Spring House

by Taylor, Mary Ellen

  “Did she tell you what the stories were?”

  “Not a hint. Adele can be quite coy when she chooses to be.”

  Scott hadn’t spoken much about his great-grandmother, and Megan was surprised she had not pressed him for more details.

  Lucy’s Jeep rumbled up the driveway, and Megan released the breath she was holding as she always seemed to do when she and Helen were alone. Lucy hopped out with Dolly on her heels. The dog bounded up to Helen, who, to her credit, did not flinch but rubbed the animal between the ears. “We had a dog just like this when Scott was little. What’s her name?”

  “Dolly. She was my mom’s dog,” Lucy said. “Would you like to see what we’ve done with the place since you were here last? We’re in the process of cleaning it out.”

  “I’d like that,” Helen said. “Megan, do you mind?”

  Megan didn’t speak for a moment as Helen climbed the stairs. Her casual sneakers looked brand-new. “It’s filthy in there.”

  “A little dirt never bothered anyone.” Helen’s tone was brisk as she paused at the doorway, peering into the dimly lit hallway. “My husband and I offered once to help Samuel organize this place, but he wouldn’t hear of it. He liked it just the way it was.”

  “From what little I know about my grandfather’s family, the Jessups had five boys,” Lucy said.

  “That’s correct. Stanley, Joseph, Michael, Aaron, and Samuel. They called Aaron and Samuel the Irish Twins because they were born less than a year apart.” Helen studied a picture on the wall. When she did not seem to recognize anyone, she moved on to the others as if hoping to see a picture of someone she knew. When she did not, she turned toward the study.

  “You wouldn’t believe the junk we’ve pulled out,” Megan said.

  “You’ve barely made a dent,” Helen countered.

  If her mother or Lucy had made that comment, Megan would have laughed it off. But from Helen, it felt like a reminder that no matter what she did, it was not good enough. “This place was stacked to the gills.”

  “Worse than I thought.” Helen moved toward the wall of bookshelves. “I think this room is part of the original house that was built in 1775.”

  Megan’s curiosity was piqued. Scott must have told his mother Megan could not care less about diamonds or roses, but toss a historical detail at her, and you had her heart. “The house was owned by a bean farmer.”

  “That’s partly true,” Helen said. “According to Samuel, the original owner made the bulk of his fortune running the English blockades during the American Revolution.”

  “Why is it called Spring House?” Lucy asked.

  “Because Samuel was at sea ten months out of twelve for most of his career. He was only home in the spring. People good-naturedly ribbed him about ‘vacationing’ in his Spring House.”

  “If you went to high school with my mother, then you grew up on the Eastern Shore?” Lucy asked.

  Helen skimmed a manicured finger down the length of a dusty leather spine. “I lived here through high school but didn’t return after college. Both my husband and I wanted a bigger life than the Eastern Shore could offer.”

  “Could you see yourself living here again?” Lucy asked.

  “For my granddaughter, yes,” Helen said.

  Megan hadn’t really considered that Helen would be in her life beyond the birth of the baby, but now it was a real possibility. “We found letters from Claire’s sister Diane. Did you know anything about her?”

  “No. I only met Claire a couple of times. Again, Grandmother will be the one to ask. She and Claire knew each other for years.”

  “I’m very curious to meet Mrs. Jessup.”

  “As soon as I can transport her, I will. It’ll be a few weeks, but she’s very resilient and independent.”

  Megan too could be independent, but also solitary. She did not need activity or social networks as Scott and his mother did. She also realized, though she did not need Helen or her approval, Helen needed her. For her baby’s sake, this was a good thing.

  “Samuel was an avid reader,” Helen offered. “He was also a very talented carver. He didn’t graduate high school but was one of the smartest men I knew.”

  “He didn’t graduate high school? Neither did my mother,” Lucy said.

  “He went to work in 1931. It was the Depression, and the entire area was feeling it. He said he wanted to help out and go to work like his older brothers. And back then, a fifteen-year-old boy was expected to do a man’s work.”

