She returned to stand a few feet before Belle, clasping her hands tightly in front of her. “So, Belle,” she said with forced cheer. “Did you see the gravel drive? And the walkway? What do you think?”
Belle appeared nonplussed to be asked. “They’re nice,” she said bluntly. “I thought you didn’t have any money.”
Mia was caught off guard by the ungracious response. Her mind stumbled for a reply. “Well, my husband—Charles—bought my half of the condo. That gave me some cash. I…I wanted to do something to say thank you to you for letting me stay here.”
“You didn’t have to do that.”
“I know. I wanted to.” She smiled again and lifted her arm to indicate the cabin. “How do you like the place? Looks good, don’t you think?”
Belle remained stationary but she moved her head to look briefly around the room. Her gaze lingered on the watercolors, but she didn’t comment.
Mia felt herself stiffen as she walked to the fireplace mantel, unnerved by Belle’s fractious attitude. Picking up one of the hand-painted china plates, she said, “My sister came up and she took a sample of the china and silver back with her to Charleston. The china dates back to the twenties and the dealer believes it was done by a local artist. He’s checking into it further, but it might well be valuable. And the silver! Belle, you have a treasure there. Estimates are coming in, but you stand to do very well.”
She pressed on, talking nonstop. “The furniture is good, too. They’ll need you to bring it into the shop, however, so they can inspect it to make certain that it’s straight—unaltered or refinished,” she amended. “Maddie says to tell you it’s definitely worth the effort. Oh, and Belle,” she added, drumming up enthusiasm, for Belle seemed uninterested and unimpressed with her report. “I saw a painting at the Watkins Lodge Manor House of your great-grandfather Robert Watkins. Right behind him, in the painting, is the armoire! So you have a record of its provenance.” She paused as Belle’s face grew tight. Her stomach clenched, realizing too late that she had opened the door to the storm.
“So, you went to Watkins Lodge?”
Mia nodded.
Belle ruminated, pursing her lips and choosing her words. “Mia, do you remember that conversation we had here, before I left for Scotland?”
Mia’s stomach rose to her throat, choking her. She swallowed hard.
“I asked you at that time not to look into my grandmother’s life. I thought I was very clear. Yet today, when I went to Watkins Mill, I picked up a copy of the Gazette. And what do you think I saw staring out at me on the front page? Something tells me you know.” She made no effort to hide her scorn.
“And when I asked about them, I learned the newspaper has been running a series of the articles for weeks.” She continued, her anger ringing in her words. “People couldn’t stop talking about them. No matter where I went my grandmother’s name was on everyone’s lips. And all of them told me that it was you that started it all. You.” She flung the last out accusingly.
“The articles are good,” Mia said defensively. “They let people know who your grandmother really was. Not the monster they thought she was.”
“You had no right to do this!” Belle exploded. “I’m so upset I can’t even articulate what my feelings are, they’re so raw. You came to me. You asked for my help and I took you in, let you stay in my cabin. I was there for you. And all I asked of you was to lay low. I didn’t want my family business stirred up. You went behind my back while I was out of town and did exactly what you wanted to do. I can’t begin to understand this invasion of privacy. I thought we were friends.”
“I did it for you!”
“No, you didn’t. You didn’t do this for me. You did it for yourself.”
Mia stepped back as though struck. This was so close to the truth she had to own it, but it also stirred her up enough to stop cowering and speak her mind.
“Yes, in time, I did,” she replied. “You invited me here to help me, I know that. I’m eternally grateful. When I arrived I had no idea who your grandmother was or any interest in her.” Mia stretched out her arm indicating the cabin. “But here I was, surrounded by her things, and you have to admit, there are some incongruities here that make one wonder who your grandmother was. So I started looking around. I had no agenda.”
“And then I asked you not to pursue it. Mia, that’s a weak argument.”
