hated the girl.”
“Gran, you didn’t hate her.”
“I most certainly did. We didn’t play all that much together. She was—what? Probably two years older. Smart as a whip. Another bone of contention.” She chuckled. “Let me tell you, I was glad the day she went off to college. Got her out of my hair. Not that Mother stopped talking about her.”
Sam said, “Where did she go to college?”
“Where all the girls went back in the day. That teachers’ school down in Normal.”
“What did she look like?”
“Don’t you know?”
“She died when I was two.”
“Two! How can that be? She wasn’t here when you were two, was she?”
“No. She was in Arizona, where I grew up.”
“My goodness.” The light seemed to fade from Ruthie’s eyes.
Sam’s heart sank. Don’t go away.
Jack stood. “How about some tea? I’ll be right back.” He left the room.
Ruthie said, “I hope the weather holds. Jack needs to get in the fields soon. If he would have kept the insurance business going without Father or Charles, we wouldn’t have to depend so much on weather.” She shook her head. “But Jack doesn’t like book work. I don’t mean to complain. He’s a good husband.”
Jack was her husband. That was probably young Jack’s grandfather. But Charles? And insurance? It rang a bell from her research at the courthouse. Charles Carlson was Hannah’s father and he owned an insurance business. “Charles Carlson?”
“Did you know him?”
“No.”
“He and Father got along famously. Everyone said that’s why they were successful businessmen. Even during the Depression they did all right.”
“He was Hannah’s father, right?”
“That’s the one. Nice man. He’d bring me and my brother candy from Rockville. They were good people, Charles and Hilma. Such a tragedy.”
“What happened?”
“Haven’t you heard?” She tsked. “Influenza. Took both of them practically overnight. Poor Hannah had to come home from college and bury them. She was their only child, you know. Her grandparents were already gone. The two who lived here. She might have had other family in Sweden.”
Sam sat back in the chair, speechless. Her great-grandparents had died at the same time? And so young? At the courthouse, their death certificates hadn’t been found. The staff apologized, blaming clerical error and promising to keep hunting. Yes, poor Hannah!
“What did Hannah do?”
“Buried them, I told you. In the Lutheran Cemetery out on County Road NN.”
Jack reentered the room, carrying a tray. “Everything all right?”
Sam tried to give him a reassuring smile.
He handed her a mug. “Green okay?”
She nodded and sipped while he served his grandmother.
“So,” he said, “the Lutheran Cemetery. Samantha, have you been there yet?”
“No.”
He rattled off easy directions. Two turns. The Carlsons were near the Moores, far northwest corner. Couldn’t miss it.
Sam said, “Hannah didn’t move back here?”
Ruthie’s cup rattled against its saucer. “Heavens to Betsy, no. She sold the house to the first buyer—dirt cheap, Father said—and skedaddled. She never even collected her entire share from the business. He sent checks that she never cashed. Oh, we heard such crazy things. Some said she went to Chicago and worked in a nightclub. There was a rumor that she married a hotshot Eye-talian from New York. Mafia. Mm-hmm. That was before she went to Africa and died while climbing Kilimanjaro. Somebody said she went out West to teach school to Indians. You know she had to have gone a little off her rocker after such a tragedy.”
Jack said, “I never heard all that.”
“You have so. You just forgot. And what about the photographs?”
“The photo—right.” The guy was infinitely patient with his grandmother. “Samantha, we didn’t have a chance to get photos from the attic. If you leave your address, we’ll send some to you.”
“Of Hannah?”
“Yes, from when she and Gran were young girls.”
“Oh my gosh.” She hadn’t imagined actual photos.
“Jack, take her over to the house.”
“I will.”
Sam said, “What house?”
He looked surprised. “Your grandmother’s. Didn’t Otto tell you? It’s right across the street. The owner said we’re welcome to see it.”
Her grandmother’s house?
Sam clutched her mug tightly. She didn’t want the tea to spill while she tried not to burst into tears.
A short time later, Sam stood inside a house very similar to the one across the street.
Jack shut the door, which had been left unlocked. It was generally left unlocked. That was what people did in the small town.
He smiled. “Welcome to the house your great-grandfather built. If Gran is to be believed, Charles built after her father finished his house and shamelessly copied it. Of course it could very well have happened the other way around.”
She turned slowly, taking in the current owner’s lifestyle. Children’s toys and books lay about. Clothes and shoes of all sizes were strewn. The chairs and couch were worn and sprawling with pillows and afghans. Vertical blinds covered the windows, not lace curtains. Scents of old coffee and burnt toast permeated. The room was not Ruthie Moore’s quaint parlor.
But the hardwood floor shone at the edges of an area rug and the wide woodwork was oak, unpainted. The place had been cared for.
Jack picked up a paper from the entryway table. “Here, before I forget. The owner asked me to give this to you. It has her contact information in case you have questions.”
Sam read the note, a kind offer from Matt and Heather Williamson. “She says to snoop and take pictures.”
“That’s the Williamsons. They’re both at work. The kids are at school and the sitter’s.”
“Am I related to them?”
He laughed. “I don’t think so.”
“To you?”
