“Wow,” she said. “I’m sorry.”
“Yeah, well, it’s not like I’m a stranger to the farm. I grew up milking cows. And maybe I need to figure a way for the dairy to work for us, incorporating it into what we do, rather than trying to convert it. I know one thing—there’s a lot more research I need to do first.”
“At least you have the family farm paid for,” she said.
Jake nodded. “I have a lot of advantages over most of those guys,” he said. “The farm, savings from ten years in the corporate world, good investments. Even so, continuing to pour money into something with little return will be a hard road.”
“It’s difficult to do something new,” she said. “But the beef cows are doing well, right?”
Jake nodded. “Let’s take that, for example. I’m realizing how important genetics are to the herd. I need to cull the cows and get some great bulls to bring the quality up. Another big expense and it takes time.”
“So the cows will be bigger and produce good meat?”
“Big can be less efficient. I actually want a smaller cow that raises an early maturing calf. The cows should have good maternal traits and milking ability. You want a herd easy to handle.”
“So you’re saying some of it is personality,” she said.
“Temperament is the word, but sure, you breed for it.”
She thought for a moment. “If the bull has bad temperament and the cow is good, then how does the baby turn out?”
Jake scratched his head. “It can go either way. But why risk it? If I have a good bull and good cows, the whole herd will be better.”
She stood, feeling the color in her face.
“What’s wrong?” Jake said.
“Nothing. I got hot all of a sudden,” she walked into his small kitchen. “Do you mind if I open a window while we cook?”
***
Jake’s discouragement was palpable during dinner, which helped Annie mask her own malaise. He drove her home afterwards, and it was a relief to put on her pajamas and climb into bed. Finally in the dark and quiet room, she let her tears flow before finally taking respite in sleep. When her phone vibrated at an unknown hour, she was disoriented.
“Hello?”
Sniffling came before Lindy’s broken voice.
“Annie, can I come talk to you now?”
“Sure … What’s wrong?”
“I’ll tell you when I get there,” Lindy said. She was dressed and downstairs by the time Lindy was at the back door.
“Want coffee?” Annie said.
“No, thanks. I don’t want anything,” Lindy said, her eyes puffy and red. “I’m sorry,” she said. “I had to tell somebody.”
“What happened?” she asked, leading Lindy into the living room and turning on a lamp.
“I called Rob,” her voice broke. “Before I could say my piece, he thanked me for calling and asked how I knew,” Lindy said.
“Knew what?” Annie said.
“That he just got engaged,” Lindy’s voice broke as tears flowed. “He thought I was calling to congratulate him.” Annie handed her a wad of clean tissues. “Rob met her in New Zealand. They went to California together.”
“Oh, Lindy,” she said. “I’m so sorry.”
“When he told me, I couldn’t even talk. Imagine that?” she said in a half laugh, half cry. “Me, not able to talk. I sat there, trying to comprehend what he was telling me. Then he started saying how he should have told me about her, but couldn’t seem to bring it up,” Lindy said, and her face crumpled into a sob.
Annie pulled Lindy to her and held her while she cried. She stroked her hair and realized how much this young woman must miss her mother at a time like this. It was a feeling Annie knew well.
“It’s okay. You’ll be okay,” she whispered soothing words to her until Lindy began to breathe deeper and finally pulled away.
“I’m sorry,” Lindy said. “I know it’s late, but I had to tell somebody. Dad was already in bed and he wouldn’t have had quite the same reaction.”
“Don’t apologize,” Annie said. “This is what friends are for. Now, I’m putting the kettle on for some hot tea. I won’t let you go home until you’ve had a cup with lots of sugar.”
Lindy gave her a faint smile and wiped her eyes. Annie went to the kitchen and put on the kettle, her heart aching for her friend. When Annie returned with the teapot and the cups on a tray, Lindy was calmly staring at her hands. She handed Lindy a cup and took one herself before sitting.
“Are you in the mood to hear about a mystery?” Annie said.
Lindy looked up from the tea, a glimmer of interest sparked in her green eyes. “A mystery?”
She told her about Beulah finding the secret compartment with the picture and the letters. “Who do you think the letter is from?” Lindy asked.
“It’s from someone named Caivano, but the first name is hard to make out. My uncle met a woman when fighting the war in Italy, but it doesn’t really look like Elena, which is the name of the girl Ephraim fell in love with. The script is so flowery; it’s hard to make out. It could be just someone from the family, writing to offer condolences. Who knows? Janice has the letter—or will have it when she gets home from work—and hopefully she can translate it word for word.”
“A mystery from World War II,” Lindy said, holding the cup with both hands.
“Do you have any theories?” Annie asked.
“Maybe Ephraim owes the family money.”
“I don’t think they had any money to lend back then. He says in his letters he was giving them cigarettes to sell.”
“If he got close to them, then it’s likely an effort to keep in touch after the war. When he didn’t respond, they never wrote again. Of course, they had to know writing in Italian would be difficult, but if they couldn’t write in English, it might have been the only way they could communicate,” Lindy said.
