Chapter 23
Emily stood in front of a glass case displaying high-button shoes. She looked at a wood-handled button hook and wondered again at the women who first lived in her house. What was a day like for Hannah Shaw, who stitched by candlelight and baked bread at sunrise? She imagined rising before dark, dressing in layers of heavy clothes. Did she wear high-button shoes all day or something more comfortable?
The wood floor creaked beneath Adam’s feet as he paced from one museum display to the next then finally stopped by Emily. “What’s that?” He pointed at a black metal hinged instrument with a handle like a pair of scissors.
“A curling iron. Our Hannah probably had one. They used to heat it on a stove or clip it onto the chimney of a kerosene lamp.”
“Huh. You guys got it easy now.”
Blaze’s friend, a tall, gray-haired man, approached. “Can I answer any questions?”
Emily held up a booklet she’d picked up at the door. Racine County, Wisconsin, Roots of Freedom Underground Railroad Heritage Trail. “We’re going to be doing the walking tour this afternoon. We’re also researching information on Thomas and Elizabeth Shaw. They built a house in Rochester in 1847, and their descendants lived there until the 1940s.”
“Shaw. Thomas Shaw.” The man tapped his chin. “I seem to remember something. Did he have any connection with the Burlington Academy?”
“I don’t know. We really don’t know much about the family.”
“Can you stop back here when you finish the tour? I’ll see what I can find. I know I’ve seen that name and it will bug me as much as you if I don’t figure out where.”
“Whoa!” Adam, running half a block in front of Emily and Blaze, used the pamphlet to point at a white house. “This is the Cooper House. So Cooper School was named after the guy who lived here, I bet. And it says Joshua Glover stayed here, too!” He rattled off the rest of the information and ran on to the next place.
Blaze laughed. “Can’t you see him as a tour guide someday?”
“I could see him leading those wilderness survival trips where they live off grub worms and cactus juice.”
“Could be.”
They caught up with Adam in front of Lincoln School, built in the late 1850s as Burlington’s first high school. In front of the building stood a monument honoring Dr. Edward G. Dyer. “I read about him,” Adam said. “He hid runaway slaves in his attic at least three times and they all came back years later to thank him.”
“I wonder how often that happened.” Tears stung Emily’s eyes as she pictured that kind of reunion. “Imagine being responsible for someone’s freedom.”
She knew what it felt like to take it away.
They stood in front of a two-story white house with a flat roof and white pillars. As Adam began his travelogue about the holes cut in the shed that once stood behind the Perkins house, Emily’s phone buzzed. She pulled it out and looked at it. Susan. She was about to turn the ringer off when she realized that right now, with an excuse not to talk long, was a good time to answer. “Hi there.” Keep it light. Sound happy.
“Hey! You busy?”
“Actually, I am. I’m taking a historical tour of the town just south of Rochester.”
“Sounds boring. I just wanted to make sure you’re doing okay. You haven’t answered my calls.”
“Yeah. Sorry. I’ve been crazy busy with the house.”
“Well, you’re going to get a break next weekend.”
Emily’s stomach knotted. “Yeah. I’m looking forward to it.” Liar. The thought of twenty-four hours with Dawn Anne and Sierra made her chest pound like a scene in The Tell-Tale Heart. “It’ll be good to catch up with them.”
“And me.”
The knot spasmed. “What?”
“I can’t let you three be together without me.”
“But I thought they were coming to Michigan.”
“They are. But Craig’s got business in Milwaukee next week, so I’ll fly over with him and drive back with Dawn Anne and Sierra. How perfect is that?”
“That’s…wonderful.”
A Susan pause followed—the time it took for her sister’s bottom lip to form the pout that turned her husband and parents to mush— and made Emily glad there was a massive lake between them. “It’s not, is it? It’s because of the baby, isn’t it? I knew it would be hard for you, but I thought you’d at least be able to be happy for us knowing what we’ve gone through and how much—”
“I am happy. It’s wonderful. You’re having a little boy. That’s… wonderful. I’ll see you Saturday then.” She didn’t bother with good-bye.
Blaze, who’d heard her half of the conversation, seemed to sense her need for silence and kept Adam engaged on the rest of the tour. Emily forced a smile as they walked back into the museum. The man held up a book. “I found something. Not much, but here in some of Dr. Dyer’s notes there’s an entry dated May 12, 1863, saying that Thomas Shaw brought his grandson Luke Keegan in with a serious case of poison ivy. He recommended an oatmeal plaster twice a day.” The man smiled. “Don’t suppose that tells you much.”