“No. I take it Hannah did not die in Africa?”
Sam shook her head. “She went to the Navajo reservation, taught school, and married my grandfather. My dad was their son. I lost them all early.”
“I’m sorry. It’s a little bit like Hannah’s story.”
“Hmm. I hadn’t thought of it that way.”
“It sounds like she lived an extraordinary life. She must have been a special woman. From what I’ve always heard, Gran really did grow up in her shadow.”
“Funny. My mother felt the same about Hannah.”
“It must have been the crease.” He touched his own cheek. “And you have it.”
She laughed. “Yes, I do.”
“You wear it well. Okay, I’ll leave you to your snooping and picture taking.”
“You’re sure the owners won’t mind?”
“I’m sure. Heather was sorry she couldn’t be here. By the way, Gran says that Hannah’s bedroom was in the southwest corner.” He spun around and pointed to the ceiling. “That one, facing the backyard.” He turned again to her and shook her hand. “It has been a pleasure, Samantha. Oh, here.” He pulled a business card from his back pocket and gave it to her with another full-on, small-town, friendly-as-all-get-out smile. “If you need anything else, give me a call. I’m just around the corner.”
She gave him one of her own business cards, wr
iting the Casa’s address on the back for any photos he could send.
After he left, Sam listened to the silence.
And then she imagined a smart, energetic little girl growing up in such comfort and—what must have been—wealth.
And then she imagined the young woman who buried her parents and chose to move far away and live in dire poverty.
If she believed Ruthie Moore’s report and the words the old women had told Sam long ago about Hannah Carlson Whitehorse, her grandmother had been a remarkable woman.
Sam walked through the house, in Hannah’s footsteps, in the footsteps of her great-grandparents, Charles and Hilma. She felt grateful for the sliver of heritage.
It hinted that she was neither an accident nor insignificant.
Some indescribable, unnameable knot at the core of her being was released.
Seventy-Seven
Her first evening back to work, Jasmyn walked through the restaurant’s noisy dining room, an empty tray under her arm, and straightened the Cat in the Hat stocking cap on her head. The place was a zoo, speaking animal-costume-wise.
It was Halloween and Danno’s advertisements for trick-or-treat bags of coupons and candy had done their own trick. Half the adults wore some sort of token getup for Halloween. Kids were totally hidden behind masks and costumes.
Danno would have enjoyed the hoopla, but he was home, presumably packing up his house. Jasmyn and Quinn had not had a chance to talk to him about business matters. He had been too distraught after talking with his wife in Florida and left work early, an unheard-of event.
Jasmyn only hoped he hadn’t left the state.
Sam caught her eye from the hostess stand and gave her a thumbs-up.
Jasmyn bypassed the kitchen door and went over to her. “Are you doing okay?”
“You tell me.” She grinned. The silver Minnie Mouse ears on the sequined headband bobbed.
“I’d say you’ve done this before.”
Sam laughed. “Hosted in a restaurant. Yeah, right.”
“You’re a natural.”
“You’re a good liar.”
Jasmyn smiled and wondered to herself again at the change in Sam Whitley. It wasn’t just the mouse ears.
Most evenings Danno hosted, bused tables, poured water, delivered food, and sometimes cooked. He’d gone home at four thirty. The kitchen was covered but not the dining room. The staff Jasmyn phoned could not fill in. Sam showed up, assessed their shorthanded situation, and immediately offered to help.
“Hello.” Sam smiled over Jasmyn’s shoulder, picked up a stack of menus, and stepped around her. “Welcome to the Pig.”
Jasmyn watched her friend for a moment as she seated a family of four. There was a distinct change in the way she carried herself, with an air of confidence. True confidence, not the phony aloof kind. She smiled, and her face seemed relaxed enough to do it often.
By ten o’clock the last customers were gone. The kitchen staff headed out soon after. Jasmyn locked the front door and turned off the outside lights. Quinn took off her pig nose and ears and closed the window blinds. Sam blew out the votives on each table. They met in the middle and sank onto chairs at the long rectangle table.
Sam propped her feet on another chair. “I have never, ever been this tired.”
Quinn laughed. “Come in on Friday after the football game.”
Jasmyn added, “Or the Friday after Thanksgiving.”
“You two love it,” Sam said. “Are you going to buy it?”
Jasmyn and Quinn groaned. They filled Sam in on the latest red flag, the big unknown in their future. “I guess it depends on what Danno has to say. Tell us about your day.”
Sam pooched her lips together as if she might cry. “I went inside my grandmother’s house.”
“Whoa!” Quinn whooped.
“Sammi! Really?”
She beamed at them, and then she began to tell an amazing story. “After I left the house, I found my great-grandparents’ graves. I saw that they had lost two babies before Hannah was born. There were small headstones. One baby lived two days, the other not even a day. It’s so strange, how significant this old history seems to be for me.”
“I understand.” Jasmyn shrugged.
Sam reached over and touched her arm. “Of course you understand. At first I didn’t get why Manda and the Portuguese fishermen and the trucking firm mattered to you. But that past is a part of you, isn’t it?”
“Exactly. It’s not a practical thing you can explain. Learning about that part—I don’t know. It sort of finishes you.”