“Hopefully we’ll know soon enough.”
Lindy put her empty cup on the coffee table. “Thank you,” she said.
“I’m sorry,” Annie said. She hugged her friend again and watched her get into her car and leave before turning off the back porch light.
Chapter Fifteen
“YOU KNOW WHAT I like about restoration work?” Jerry said. “It’s a form of stewardship. Look at this stone,” he pointed to one of the stones in the foundation. “These stones were quarried by somebody, backbreaking work, and then laid on one another to make the walls. So instead of tearing this down and destroying the hours of labor already given to the job, we add to the labor already done.”
Annie stood outside with Jerry and noticed the indentations in the rock, the weight of Jerry’s words settling on her. Vesta’s people dug the stones out of a limestone quarry and were never paid a dime for their work. What an even greater insult to their legacy if the house had been torn down.
“The guys will be here to start the stonework next week, so I’ll coordinate with them on the roof,” he said as they walked inside the house. “You did a good job of preparing the house. That’s less for us to do.”
Jerry pressed on the plaster in the room. “If I can leave any of the plaster, I will. We’ll only take out what’s damaged. When we get down to the studs, we can take care of the smell.”
“Even if we do catch a whiff of it from time to time, it will remind us the fire was part of its history,” she said.
Jerry nodded. “When we get started, it will look worse before it gets better. But it will get better.”
***
The letters of Joseph Crouch had yet to back up the oral tradition Vesta had shared. Instead, he wrote about buffalo, bear and deer, Indian attacks on pioneers, hunting parties, trackers and settlers. He mentioned the Kentucky forts like Boonesborough, Harrod and Logan, but nothing about her family or the old stone house.
Annie picked up one of the pages and read:
“There was a remarkable lot of bear meat and buffilow and venson aplenty to eat, but not any salt nor b
red. The people in the fort was hospetable to us but there was no fruit and no vegetables. It was a hard winter. Men came in that had been lost for days. It clouded over and that night had fell a deep snow. We had a good fire started the next morning.
There is a surprising quantity of people coming to Kentucky and more are a coming. We need the help with the terrable Indian troubles.”
Annie rested her head on her hands; papers spread out on the dining room table this time, and reflected on the importance of the historical account this man had taken the time to document on paper. Letters served the purpose of connection to family and friends, but it also provided a way for daily life to be documented for historical purposes.
They were crucial in the 1700s, and even in the 1940s when Ephraim’s writing provided an important connection to his family overseas. Letters were now a part of the history of the old stone house.
Hardly anyone wrote in longhand anymore, and cursive wasn’t even taught in the local school. It made her wonder what that meant for the future, if so much information was lost to print for future generations. How will there be a visual reminder of the past if words were stored in bits and bytes?
Annie put a piece of paper in the read stack and rubbed her eyes when she heard her grandmother’s car.
“Where’ve you been?” She held the door open as her grandmother gingerly stepped inside the house.
“Evelyn brought fabric to me this morning for the reception tablecloths and I realized I was out of the right shade of thread.”
“Anything else in the car?” Annie said.
“That’s all. Has Janice called?”
“No, but I haven’t checked my phone lately. I’ll get it.”
There was a voicemail from Janice and she played it as she walked back to the kitchen.
Got your message. I just got back from Rome and I’m headed home now. I’ll check e-mail and get back with you. Can’t wait to see you real soon.
***
“Would you like soup?” she asked her grandmother, preparing to ladle it into bowls.
Beulah nodded, pulling spools of thread out of the shopping bag and examining them.
“Janice gets here the weekend you host Sunday lunch,” Annie said, putting the soup on the table and then reaching for crackers. “She would love your fried chicken with the cream gravy and biscuits.”
The phone Annie laid on the table vibrated.
“Janice, I was just talking about you.”
“Annie,” Janice said, her voice was calm and measured. “I translated the letter.”
“You did? … So?”
“I’d rather you read it so you hear it from the person who wrote it,” Janice said. “I typed it all out and emailed it to you.”
Annie sat in a chair at the kitchen table and cut a worried glance at her grandmother.
“Is it bad?” she asked.
“Well, no, it’s not bad. But it is serious. It’s certainly not time-sensitive, after all these years, but Beulah needs to know.”
“I’ll call you later,” she said and hung up.
Beulah frowned. “What is it?”
“She didn’t tell me, but she’s e-mailing the translation right now. She said it’s serious.”
Beulah’s face drained of color.
Annie clarified, “Not bad, just serious … Janice said we need to hear it from the person who wrote the letter.”
“I can’t eat,” Beulah said.
“Me either. I’m going over to Evelyn’s to print Janice’s e-mail out right now. I’ll bring it back here and read it to you so we can hear it together.”
“I’d go with you, but my knee will slow us down. I’ll wait right here,” Beulah said.
Chapter Sixteen
IT TOOK ANNIE twenty minutes to get back with the printed e-mail from Janice. Pretty fast time for walking across both farms but it still seemed to be an eternity to Beulah.