“You’re right. But that was just the beginning. It grew and took on a life of its own. That same day you told me—I’ll never forget it—you said that your grandmother was nothing but a shame to get past. I felt a shiver go through me, it was so cold. But you went on and told me your story and how your mother never sold this property. How she paid taxes on it, even though she didn’t have much money. Do you remember what you said then? You said you were going to hang on to the property for a while until you could figure out why she did that.”
“So you were going to find out the answer for me.” Belle’s sarcasm was a sharp swipe.
“Yes. And for me. I thought if I could uncover the truth, find Kate’s true identity…”
Belle lost her patience. “You’re looking for Kate’s identity? Come on, Mia. Whose identity are you really looking for?”
Mia felt herself numbing up.
“I know your type,” Belle said bitterly. “You try on new identities like you try on a new outfit. You wanted to be a fly fisher and you put on the clothes and the gear and think that’s all there is to it. This whole thing with Kate Watkins was just a new thing for you. Some sport. You didn’t think about how all this would affect me. It was all for you.”
The injustice of the accusation was so sharp Mia felt stabbed by it. The pain literally took her breath away and for a moment she couldn’t speak. Then her own fury rooted in her core. It swirled up in a fulcrum and tore from her throat.
“That’s a lie! Another lie! There are so many lies in this town everyone is blinded by them. You told me that fly-fishing is all about the senses. But you’re so shut down when it comes to your family, you won’t hear the truth, won’t see it when it’s standing smack in front of you. Look around you. This place is filled with clues to your grandmother and you won’t even look at them. You want to throw them all out. Belle! Pay attention! The townspeople are not talking scandals about your grandmother. They’re celebrating her. They aren’t pointing fingers at you, they’re opening their arms.”
“Celebrating her? They call her a frigging murderer! They drove my mother out!”
“A long time ago, yes. The town chose to believe the scandals and lies about your grandmother rather than the truth. They were wrong to do so. But you condemned her, too, based on the stories your mother told you. I don’t know why your mother left but it wasn’t because she was mistreated. It’s only her version of the truth.”
“Who are you to tell me about my mother? Or my grandmother? They’re not your family.”
“She might not have been my grandmother but I’ve come to love her. And let’s talk about family. Your mother didn’t defend her. And you didn’t, either.” Her anger flung out the accusation with more intensity than she’d intended.
Belle bowed up. “No, I did not,” she roared back. “Why would I? Do you think I haven’t thought about what my mother went through? I had to live with those painful memories all of my life. Day in and day out. I don’t want to go back there!”
“But you did come back!” Mia cried.
Belle’s face contorted and she turned and walked to the window to look out. Mia could feel her lion’s struggle for composure. It helped her regain her own.
“Both you and your mother turned your backs because of your hurt and your pride,” she said gently. “Don’t turn your back now. All families struggle with truth and lies. Family secrets. Your family is no different, only more public because of your family position. My mother told me there were three sides to every story. His, hers, and the truth. I was only trying to get to the truth.”
Belle didn’t rep
ly.
“Give Kate a chance. She’s your grandmother. She really was amazing. You don’t know who she really was. And it’s a shame. Because you’re so much like her.”
Belle spoke evenly, her back still to Mia. “You speak as if you knew her. You don’t know her.”
“Yes, I do. She’s here. If you opened your heart you would know she is. She’s crying out from the grave.”
Belle turned around. Her face was cold but her dark eyes gleamed like volcanic glass as she flung out one final insult. “You’re plumb crazy. Hearing voices—”
“I’m not hearing her voice,” Mia replied, not rising to the bait. “I’m reading her voice.”
The time had come. Mia took a breath and walked directly to the library shelf. She had to give up the diaries now. Belle needed them more than her. She opened Kate’s diary and took out the sealed envelope from Mrs. Minor. Then lifting all three volumes she walked to Belle and handed the books to her.
“What’re these?”
“Kate’s diaries.”
Belle looked stunned. “Where did you find them?”
