Chapter 14
This wasn’t working.
Jake lay on his back, projecting his frustration onto his black ceiling.
Lexi’s bed sat on the other side of the spot he’d stared at four nights in a row. Lexi’s bed with Emily in it.
What had his mother been thinking?
He knew the answer to that. But how was he supposed to sleep with her right there, eight feet above him? And it wasn’t just lack of sleep causing him grief. Things he’d done for thirty-three years without thought—things like chewing and swallowing—suddenly seemed to take conscious effort with those huge blue eyes across the supper table.
She wasn’t his type. His parameters had changed some since he’d gotten serious about God, but he still liked the playful kind, girls who loved the cat-and-mouse, tug-of-war games of courtship. Emily Foster was beyond challenge. There were walls, and then there were walls. There wasn’t a loose brick anywhere in hers. It would take the sledgehammer he’d pummeled her dining room with to make even a dent.
She was so not his type.
What about Heidi? He punched his pillow, forcing it into a U-shape to cradle his stiff neck. Okay, truth be told, there were two kinds of women he was drawn to, all still under the heading of “challenge.” When it came to needy damsels, he was a total sucker.
Common sense turned to rubber right along with his knees the first time he’d looked into Heidi’s eyes. She was in trouble—out of a job, out of rent money. And he’d been out of his mind to hire her. Topher told him so the first day. It took Jake another month to believe him.
He shivered, shutting his eyes against the memory of the time and money he’d sacrificed.
No more needy women.
Behind the walls, Emily was as needy as they came. Something lurked behind those eyes, some secret or loss, some reason she was all alone in a strange town, working her way toward a place where she couldn’t say what she’d be doing.
But Emily was different. She wasn’t asking for help.
He threw the covers off, knowing he had to get out of his house before she woke. Out of his house … to spend the day at hers. The upside of this ongoing torture was that he was working faster than he’d ever worked before. He grabbed his jeans off the desk chair and took one final look at the ceiling. Did she always sleep on her back the way he’d found her in her attic? Hair in a ponytail or splayed across her pillow? Pajamas? Nightgown?
He yanked the door handle. It slammed into his big toe. With a yelp, he kicked it with his good foot.
What part of “impossible” don’t you understand, Braden?
Emily woke just before seven with one thing on her mind.
Pancakes.
A tiny glimmer of something akin to joy stirred inside her, a few inches above her rumbling stomach. She was hungry! And she knew what she wanted to eat.
Veronica would be ecstatic. She’d woven “How’s your appetite?” into every session, as if the day Emily announced she’d eaten something just because it sounded good would be the day she was healed. No more guilt, no more panic. Hunger trumps it all.
Flat on her back in Lexi’s bed, she stretched. Her hand bumped something soft and fuzzy. Her stomach grumbled again. Pancakes. Maybe with strawberries. “Celebrate the victories,” she whispered to a stuffed purple hippo. “No matter how small.”
In no hurry to get up, she turned on her side. Wide stripes, purple and lime green, covered the walls. Gauzy butterflies with sparkles on their wings perched on the walls and ceiling, some as small as Emily’s hand, others a good two feet wide. Hot pink, bright yellow, dotted with colored glass jewels and sprinkled with glitter.
There was something magical about this house. After the second night, she hadn’t needed a sleeping pill. She felt relaxed with Jake’s mom. She liked Blaze’s “clean enough to be healthy, dirty enough to be happy” philosophy. So unlike the atmosphere she’d grown up with. Jake’s mom somehow struck the perfect balance of making her feel both at home and like an honored guest. No eggshells, no fake smiles. They’d shared a few tears and a lot of laughs.
Her stomach growled again. Would anyone be up yet? She got out of bed and, with only a few stretches, moved with relative ease. Her lungs felt clearer and the weakness she’d felt since getting out of the hospital was fading. After a trip to the bathroom, she walked out to the kitchen.
Jake stood by the back door, boots on, hat hooked on one finger, scarfing down a bowl of cereal.
“Morning.” She laughed at his stance. “Where’s the fire?”