  “He didn’t mind going to sea?” Lucy said.

  “He loved the sea. It was the only place he felt at home,” Helen said.

  “What’s the deal with Samuel and my grandmother?” Lucy asked. “There was a massive age difference.”

  “Samuel was always young at heart and looked ten years his junior. He got along well with his young bride, even though he traveled—or perhaps because he traveled. When his wife died, he was truly heartbroken.”

  “So was my mother,” Lucy said with a slight edge. “Why didn’t he stick around for her?”

  Helen was silent for a moment. “Grief makes us do stupid, hurtful things, Lucy. A wounded soul can be a very selfish one.”

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  Megan

  Wednesday, March 7, 2018

  Cape Hudson, Virginia

  10:00 a.m.

  The three women quietly sorted more books over the next hour, and when Mr. Tucker and his crew arrived, Helen had neatly stacked the books into piles on the front porch and discarded the rest in the dumpster. The woman was fifty, but she worked with the energy of a woman half her age. Most importantly, by lunch the office was cleaned out of books. What remained was the furniture, oddities such as a large globe, several model ships mounted on the wall, a ship captain’s desk, and a brightly painted, hand-carved mermaid figurehead that looked as if it had been yanked off an old ship.

  “Ladies, I think we should take a break,” Helen said. “Mr. Tucker and his men can remove the furniture and place it on the front lawn. Be good to air them out, and the rains are supposed to come on Saturday.” She pulled a handkerchief from her pocket and wiped her hands. “I also have a cooler in the trunk of my car. There’s enough food there to feed an army.”

  “That sounds pretty great,” Megan said. “Thank you.”

  Helen pursed her lips as if reining in an unwanted emotion and nodded. As she walked out the front door, they heard her offering to feed the work crews as well.

  “She’s pretty amazing,” Lucy said.

  “I know.”

  When they came outside, Helen had organized the men, who had removed a folding table from the back of her car and set it up. She had Mr. Tucker putting a white plastic cloth on the table while two other men carried one of the coolers up to the porch. Inside it were waters, juices, milk boxes, and protein shakes. No sodas.

  The second cooler contained a variety of sandwiches. “Helen, I think I love you,” Lucy said as she selected a ham-and-cheese sandwich.

  “This is what I did for years. I was always room mother or a soccer mom,” Helen said. “I’d forgotten how much I missed it.” She handed a roast-beef club to Mr. Tucker, who grinned as if he’d been given a golden nugget.

  “I swear this is the tastiest-looking sandwich I’ve ever seen,” he exclaimed.

  “It’s really nothing,” Helen said. “Takes me seconds.”

  “That’s because you have a lifetime of experience. You make the difficult look easy.” He grabbed another bag of chips and a thick chocolate brownie. He winked at her, and if Megan had not been watching, she’d have missed the pink rising in Helen’s cheeks.

  By mid-afternoon, Mr. Tucker and his men had moved the furniture into the bright sunshine. Much of it was covered in a thick coat of dust, but it was obvious all the pieces had been handcrafted a century ago.

  “Where do the pieces go?” Helen asked.

  “I have a storage unit rented in Cape Hudson,” Megan replied. “After the renovat
ion is complete, we’ll be able to bring some of it back. Lucy will sell what we don’t.”

  “Make sure you contact me before you sell anything, Lucy,” Helen said. “I love antiques.”

  Mr. Tucker and his two men carried out a rolled-up oriental carpet that smelled of mold and mildew. The back right corner of the carpet had been nibbled away by mice. “Is it worth saving?” Lucy said.

  “It’s a rare piece,” Megan said. “It’s a shame it was damaged.”

  “But can you save it?” Lucy asked.

  “I’ll call Duncan. He knows every restoration expert in the mid-Atlantic. Then we’ll figure out if the restoration work is worth the cost.”

  The three women walked back into the study, which was now stripped bare, probably for the first time since Samuel had moved in.