She read the date again—1863. Dorothy had said Thomas had remarried and they’d had sons together. They would still have been children in 1863. Luke Keegan could have been the son of a stepchild. Or he could have been Hannah’s. Emily cleared her throat, “We’ll have to do some research on the name Keegan, I guess. Thank you.” Eyes smarting again with tears she couldn’t hold back, she turned and walked out into the sunlight.
Hannah, did you marry the man of your dreams? Did you bear him a son?
Black sheets. Black walls. Black thoughts.
Emily knelt on a rug that matched the rest of the décor and stretched toward a medieval-looking light fixture. It was just after nine, but her hips were feeling every concrete foot of the Burlington walk. She was exhausted, but if she didn’t loosen up before getting into bed, she’d be calling for help to get out of it in the morning.
And just who would come to her rescue? She folded, head-down, lumbar muscles stretching as her imagination did the same.
Blaze’s plan to find a wife for her son battled with Emily’s plan to stay detached while she accomplished what she came here to do. Like a neutral referee, one thought stood between the two, arms akimbo, silver whistle blaring over the cacaphony. “Why,” the ref shouted, “can’t you have both?” If there was a woman in California willing to pay her eleven hundred dollars a week to watch her kids, there had to be similar opportunites in Milwaukee or Chicago.
She’d passed a test on her back porch with paper and scissors and two little boys—she could still love on kids without falling apart. She could move to a Chicago suburb or some ritzy area of Milwaukee, close enough to see Jake and the kids.
Reaching toward the black ceiling again, she took a deep breath of reality.
Money was only a part of the problem. She couldn’t move one step closer to Jake without telling him the truth. All of it. No more flirting, no more soul-baring talks about everything but what really mattered. No more almost kisses. She’d avoid him until after her weekend with Sierra and Dawn Anne. And then she’d tell him. And then she’d leave. Unless…
With a low groan she stood, snapped the light switch, and crawled into bed.
Jake’s bed.
And he was in hers.
She stared into the thick blackness and listened to the hum of cidadas through the screen of the small window. Last night a fan had kept the air moving in the concrete-walled room. Tonight the fan was gone and only the slightest whisper of muggy night air descended.
The battle continued in the dark. Lying on her back in Jake’s bed, in a town where she wasn’t supposed to know anyone, she felt like Gulliver in the hands of the Lilliputians. Each person she’d met threw a rope over an appendage. Adam, Lexi, Blaze, Tina, Michael, Russell, Dorothy. And the thickest rope, the one tossed over her neck, tightened in Jake’s hand.
Lord, what am I supposed to do? The prayer formed on a half-asleep sigh. She had no right to come before the throne of God with a request for herself, but she was too tired to take it back.
“What was her name again?”
The loud voice came from above and to her left. Emily opened her eyes. Only a pinpoint of light from her laptop on the floor in the corner eased the pitch blackness. She bunched Jake’s pillow and turned onto her right side, rounding her stiff back as she curled into a fetal position. She must have been dreaming.
“Let’s bring our shoes inside. They’ll get all dewy.” The distinct sound of a tent zipper followed. “Her name is Heidi.”
That voice she recognized. Lexi. Outside her window.
“Why did they break up?”
“Because of me and Adam. Jake was crazy about her, and Adam and I adored her, but Jake thought spending time with Heidi took time away from us. And planning a wedding so soon after my mom died wouldn’t be cool.”
“But you’re sure he still loves her?”
“Oh yeah. He keeps a box of her letters under his bed. I’ve seen it sitting out tons of times.”
Emily sat up and hugged Jake’s pillow.
“Wow. Unrequited love.” An angst-filled sigh accompanied the wistful statement. “Beautiful, but so sad.”
“I know.” Lexi sniffed. Her voice was tight. “I just wish there was something I could do. I hate to see Jake so miserable.”
“And think how Heidi must be feeling. Do you think she resents you for coming between them?”
“She’s way too sweet for that. I know she only wants the best for us, but she has to be sad. They were MFEO.” Lexi whooshed a sigh louder than the one before. “Let’s go to sleep. Maybe we’ll dream of something to do.”
“Maybe. ‘Night, Lex.”
“‘Night, Naomi.”
MFEO? Emily’s sleep-fogged brain processed slowly. And then a scene from Sleepless in Seattle came into focus. Meg Ryan reading a letter… “Can’t wait to meet you in New York and see if we’re MFEO.”
Made for each other.
To which the other character replies, “It’s like a little clue.”
Moving as stealthily as the injured cat that probably slept in the tent outside her window, she eased back onto her knees on the black rug. Stretching in the middle of the night was sometimes necessary after a long day on her feet. Reaching up toward the ceiling, she curved her neck to the right then the left. Had she locked the door? No. Why would she?
She hadn’t planned on snooping through Jake’s things.