“Gotta finish up a job so I can get to your place before the lumber arrives.” His tone was all business.
“Sure you don’t have time for pancakes? Strawberry pancakes? I know there’s a box in the pantry and it won’t take—”
“No.” He opened the door and set his bowl on the counter. A dozen Kix still floated on the milk. “Thanks. Gotta go.”
The door opened and he exited before Emily could say another word.
Rude man.
“Whoa!” Adam sat cross-legged on his grandmother’s living room rug, eyes riveted to Emily’s laptop. “You could have ghosts in your house!”
Emily leaned on a couch pillow and chewed the last bite of her BLT. She bounced her eyebrows at Adam. “Cool.”
“I’m serious. Have you been to Chances yet?”
“No.” The restaurant was only a block from her house, but it wasn’t the kind of place to visit alone.
“It used to be the Old Union House and”—hazel eyes widened through a dramatic pause—“it was linked to the Underground Railroad Movement.”
Emily shot a message-laden look toward the kitchen door and pressed her index finger to her lips.
Adam nodded. “They hid runaway slaves,” he whispered. “The walls are eighteen inches thick.” He estimated the width with his hands. “It was built in 1843. A plank road ran from Racine to Janesville, right through Rochester. Slaves were brought up the Fox River during the night and just before dawn they’d go back through a tunnel from the river to the hotel. The next night the slaves would be taken back through the tunnel to the river to continue their journey north.”
“And their ghosts still stalk the tunnel at night.” Emily wiggled her fingers in the air and let out a subdued but eerie wail.
It was good to hear the boy laugh. He was here today because tennis practice, which he claimed he hated, had been cancelled. His stepfather didn’t know he was here, and Blaze felt no compunction to tell him. She’d been baking cookies and singing to herself for the past hour.
Adam squinted and cocked his head to one side. “I bet that’s why you’re living here. You heard the ghosts and you’re scared to go back.”
“I’m not living here. I’m going back this afternoon.”
“Maybe.” Blaze stood in the doorway. “But first she’ll go to the barbecue with us.” She brought something from behind her back. “Or she’ll miss out on Black Forest cake.”
Blaze twirled her chocolate heaven-on-a-plate under their noses. They groaned in duet. “What’re you two looking at?” She peered over Adam’s shoulder.
“Adam’s giving me an education on Rochester history.”
“Look, Grandma. When they remodeled Chances back in the seventies, they found a crawl space that went all the way under the ground to the river. They say there are tunnels all over under Rochester, and years ago they were sealed off because of the howls and screams that came out of them in the middle of the night. The locals thought the tunnels led to hell and had them sealed with a warning sign to never open them.”
Emily faked a shiver. “Creepy.”
“We gotta go there.”
“Jake did a report on the tunnels in high school. I think we still have it.”
Shock registered on Adam’s face. “You seriously knew about this and never told me?”
Blaze laughed. “The locals all know about it. Some people think the tunnels were used to transport runaway slaves.”
“Do you think there are ghosts?”
“My grandma thought so.” She tipped her head toward Emily. “She thought your house was occupied.”
This time the chill was real. “The little boy across the street mentioned ghosts.”
The oven timer buzzed. Blaze shrugged and walked back toward the kitchen. “Who knows?” She pursed her lips, widened her eyes, and opened the oven.
Adam stretched out on his belly. “We have to do some serious research and—ouch!” He rolled onto his back and pulled a flashlight out of a front pocket.
Emily shook her head. “Your grandma says she weighed your pants the other day.”
Adam grinned. “Thirteen point two pounds.”
“Unbelievable. No wonder you sank like a rock in the river.”
“Hey, I’m not the one who had to be rescued.”
Emily set her plate on an end table. “Touché. So is your stash all top-secret?”
“No.” He got to his feet. “I guess you need to know what resources are available since you’re going to be my research partner.”
Emily’s laugh was drowned by a rip of Velcro. “It’s my house. My ghosts.” She lowered her voice. “My secret room.”