“Here. In the bookshelf. They were wedged behind some other books. One is a diary written by Kate when she was a girl of twelve. The other is her fishing diary. It’s a marvel and it spans over twenty years. When you read them, you’ll hear her speaking to you. The last is her father’s fishing diary. That’s more perfunctory, but still, it was done by your great-grandfather, Reverend Walter Watkins.”
Belle lifted the cover of the diary and perused the girlish script. As though the emotion was too strong, she snapped the cover shut and looked at Mia. Her dark gaze was unreadable.
Mia reached out. In her hand was the long envelope, curled at the edges and wrinkled from time stored in a box in Lucy Roosevelt’s attic.
“And this is a letter that was written by your grandmother to your mother. It was never delivered. Old Mrs. Minor held on to it for years. Unfortunately, she died before she could give it to you. Her daughter asked me to do that, so…”
Belle looked at it, then stuck out her hand and took it. She looked dispassionately at the envelope. Then Mia saw a faint softening of her features as she ran her finger across her mother’s name. She turned it over and saw that it was sealed.
“I’m surprised you didn’t open it and read it.”
It was a low blow, but not altogether undeserved. Mia didn’t reply.
Belle put the letter into a diary, then looked up, her face impassive. “This doesn’t change anything,” she said. “It’s time for you to go. There’s a storm coming, but when it’s passed, I’d appreciate it if you’d pack up and leave the cabin. Right away.”
Mia felt like she’d been punched and was trying to catch her breath. A silence fell between the women. Mia looked at Belle and found her unrelenting.
“Thank you for the time you gave me,” she said sincerely. “I’m sorry I caused you any pain. That was never my intent. I’ll leave as soon as the storm is over.”
“That would be good. I’d appreciate it if you left the key on the table.”
Belle was gone. Once again, Mia was alone.
She went to the bookshelf and ran her hand along the empty space where the diaries had lain. Only an outline of dust remained on the shelf. Mia felt their absence like a pall. She looked around the room at the watercolors that were her visual diary of her time spent here. Each one spoke to how she showed up every day saying yes to the universe.
One by one, Mia removed the tacks and took the watercolors down. She stacked them neatly on the table. They resembled pages of a book, and she knew someday in the future she would look at them again and read the story there with fresh eyes. Looking around, she thought the cabin felt void, empty without them, as though she were already gone. She felt that Kate was gone, too. She no longer sensed her presence in the cabin. Mia wrapped arms around herself and walked from room to room. On the final round she stood in the middle of the cabin and called out, “Kate? Kate, are you here?” She looked at the empty space on the bookshelf, the unadorned wood walls, and the rain streaking the windows like tears.
“I’m sorry. I’m so sorry I failed you.”
Mia grabbed her purse and went out the door, slamming it behind her. There was nothing here for her any longer.
Chapter Twenty-three
I cannot put into words all of the heartfelt gratitude that I have for making this one of the best experiences I’ve ever had—and it was not just about fishing! You brought meaning to everything we did and learned. Thank you seems so little to say for all that you gave me.
—TO BELLE CARSON from a Casting for Recovery participant
Mia’s small, dented car sliced through the wind to Watkins Lodge, where she found Stuart standing in the carriage house, bent over blueprints. The plastic sheeting was billowing loudly in the wind and a drill was humming, so she couldn’t call his name. He looked up and saw her standing at the entrance, her slicker soaked and her strawberry blond hair plastered to her face. He abandoned his work to walk directly to her and wrap his arms around her.
“What’s wrong?”
“I have to leave,” she said against the soft corduroy, not knowing if he heard. She closed her eyes and buried her face in his chest. She was enveloped in the scents of sawdust and sweat.
He held her tight a moment, then lowered his cheek to her ear. “Wait here.”