  Megan studied the wide-plank pine floors, which would need to be sanded down to bare wood and then refinished. Mr. Tucker walked into the room and went directly to the back corner and its water damage. He frowned as he looked up at the ceiling. “The plumbing and electrical were added in the 1940s. Neither is likely up to code. We won’t know for sure until we get into it.” He checked his watch. “It’s three thirty and too late to start on the bathrooms and kitchen. We’ll call it a day and make an early day of it tomorrow.”

  “Sounds good.” The idea of a break thrilled Megan, who wanted nothing more than to prop up her swollen feet.

  Helen walked across the empty room. “It feels a little lifeless.”

  “I thought you didn’t like the clutter,” Megan said.

  “I didn’t. It’s just another change, and I’ve had far too many in the last few years.”

  Megan’s baby gave her a hard kick, and as Megan studied Helen’s lost expression, she found herself suddenly walking over to her. Without a word, she took the woman’s hand and pressed it to her belly. The baby kicked hard and did what felt like a backflip. “Not all change is bad.”

  Helen’s eyes widened and filled with tears. “My goodness. I suppose you’re right! I just wish Scott were here for this.”

  “He would have loved this baby,” Megan said.

  “Yes, he would have.”

  Megan’s back was aching when she walked into the kitchen at Winter Cottage. She was once again overcome with the overwhelming desire to sit but was faced with a delivery deadline for her pies. “A few more days, kid,” she said. “And then you and I are putting our feet up and binge-watching Downton Abbey.”

  She pulled the dough from the refrigerator and set it on the butcher-block countertop. She knuckled her fingers into the base of her back and stretched. “Baby B., life is going to be a lot easier when you aren’t pressing on my kidneys.”

  “What’re you doing? The deal was I bake and you read.” Lucy’s hair was damp from a shower, and she had changed into sweats and a BEACON VINEYARDS T-shirt. She wore thick wool socks, no shoes, and had scrubbed off what little makeup she normally wore.

  “I thought I’d get a jump start on the work.”

  “As I stated before, I shall make the pies. You may sit and peel apples if you wish.”

  “I feel like I’m being a slacker.”

  “Why didn’t you just cancel this gig when you got the chief historian job at Winter Cottage?”

  “Because as much as I love this job, it won’t last forever. Life demands a backup plan.”

  “You can plan all you want, but life has its own agenda. A year ago, I’d never have pictured this moment. What about you?”

  “Never.”

  “So it’s settled. Don’t worry about plans right now.” Lucy reached for the large bag of Granny Smith apples. “Get either the letters from Diane to Claire or Samuel’s journal. I’m dying to know what’s in them and how all this stuff we’re finding fits together.”

  The baby kicked hard in Megan’s belly, forcing her to shift her weight until the discomfort dissipated. “This is not like me.”

  “I know. I’ve heard pregnancy is a little like Invasion of the Body Snatchers.”

  “It is, really.”

  Lucy reached for an apron, looped it over her head, and then tied the strands behind her. “Besides, I have an ulterior motive. When we deliver these pies, I’d like to pitch my idea of using Winter Cottage property as a wedding venue.”

  “You can definitely do that.”

  “I’ve been trying to figure a way into the world of wedding planners. They seem to be a very tight group.”

  “They can be.”

  “How did you meet this planner?” Lucy asked.

  “She planned my wedding.”

  “Oh.” Lucy ducked her head toward a utensil drawer as if she were avoiding looking at a bad car accident.

  “You might as well go ahead and ask about the wedding.”

  Lucy measured the offer and replied with a grin. “I didn’t want to be nosy, but it’s killing me.”

  Megan retrieved Diane’s letters from her backpack and sat at the kitchen table. Off her feet, her body instantly relaxed. “It was going to be one of the biggest weddings this planner had ever done. She was thrilled. My mother was thrilled. Helen appeared thrilled. A trifecta.”

  “But.”

  “I’ll tell you, but please don’t share this. You’re the first person I’ve told.”

  Lucy crossed her heart with her index finger. “Yeah, I won’t tell a soul.”

  “I discovered I was pregnant and went to tell Scott. I found him with my bridesmaid. They were each only partly dressed.”

