PRAISE FOR WINTER COTTAGE
“Offering a look into bygone days of the gentrified from the early 1900s up until the present time, mystery and romance are included along with a multifaceted tale that is sure to please.”
—New York Journal of Books
“There is mystery and intrigue as the author weaves a tale that pulls you in . . . this is a story of strong women, who persevere . . . it’s a love story, the truest, deepest kind . . . and it’s the story of a woman who years later was able to right a wrong and give a home to the people who really needed it. It’s layered brilliantly, hints are revealed subtly, allowing the reader to form conclusions and fall in love.”
—Smexy Books
PRAISE FOR MARY ELLEN TAYLOR
“Mary Ellen Taylor writes comfort reads packed with depth . . . If you’re looking for a fantastic vacation read, this is the book for you!”
—Steph and Chris’s Book Review
“[A] complex tale . . . grounded in fascinating history and emotional turmoil that is intense yet subtle. An intelligent, heartwarming exploration of the powers of forgiveness, compassion, and new beginnings.”
—Kirkus Reviews
“Absorbing characters, a hint of mystery, and touching self-discovery elevate this novel above many others in the genre.”
—RT Book Reviews
“Taylor serves up a great mix of vivid setting, history, drama, and everyday life.”
—Herald Sun
“[A] charming and very engaging story about the nature of family and the meaning of love.”
—Seattle Post-Intelligencer
OTHER TITLES BY MARY ELLEN TAYLOR
Winter Cottage
Spring House
Union Street Bakery Novels
The Union Street Bakery
Sweet Expectations
Alexandria Series
At the Corner of King Street
The View from Prince Street
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, organizations, places, events, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.
Text copyright © 2020 by Mary Burton
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without express written permission of the publisher.
Published by Montlake, Seattle
www.apub.com
Amazon, the Amazon logo, and Montlake are trademarks of Amazon.com, Inc., or its affiliates.
ISBN-13: 9781542017886
ISBN-10: 1542017882
Cover photography and design by Laura Klynstra
CONTENTS
START READING
PROLOGUE
CHAPTER ONE
CHAPTER TWO
CHAPTER THREE
CHAPTER FOUR
CHAPTER FIVE
CHAPTER SIX
CHAPTER SEVEN
CHAPTER EIGHT
CHAPTER NINE
CHAPTER TEN
CHAPTER ELEVEN
CHAPTER TWELVE
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
CHAPTER NINETEEN
CHAPTER TWENTY
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
CHAPTER THIRTY
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO
CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE
EPILOGUE
QUESTIONS FOR THE READERS
RECIPES
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
A garden is always a series of losses set against a few triumphs, like life itself.
May Sarton, poet
PROLOGUE
Tuesday, April 5, 1994
Trenton, New Jersey
The unraveling of Olivia’s youth had begun in the fall of 1940. The war in Europe was raging, and the Pacific was sowing the seeds of another great explosion. As world events burrowed their roots deeper into her innocence, she desperately tried to replenish the soil, believing she could still sow the seeds of new dreams and hopes. But the earth had continued to shift and erode until finally she had stumbled, and her rose-colored glasses had fallen away forever.
She now sat by the hospital bed, holding the pale hand of her dying friend. Blue veins, so pricked and prodded by doctors and nurses, lined small hands that for the first time were not coiled and poised for a fight. Her old friend appeared at peace, as if she now welcomed death.
That was what age did for the lucky. As life stripped away youth and vitality, it also softened some of the regrets and perhaps exchanged a few devils for angels.
Her friend’s face was narrow and deeply lined and her once-wiry body whittled down to bone and skin. Thick auburn hair had thinned and grown as white as her paper-thin skin. IVs dripped sedatives and painkillers while monitors beeped softly. The window shades were pulled closed so that the light did not hurt her eyes. Of all the places she could imagine her old friend dying, it was not here in this dark, sterile room so far from her home in the lush Blue Ridge Mountains.
Olivia almost regretted being here now and perhaps losing the image of the vibrant, strong girl who had dared life at each curve in the road. As much as Olivia wanted to cling to the old images she treasured of her friend and ignore the ravages of this cancer, to abandon her friend now would be a regret her old shoulders could not bear.
Closing her eyes, Olivia stood silent until she felt a gentle stirring in the woman’s body. She opened her eyes to see watering blue eyes staring at her.
“You came?” Her voice sounded strained and weak.
Olivia smiled, refusing to give sadness any ground. “Of course I did.”
“Is my child here?”
“Yes. She drove me. My eyesight won’t allow me to drive beyond my little town.”
As if Olivia had not spoken—“How is my daughter?”
“She’s grown into a fine woman.”
“Good.” For a long moment there was silence broken only by the beep of the monitor. “Thank you for looking out for her.”
“You did the same for me, didn’t you? Looked after my granddaughter when she needed it most.”
“How is she?”
“She just had her second baby.”
She thought back to that one single act of courage a half century ago that had bonded the two women. They had risked life and limb for each other and kept so many secrets.