“True.” Adam set a compass on the coffee table. “But there’s no way you can carry out this investigation without my expertise.” He unsnapped his back right pocket. “Or my duct tape.”
“Good point.”
“Or my knife.”
“That already came in handy.”
He reached into a patch pocket on his thigh. “Or my mirror.”
“Never know when you may need to send Morse code or touch up your lipstick.”
“Or start a fire or burn ants to eat.”
“So true.”
A ball of string, a wad of dental wax, and a pocket-sized rock-identification book lined up on the table.
“Did anything get wrecked in the river?”
Adam shrugged. “Nothing important. Jake bought me a new ball of string. I carry a different book every day. I had one about stars and that got soaked, but I have tons of those. The rest is waterproof.” To prove the point, he pulled out a book of waterproof matches. “Oh! Did you hear what he brought me in the hospital?”
“No. What?”
“A GPS. It’s an early birthday present. He got sick of my talking about it, I guess. So our research can take us anywhere in the world and we won’t get lost.”
“Think I’ll start calling you Tom Sawyer.”
“Nah. Just call me Sawyer. You know, from Lost.”
“Gotcha.”
From a zippered pouch hanging from his belt he withdrew a clear plastic bag, the bottom filled with crumbled dried leaves. Emily’s jaw unhinged. She knew that stuff all too well. “Adam. Where in the world did you get that?”
He stuffed it back in the pocket. “The pet store. I left some food by the bridge, but—”
“Catnip!” She laughed in the wave of relief. “It’s catnip. For the cat.”
“Of course. What did you th—. Oh. I don’t do that stuff.”
“I’m sorry. I was sure you didn’t, but when I first looked at it…”
Adam performed a reprise of her earlier eyebrow wiggle. “Evidently you know all about it, huh? Were you, like, a druggie when you were my age?”
“No!” Not at your age. This rabbit trail had to come to a quick end. “Absolutely not.” She waved her hand to include his entire collection. “Well, Sawyer, I’m convinced I need to hire you to—”
The back door burst open, banging against the microwave stand. Jake strode through the kitchen, passing his mother without a glance. “Emily!” His eyes locked on hers, shining with an excitement he seemed to be trying to hide. “Are you up to going over to your house for a bit? I need your opinion on something.” He sounded short of breath.
Emily stood. “Sure. Just need to get something on my feet.” She walked toward the jumble of shoes by the front door.
Jake’s sigh was controlled but audible.
“What is it? Can I come?” Adam closed the laptop. “Did you fi—”
Her back turned to Jake, Emily missed the look he must have given Adam to silence him. “Later.” A boot tap accompanied his answer.
By the time she’d slipped into her sandals, Jake had his hand on the kitchen doorknob.
Blaze patted her arm as she passed. “Don’t wear yourself out.”
“I won’t.” Emily slipped through the screen door Jake held open for her. “What is it?”
He ushered her around the house to the sidewalk. “I found something”—he slowed his pace to hers—“under a hidden panel in the bedroom closet.”
September 24, 1852
Hannah snapped a piece of new broom straw and opened the cookstove door. The straw pulled clean from the cake. Doubling her apron skirt, she pulled out the pan and set it on a folded flour sack towel on the table. A square of sunlight framed the gingerbread. The rounded and cracked brown top glistened.
She’d stuck faithfully to Mama’s recipe, though she’d been sorely tempted to fold in a new spice with the ginger and cinnamon.
Did poison ivy lose potency when baked?
Her stomach growled like an angry bobcat. She’d not get away with sampling before supper this time. Tonight there would be guests. They would sit in the dining room and eat off Mama’s good dishes. They would talk of the weather and the cost of wheat. They would speak of the school for the deaf being built in Walworth County, wonder aloud at how many people now rode the train from Milwaukee to Waukesha, and talk of rumors that before long rails would connect Lake Michigan to the Mississippi.
She and Papa would bring up anything and everything to keep the conversation from steering toward politics or slavery. But their guests would do all they could to derail them.