Beulah waited the whole time at the kitchen table and fiddled with the soup spoon. Eating was the last thing on her mind.
When Annie finally sat down across from her at the table, she could feel her body tense as if preparing for some blow. There was no going back now.
Annie began to read.
May 29, 1946
Dear Mr. And Mrs. May
I write you out of desperation because we feel the worst must now be true about our dear Ephraim. There has been no word from him since he left us. This is not true to his character. For we found him to be a most honorable and faithful friend to our entire family.
I must tell you how much he became a part of us during the time the American soldiers were training in Napoli. The Americans gave us hope during that time, we who had lost all hope after years of suffering under a man who thought only of himself. We first met Ephraim when he came into our shop looking for a gift for you, Mrs. May. My husband sensed this young man was different than some of the other G.I.’s who had been in and out of our shop door. He was buying a gift for his mother, which certainly endeared him to me. My husband invited him to have dinner that evening in our small apartment above the shop and that began the friendship between us.
It was during these visits that he and my daughter Elena formed an attachment. It became obvious to Pietro and me and we wondered if we should forbid it, knowing it could have no good end when he lived on one side of the world and she on another. But during the middle of a terrible war, if a boy and a girl can find love and hope, who were we to take this gift from them?
Ephraim got sick and stopped coming. He had malaria, we found out later, and he was in the hospital on the American base. His friend, Arnie, got word to us so we would know why they stopped coming. Elena went to see him and a kind nurse allowed her to visit, seeing the healing effect it had on your son. We did our best to chaperone their time together. But we suspect the hospital visits sealed their love for one another.
By mid-January, Ephraim had recovered and was sent back to the base. We saw little of him in the days following until he came one evening with the message that they were to ship out the following day.
We gave Ephraim and Elena time alone that night, the only time we ever allowed that. But we knew he would not be back here during the war, and maybe not ever, so we allowed them privacy to say their goodbyes. When the troops left from the port of Napoli, Elena took to her bed. We worried that she might have malaria as well. She became very ill for many weeks and a doctor was called. We found out it was not malaria. Elena was heartbroken, but she was also pregnant.
At first, Pietro and I were angry. At her, at Ephraim, at the war that threw them together. Soon, we saw the pregnancy gave her great hope that they might someday be reunited. We of course knew this to be unlikely but we knew enough of him to believe that he would not disown this child.
I write you now, still confident of his character, and knowing that since the war is now over and we still have not heard from him, we are sure the worst must be true.
We do not wish to be a burden in any way, but you are the grandparents of this child, and if you have lost your only son, we believe that you might like to know you have a grandson and that Elena is proving herself a very good mother.
If the worst is true, Pietro and I give you our condolences and our deepest respect.
Lilliana Caivano
During the reading, Beulah sat straight up in her chair with her hands clasped tightly together on the table. While Annie folded the letter and put it away, it was as if the air went out of her body, and she slumped onto the kitchen table, her head in her hands.
Ephraim loved an Italian girl named Elena, who bore him a child.
A son.
A tapestry she had long ago sewn and hung on the wall as finished now unraveled, thread-by-thread. Her hands grew hot and wet. Her shoulders shook, and she felt hands on them, comforting, as her mother had done when she was a child.
Time disappeared. All her reserves and all her steel had evaporated like mist. The silent tears came, dripping off her nose a
nd onto the wooden harvest table. She stared down into the pool of tears and remembered how her mother collapsed after the uniformed stranger delivered that hateful piece of paper. “ … deeply regrets to inform you …”
Her father had gathered her mother up in his arms and carried her upstairs to their bedroom. Beulah remembered standing alone in the hall, starring at the telegram on the hall floor, where her mother dropped it. She picked up the telegram and looked at it. It was strange how simple words on paper caused such terrible suffering. The letter in hand, she carried it to the fireplace and dropped it in the fire. After that, she went to the kitchen and cooked a meal. It seemed the only thing to do.
When she finally rose up and rested her chin on her hands, Annie was still behind her with her arms on her shoulders. Evelyn was here now, sitting across from her with a cup of hot tea that she pushed toward Beulah. Where had she gone in the last few minutes that she didn’t hear Evelyn come in the door? Or had it been hours?
Neither spoke, and Beulah was glad for the silence. She just shook her head and took the tea. Dear God, she prayed. Help me. After a few sips of the tea, she spoke.
“I’m sorry. I never knew all that was inside me.”
Evelyn’s eyes were full of compassion, not pity, and Beulah appreciated that not a little.
“This must be very hard for you after all this time,” Evelyn said.
“He had a son,” Beulah said. “To find out now, after all these years. He’d be just a decade or so younger than me, if he’s still living.”
“I can’t help but think that is something positive, once you get over the shock of all this,” Annie said. “We actually have relatives in Italy.”
Beulah was not ready to think about Italian relatives.
“It makes me wonder if my parents suspected anything like this. Did they know and not ever act on it? Or did they go to their graves never knowing what the letter said?”
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