Fragile brows gathered in a frown. “Don’t go to your grave with your secret, Miss Olivia. You and I both know it’s the kind that binds the soul to the earth,” she said.
Olivia had locked away so many memories over the years that they had tangled together. She feared a tug on one would unravel the entire lot. Confession might be good for the soul, but by her way of thinking, it did little else. Her secret had served a purpose, and if keeping it meant her soul was bound to this earth forever, then so be it.
CHAPTER ONE
SADIE
Tuesday, March 15, 1943
Bluestone, Virginia
Blue Ridge Mountains
There were three tricks to hiding. First, it was important to breathe as shallow as possible. If you were doing it right, your nostrils barely flared, and your breathing was as shallow as the James River in drought-hot summer heat. Next, a good rabbit t
amed its racing heart and did not allow it to pound and drum against the ribs. Sounds had a tendency to echo beyond the confines of the body.
And the third trick, and not the least by far, was keeping your eyes cast downward. You never looked at whoever was hunting you. A fox might not be able to see a rabbit, but it could feel its stare as surely as if it were being tapped on the shoulder.
Sadie Thompson crouched behind the thick tangle of a honeysuckle bush twisting around the large stump of a fallen oak. Her heart beat fast in her chest, rapping against her ribs so hard she struggled to catch her breath. She was out of shape, and the mile-long run through the woods from her old truck had taken a surprising toll. A year ago, she would have done the run like a deer, twice as fast without breaking a sweat.
Darkness had descended on the Blue Ridge Mountains, tossing an inky blackness over the land. What little moonlight trickled through the thick rain-ripe clouds was caught in the canopy of trees. An owl hooted. Deer, disturbed by her unwelcome intrusion, bolted through the woods.
The poor visibility suited Sadie. She was accustomed to traveling at night and was intimately acquainted with the hills and the valleys of Nelson County. Her father had taught Sadie and her brothers how to negotiate the narrow back roads barely wide enough for a car. It could be rough going, but they were the best routes moonshiners had when avoiding the law. Her pa had made them memorize the sharpest curves in the road, walk the old Indian paths that cut up the side of the mountains, and he’d shown them the secluded caves best suited for cooking mash into moonshine. She and her family knew all the ins and outs of this part of Virginia, and they could stay lost forever. If that was what they wanted.
Sadie pressed her face against the damp leaves and took a moment to shake off the lingering panic that had sent her bolting into the night. Crickets whirred nearby, and a spider crawled over her hand, but she gave neither a second thought. She had a bigger problem facing her now.
Sheriff Kurt Boyd had arrived at her mother’s house an hour ago, most likely bent on arresting Sadie for attempted murder—maybe even murder, if the man did not pull through. Sadie was not a bit sorry for what she had done but now wished she had been smarter about exacting her revenge.
She had run from her mother’s house with not even enough time to pack a bag or kiss her sleeping baby before sprinting to her truck. She put the car in neutral and coasted down the backside of the hill, careful not to make a sound. Only at the bottom did she start the engine. But the sheriff must have heard the commotion of the rumbling engine and taken off after her. She drove as far as her old truck’s radiator would take her until it boiled over, leaving her no way to quickly repair it.
Arms pumping, and her work boots rubbing against her swollen feet, she dashed into the brush as the rumble of Boyd’s Dodge grew closer. She thought maybe she could cut across the mountain on an old Indian trail, but Boyd had seen that trick before and would simply circle around. That left her with no choice but to hunker down.
She would wait Boyd out and maybe later circle back to her truck and see if it had cooled enough to run again. Her aim was to get to Charlottesville and then ride a train as far away from Bluestone as she could manage.
As she lay on the ground behind the shrubs, the rumble of a car engine echoed. She recognized the sound of the sheriff’s grumbling Dodge engine moving slowly down the road. He knew she was close. He might not have been the smartest man, but he knew Indian paths, mining trails, and hiding spots almost as well as she did.
Seconds later headlights appeared. She pressed her belly closer into the damp soil, her tender breasts still filled with milk, straining against her roughly hewed shirt. Too curious for her own good, she stole a peek in time to see Sheriff Boyd’s thick frame pass in front of his headlights. He stopped and stood with his feet braced and a meaty right hand resting on his belt. She could not see his face but guessed he was frowning. Boyd had always reckoned a thoughtful man did not need to smile or say much. That was just as well, because when he opened his mouth, he never had anything worth saying. A flashlight’s beam cut deep into the darkness, passing just a few feet above her body.
“Dumb as a box of rocks,” her brother Johnny used to joke about the sheriff.
Her brother Danny had laughed. “Can outsmart him on my worst day.”
Thinking about Johnny and Danny made her throat tighten with a bone-deep sadness she doubted would ever leave her. God, how she missed those two.
“Don’t be thinking about me,” Johnny’s voice echoed in her head. “Be worried about Boyd.”