Quinn said, “You’re both a little weird.”
Jasmyn said, “What would you know? You grew up surrounded by every living relative on both sides. Your parents knew their parents and their grandparents and greats. You’ve always known the grave sites and houses, your whole line of Olafssons and Bensons since 1850. You didn’t have any holes to fill.”
Quinn grimaced. “Holes? As in graves?”
“You know what I mean.”
Sam said, “Back up. Benson?”
“Yes. My mom’s maiden name. Originally it was Bengtson, with a g and a t but they Americanized it. Why do you ask?”
“That was my great-grandmother’s maiden name. Bengtson. Hilma Bengtson.”
“My great-grandmother had a ton of siblings.”
“Hmm.”
“Hmm.”
Jasmyn laughed and clapped her hands. “You two are probably related.”
Quinn smiled. “There’s a genealogy book at my house.”
Sam grinned. “Are you too tired?”
“Nah. Come on, ladies. Let’s go fill some holes.”
As she and her friends gathered their things in the kitchen and flipped off lights, Jasmyn felt a wave of homesickness. Its suddenness and intensity scared her to pieces.
She turned her back to Quinn and Sam so they could not see it on her face and ask what was wrong.
She knew what was wrong, and it didn’t have anything to do with genealogy or the new challenges surrounding taking over the restaurant.
No. It was something far more intangible.
In San Diego the feeling of homecoming overwhelmed her. Now, in spite of her excitement to return to Valley Oaks and start over, she felt homesick.
It seemed totally backward.
Seventy-Eight
Early Saturday morning, Jasmyn, Quinn, and Sam stood beside Sam’s rental. The mild weather had turned chilly, and Jasmyn worried about Sam’s driving to O’Hare Airport without a heavier jacket.
“I’ll be fine.” Sam tightened a black scarf at her neck. “It’s not snowing.”
Jasmyn’s worry ran deeper than weather issues. “Saying goodbye stinks.”
Sam’s eyes filled. Quinn grabbed her newest BFF in a bear hug. “It’s been awesome, cuz.”
They all laughed. Quinn and Sam had found a possible distant family link in the genealogy book. One branch of the Bengtsons in Sweden eons ago led to a name that might have been connected, a name which Sam had seen on her own family tree. Even if it were true, it was beyond shirttail, but enough to make Quinn a believer in heart holes and their closings. She was giddy about having a maybe, sort-of cousin in California.
Jasmyn and Sam hugged and sniffed through goodbyes. There were no more words to exchange. They had already told each other to visit again. Sam had already echoed Liv’s sentiment, that Cottage Eleven belonged to Jasmyn.
As Sam drove down the street waving in the rearview mirror, Jasmyn thought about another kind of heart hole, the one ripped open when sadness took hold.
Quinn threw an arm around her shoulders. “Come on, Sunshine. Let’s move you back into your apartment.”
“Are you kicking me out?”
“I am.”
Jasmyn smiled at her friend, doing her best to wear the sunshine face.
They carried Jasmyn’s few things from Quinn’s house to the studio, put away her clothes, and changed out the linens. They worked side by side, old
friends comfortable with silence, in tune with what they left unspoken.
Housekeeping finished and the first hour or so of Sam’s absence gotten through, they sat on the floor. Because only one chair fit at the tiny kitchen table, the floor was the best place for eating cereal and drinking coffee. And catching up on the unspoken.
“I really, really don’t like this apartment.”
“In this case, you’re allowed to say ‘hate,’ Jazz.”
“I hate that word.”
Quinn smiled sadly. “I made a list of possibilities. Two condos for rent, a two-bedroom house near the high school, a one-bedroom really, really close—like right next to—the railroad tracks. Unless you want a farmhouse or something in Rockville, that’s it for Valley Oaks. Well, unless you want to buy. There are a few nice— From the look on your face, that’s a no.”
“Thanks, though.”
“Mom’s offer stands too. My old room. Dirt cheap. She’ll knock more off if you cook twice a week.”
They laughed.
Quinn then proceeded to sob. “I loved him. I love him. Really and truly. What’d I do wrong?”
“Aw, Quinn, Andrew hasn’t said it’s over, has he?”
“Actions speak louder than words. It’s quite obvious he’s moved on. Which is what I have to do.” She jumped up, took her bowl to the sink in the corner that was the kitchen, tore off a paper towel, and blew her nose. “Come on. Let’s go buy a restaurant.”
Jasmyn hesitated. She adored Quinn. She ached for her over the Andrew development. She could not imagine anything more fun than running the Pig with her.
But the homesickness still sat like one of those enormous boulders in the desert, smack-dab right in the middle of her chest.
Danno’s first reaction to the news about the gung-ho guys building new restaurants in town was to let loose a rare, thundering expletive.
Before he shouted another one, he hurried away from the big round table, aka his office, and disappeared through the kitchen door. Subsequent cussing was muffled.
Jasmyn and Quinn stared at each other.
“I don’t think he knew,” Quinn said.
“Nope.”
They busied themselves preparing the dining room for lunch. Danno eventually reappeared and motioned them to rejoin him at the table.