Letting go, he went to the other side of the room to speak to the man working with the drill. The high hum ceased and Mia saw Stuart’s hands move in the air as he spoke. The other man looked up at her, then nodded. Stuart walked across the room to grab his Barbour jacket and keys off his work table, then returned to her side.
“Stuart, I didn’t mean for you to stop work. I’ll get some coffee at the inn and wait.”
“It’s OK. We’re about done. We’re just battening down the hatches for the storm.”
“I’ll wait,” she said again.
He took her arm and said, “I don’t want you to.”
Like that first night they’d spent together, he curled his fingers in hers, then led her to his Jeep parked outside the carriage house. He swung open the door on her side, then sprinted around the front to hop in. The Jeep sprang to life and Stuart drove the narrow road around the lake to the handsome arts-and-crafts building he lived in.
“This damn rain is relentless,” he shouted.
Mia could only nod and grip the door handle, feeling an ache of embarrassment that she’d come to him with her sad story.
When she stepped inside his condo she felt again the mild surprise that this earthy man lived in such a high-style, professionally decorated space. It always threw her, and she stood at the entrance with her dripping Gore-Tex jacket, unwilling to step across his polished hardwood floors.
“Come in,” he said, stripping off his jacket.
“Your floors…”
“Oh for God’s sake, come in.” He walked over to help her with her jacket. He held tight to it for a moment, looking at her, then turned to hang both jackets on a tree stand made to look like antlers, while she mopped her wet hair from her forehead.
“Why don’t you go in the bathroom and dry off. I’ll make a pot of coffee. I bought some especially for you. That rain has a cold bite and you look wet to the bone.” He looked at his watch. “I could order us some dinner.”
She shook her head. “No, thanks. I couldn’t eat a thing. But coffee sounds great.”
“OK. Go on, dry up. There’s a robe hanging on the door. Help yourself.”
She walked across the room, feeling undone by his kindness. She closed the bathroom door and leaned against it, wrapping her arms around herself and bending at the waist. She felt this wild shriek circling inside of her, gaining strength like the hurricane that was battering the coast.
“You like milk in your coffee?” he called.
She shivered then uncurled, taking a breath. “Yes, thanks,” she called back, trying to force her quaking voice to sound n
ormal. Methodically she stepped from her wet clothes and wrapped herself in the dry terry robe, tying it tight at the waist. The man’s size large was far too big for her. The shoulder seams trailed down her shoulders, but she felt like she was wrapped in a warm blanket and curled the collar high up along her neck. She came out barefoot and with her damp hair brushed back from her face.
He handed her a steaming mug. “You look better.”
She took a long sip of the hot coffee, feeling its warmth spread through her veins. Over the rim of the mug she saw him watching her.
“With your hair brushed back like that, the dimple on your chin is pronounced,” he said. “You look like a little girl.”
She reached up to touch the depression in her chin. “It’s genetic. My mother had one.”
Mia walked to the far end of the brown leather sofa while he clicked a button on the wall beside the fireplace to ignite the gas logs for an instant fire. She curled her legs underneath her in the cushions. Once more her gaze scanned the massive fireplace of river rock that climbed to the ceiling. Across from it the storm was streaking sheets of water against the tall plates of glass.
Stuart came to sit beside her. He stretched his long arm out across the back of the sofa and with the other took hold of her hand and drew her out from the corner to him. She set her mug of coffee down on the table and crawled into the nook of his arm. Once more she rested her chin against the soft corduroy.
“Now what’s this about leaving?” he asked.
Stuart did exactly as she knew he would—he listened. Mia opened up the floodgates, telling him with unrestrained fury how angry she was at Belle for kicking her out, and more, how hurt that she’d do it with so little concern or feeling. Belle had always been a little intimidating, but at least Mia had thought she was fair. She carried on like the storm outside, blowing hard and without restraint. When she finished her story she sighed, spent. He stroked her hair from her temples, curling it around her ear. The rhythm of it was even, like his casts on the water, and she sighed.
Time Is a River Page 31