  “Ouch.”

  “I got pretty pissed. I never cheated on him, and if he’d had doubts, he should have come to me instead of sneaking around. I deserve better than that.”

  “Yes, you do, sister.”

  “I cut Scott off completely. He tried several times to explain, but I wouldn’t have any of it. The way I saw it, we would both move on with our lives. Clean break.”

  “But he didn’t.”

  “No.” Sadness chilled her skin. “And if I’d been just a little kinder, maybe things wouldn’t have turned out the way they did.”

  “You don’t know that. Accidents happen.”

  “Especially when a pilot is distracted.”

  “You don’t know that either.”

  “I do. And so does Helen.” Several of Scott’s voice-mail messages had sounded desperate. “Helen is trying for the sake of the baby, but she still blames me.”

  “Helen was pretty terrific today,” Lucy said.

  “Helen was trying to bridge the gap to her grandchild. But once the baby is born, I think we’re going to have a real tug-of-war over this kid.”

  “You’ll work it out. It’s nice the baby has family who want to be in her life.”

  Megan rubbed her belly. “Remember, Helen and Rick don’t know about Brandy, and I want to keep it that way. I don’t need any more pity.”

  “Brandy?”

  “The woman with Scott.”

  Lucy narrowed her eyes. “Brandy. I don’t even know her, but I don’t like her. She’ll never get an invite to Winter Cottage.”

  “Thanks.”

  “Why didn’t you tell Helen about Brandy? She might understand you better if she knew.”

  “I was tempted. But the more I thought about it, I realized Helen has a lot of great memories of Scott, and I don’t want to take that away from her.”

  “You’re too reasonable, Megan.”

  Megan untied the faded red twine wrapped around the letters. “I think you’re the first person who has ever called me reasonable.”

  “Who would say you weren’t?”

  “My parents; Scott; Helen; my brother, Deacon.”

  “What’s the deal with your brother? Does he ever come to the Eastern Shore?”

  “We both vacationed here with our parents, but he’s not been back in years. He’s the family’s golden boy and setting the world on fire in the Buchanan Corporation, as I was supposed to do.”

  Lucy shrugged. “What did I say about plans?”


  “I hear you,” Megan said, grinning.

  “So who was this Brandy chick to you?”

  She gently laid out the letters based on the chronological order of the postmarks. “She was one of my bridesmaids and my college roommate.”

  “Ouch again. Has she called you since?”

  “Several times. I blocked her number months ago.” She fingered the first letter.

  Lucy dug a paring knife out of the drawer and grabbed another apple from the bag. “And if we’re getting personal here, what’s Rick’s deal?”

  “He and Scott were friends.”

  “And Rick doesn’t know about Brandy either?” She sounded skeptical.

  “No. He never gave any hint that he did, and again, I want to keep it that way.”

  “I find that hard to believe. Guys share conquests.”

  “Rick would have said something to me. Yes, he was Scott’s friend, but he’s too honorable to have let me walk down the aisle knowing Scott was sleeping with Brandy.”

  “You know Rick has got a thing for you,” Lucy said.

  Megan chuckled. “He’s loyal to Scott. He’s looking after me because of the baby. And I don’t want him thinking less of Scott. There’s no point now.”

  Lucy filled a large metal bowl with ice water and squeezed several lemons into it. “There’s smoke in that boy’s eyes when he looks at you.”

  “He’s always intense. Pay him no mind.”

  Megan reached for the first letter, dated December 2, 1902. The handwriting on the envelope was childlike, full of the loops and swirls so common with young girls. Diane would have been eleven when she wrote this letter to Claire, who would have been fourteen. Their mother had died in childbirth in 1900, and in the next two years, they had been sent away by their father to live with families on the mainland.

  She began to read the little girl’s words to her sister Claire.

  I fear the times will never be better. Mama is dead, and Papa has sent you away, along with Jemma, Sarah, the boys, and me. We will never be a family again. I am an orphan and alone in this world. Promises are like butterflies. Beautiful. Colorful. Easily crushed and broken.