She remembered when it was different, when a visit from Papa’s cousin was something to anticipate, and not with dread. Jonathan Shaw and his wife, Victoria, were wealthy. They had come to America two years before Papa and made their money in brick making. Jonathan had asked Papa to join his business in Racine, but Mama had what she called a “gentle nudge” from the Lord and Papa turned it down.
Hannah peeked under the lid of a cast-iron pot and prodded the stewing chicken with a fork. The meat fell from the bones. With two forks, she lifted it to a platter and dumped chopped onions and carrots into the bubbling broth. Returning the cover, she looked out the back door at the three-leafed plants sprouting along the riverbank. The male cardinal perched on a sapling beside it, bobbing toward the leaves as if to tempt her. Creamed chicken anyone? Why, that’s just a touch of parsley, Cousin Victoria.
How was it that two men who sprouted from the same branch of the family tree could see life so differently? The answer whispered over the steady tap, tap, tap of the pot cover. Faith made the difference. Papa saw things black or white, clear and simple, while Jonathan seemed to go through life blurring the boundaries of right and wrong and making his own rules. Even out here in Rochester, people spoke of Jonathan Shaw. A Shaw brick, they claimed, was as warped as the business dealings of the man behind it.
And now he had a side business, a way to bring in a little extra money. The Fugitive Slave Act was a boon to people like Jonathan Shaw, people who did not believe in the worth of a man.
Hannah ripped the flesh from the chicken carcass and repeated the verse Papa had read at breakfast: “The discretion of a man deferreth his anger; and it is his glory to pass over a transgression.” Papa thought it would be an excellent proverb for them both to meditate on today. She’d memorized it easily enough. Putting it into practice was another matter. Lord Jesus, guard my thoughts and put a bridle on my tongue tonight.
Hoofbeats announced the arrival of the carriage from Racine, and she tasted the gravy. Perfect. Though it could use a dash of color.
“Lovely dinner, dear. You’re as good at making do as your dear mother was.”
Making do? Hannah hid a tight fist in the fold of her skirt as she cleared the twice-filled plate from in front of Victoria. What the woman had eaten could have fed her and Papa for the next three days. “Thank you, ma’am.”
“You’ll breakfast with us at the Union House, won’t you?” Victoria patted her mouth with a linen napkin. Hannah’s stomach twisted as a dark green S touched Victoria’s pinched lips. It seemed a desecration that the initial embroidered by Mama’s thin, beautiful hands should touch a mouth that spouted such ignorance.
“Of course,” Papa answered.
Hannah found a genuine smile easy for the first time all evening. A meal at the inn would give her something pleasant to focus on as she ignored her dinner companions.
“Very well. Shall we say eight?” Victoria fiddled with the cameo pin at her neck.
Papa nodded. “I do apologize again for not having accommodations for you here.
Jonathan Shaw stood and grasped the back of his pudgy wife’s chair. “We will be well served at the Union House. I’ve heard interesting things about the place lately, and I’m delighted to have the opportunity to check it out myself.” Beady eyes bore into Papa as if he were looking down the barrel of a gun aimed at a rabid wolf … or a man running for his life.
Papa’s face colored. He cleared his throat. “Hopefully by the next time you come, we’ll have the upstairs finished. I lost my ambition after Elizabeth died, but I’ve started working on it again lately.”
Jonathan nodded. “Do show me how far you’ve come. In fact, I’d love to see the whole house, including the cellar. We’ll be building a house for Victoria’s mother soon, and yours seems just about the right size.” He stepped into the front parlor, and Papa had no choice but to escort him.
Hannah’s other fist balled. Any other man would have been simply rude with this kind of behavior. Jonathan Shaw was not rude, he was shrewd. Please, God, veil his eyes. Had she been careless about concealing the door? Did it stand ajar? She smiled as naturally as possible at Victoria. “Would you like a seat in the parlor while the men look at the house? I’ll just get the milk put away and—”
“Put away in the cellar?”
“Yes.” Perspiration dotted Hannah’s upper lip. “It’s so much cooler down there.”
Victoria waddled to the opposite end of the table and picked up the milk pitcher. “I’ll help you carry things, dear.”