“Yeah,” Danny echoed. “He might be stupid, but he’s mean, and even a broken clock is right twice a day.”
The advice was sound. She would worry about her brothers and daughter once she was safe. Now she had to deal with Boyd.
What the lawman lacked in intelligence, he made up for in tracking skills. The man was part bloodhound. The state authorities would call Boyd if a prisoner escaped any jail in a twenty-five-mile radius. Even farmers called when they had a coyote killing their livestock. And at election time, he sniffed out enough illegal stills to make the Bible-thumpers happy.
Her father never took it personally when Boyd came after the stills. His job was to find them, and her father’s was to hide them. Everyone had to survive. But by Sadie’s way of thinking, Boyd had a petty streak in him. Those prisoners he brought back had a black eye or two when they finally made it to their cells. There was always a cow unaccounted for, and when Boyd wielded his bat against a still, he was always whistling a happy tune.
Boyd’s boots crunched on the soft dirt and leaves as he walked not more than twenty feet from her. “Sadie, I know you’re out there, girl. This is where your brothers used to hide. Make it easy on yourself, and come on out. I won’t hurt you.”
When she was little, she and the boys had played rabbit and the fox in the hollow. She was always the rabbit because she was the littlest—but also because she was good at burrowing into a small unconsidered place and could stay silent as she listened to her brothers’ laughter turn to frustration when they could not find their little rabbit.
Sadie closed her eyes and willed her entire system to slow. She pressed her face hard against the ground.
I’m just a leaf on a twig, she thought.
“Nothing important here,” she wanted to say. “Keep on moving, Sheriff Boyd.”
Booted footsteps moved closer to her hiding spot. Boyd’s heavy breathing proved he was not used to running either. He was a good six inches taller than her, but he was not built for speed, especially in the backwoods.
Sadie and her brothers roamed these hills like the Cherokee, Siouan, Iroquois, and the German and Scottish settlers who followed. If she was not hauling water to their house, she was carrying bags of corn and sugar or toting boxes of mason jars filled with shine. Even as a young child she could heft two bucketfuls of water up from the creek in less than five minutes without spilling a drop. No lady was strong like Sadie, but then she had never claimed to be fancy.
“Come on out, Sadie,” Sheriff Boyd said. “No one wants to hurt you.”
Sheriff Boyd’s voice was coated in an extra layer of sugar, but there was nothing sweet about his lies. If he found her, he would put the cuffs on her, just as he had threatened a dozen times before. And this time, he would take her to Lynchburg and see to it that Dr. Carter made sure she never had another child.
She squeezed her eyes tighter and thought about her beautiful baby girl sleeping in the cradle. She willed away her tears and sadness. She was not leaving her girl because she wanted to. Life had taken a hard turn and stripped away her choices. She could only take comfort knowing the child would be fine—maybe even fare better—in her grandmother’s care.
Sheriff Boyd’s breathing slowed as his big feet snapped twigs. The brush near her shifted and moved. She pictured his big hands pawing through the sticks and leaves and grabbing her by the collar.
I’m a gnat. A bug on a log. Too small to no
tice.
“Haven’t you been enough of a disappointment to your mama? Hasn’t she got enough on her shoulders without worrying about your brothers and the bastard she’ll surely be raising?”
Tears sprang up behind her closed lids. Maybe she was one of the worst daughters a mother could hope for. But she sure as hell was not going to let this hick sheriff use her own failings to flush her out of the brush like frightened quail.
“You’re a sorry girl.” Sheriff Boyd’s words trickled out on a heavy sigh. “You’re trouble.” When his berating did not work, he shifted gears. “You’d be so much better off if you let me help you. I’ll talk to the judge and tell him to go easy on you. We all know you didn’t mean to run that man over with your truck. It was an accident, pure and simple.”
His words burrowed under her resolve, and a sob took hold and sprang up in her throat. More tears filled her eyes. She pursed her lips. God help her; it had not been an accident. If given the chance, she would do it again.
Time slowly crawled by as she listened to the sound of his breathing. He took another step closer, and she could smell his cheap aftershave.
She held steady, doing her best not to think about Boyd. Boyd would not find this little rabbit tonight.
“Damn it, Sadie. I will find you.” The sheriff muttered a string of curses and ended his tirade with something about her burning in hell. “And I’ll see that the judge locks your scrawny ass up for a long damn time.”
The leaves rustled under Boyd’s boots as he turned back toward the road and the halo of headlights.
His car door slammed with anger, and the engine sputtered like an old man clearing his throat as he shifted into first. The clutch was going bad. She had told him often enough about the worn clutch, but just like everyone in the valley, he did not take her too seriously. Finally, the rubber tires began to roll; the engine ground from first to second gear and rattled off into the night, growling like an old man.
As tempted as she was to move, she stayed pressed against the cool earth. Her right arm, tucked under her body, had gone to sleep and now felt as if a thousand needles prickled under her skin. This was not the first time her arm had been pinned, and she had surely felt worse discomfort than this before.
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