After a moment, her eyes adjusted to the blackness. The tiny blue light illuminated outlines, enough to keep her from banging her hip into the desk or knocking over the wastebasket. She padded across the cool floor and felt for the door handle. The button in the center of the handle slid in and turned without a sound and she tiptoed back to the rug.
On her knees again, an ethical battle ensued. She had no right to rifle through his things. Besides, what could she possibly gain from reading old love letters? She laughed at the irony. She’d been reading and rereading old love letters so often in the past week she’d memorized them. And she’d bought a small fireproof safe to protect them. The letters under the bed were a piece of Jake’s history. If they still existed. And wasn’t that all she really wanted to know?
Her hand slid under the bed and came out with a dirty sock. She wouldn’t read the letters. She just wanted to know if he really still kept them. Her fingers skimmed a book. Bound in soft leather, it had to be a Bible. If she found the box, what would it tell her about Jake? That he still had feelings for the woman? That he was simply sentimental? Or maybe all she’d learn was that he never cleaned under his bed. She flattened on the rug. One fingernail scraped cardboard. Strange that she could tell it was a box just from the sound. Her chest tightened. This was Sierra’s every waking moment. Had her senses heightened in this short time? Did she hear and feel things sighted people didn’t?
Hooking her finger under the lid of the box, she pulled it toward her. In a week she’d know more about Sierra’s world than she wanted to. One week to steel herself, two days in a hotel to pretend it was a patch of ice that changed both of their lives forever.
She slid the box over to her computer. The miniscule light brightened then faded. She tucked the computer in the crook of her arm and pointed the light at the box. It only needed to be bright enough to confirm there were letters inside. She lifted the cover. A thin purple ribbon fluttered into the box. Her stomach flipped.
She’d used the trick herself. In junior high, whenever she suspected Susan of reading her diary, she marked a page with a thread laid just so through a particular word. The thread wouldn’t move unless someone opened the book.
So Jake had assumed she’d be nosing around. And now she’d have to face him. Should she ‘fess up or wait until he found out? She picked up the ribbon and spread it across the open top. Shiny side up or down? A woman would always put it up. A man wouldn’t care. She put it down. Her gaze skimmed the top letter. It was typed. That made more sense. Maybe they were e-mails he’d printed out. Who wrote letters these days? She thought of the “love” texts from Keith: HEY. THINKING OF U IN BLACK DRESS.
Hannah had no idea how fortunate she was to be born in an era where men used pens and weren’t offended by flowery answers.
She didn’t mean to read the first line. Or the second. She hadn’t expected the light to be this bright.
Jake, my sweet darling,
My lips still burn from your kiss. My heart beats like a herd of wild horses, and I can’t wait until tomorrow when you hold me in your big, strong arms again.
Emily’s upper lip curled. Eeww. The box was heavy. Were they all equally sappy? Hannah Shaw might have gotten away with it back when melodrama was the norm, but in this day and age it was simply weird. If this was the kind of woman Jake was after, she didn’t stand a chance. She put the tampered box back in its place. Instead of crawling back into bed with jealous tears, she pulled the black sheet over her head and stifled her laughter. In Jake’s pillow.
She fell asleep in seconds, but her eyes shot open after what seemed like only moments. Not a noise this time. A thought. A word. Tomorrow. The sappy letter said, “I can’t wait until tomorrow when you hold me…”
When was tomorrow?
Kicking the covers aside, she eased out of bed and rewound her last few steps. Sliding the box, moving the ribbon, lifting the letter. No date. She set it aside. A picture lay on top. Jake, nuzzling the cheek of the dark-haired woman she’d seen at Chances. She turned it over. “Heidi and Jake forever” was scrawled on the back. She jammed it along the side of the box and looked at the second letter.
My sweet Jake,
I’m so happy you changed your mind about liking that Foster lady. I know we can only meet secretly until you finish her house. Because I know how much you love me, I will wait patiently for the day when we can be together always.
All my love, Heidi
Emily threw the purple ribbon into the box, slammed the cover, and kicked it under the bed.
Floating houses, the Golden Gate Bridge, art studios, sailboats, houses nestled into the side of the hill overlooking the bay—Emily looked up from her laptop, took a sip of latte, and breathed in the smell of fresh-baked cinnamon rolls. Artwork by a local artist covered the coffee shop walls.
A perfect setting for planning a future.
The time in the bottom corner of her screen gave the go-ahead. It was eight-fifteen in California. She’d catch Cara on her way to work.
The voice that greeted her was much perkier than yesterday’s. “Hey, Em. Sorry about yesterday. I was a mess. Don’t know why we got cut off.”
Emily smiled at the surfer silhouetted on her screen, backlit by a twenty-four-karat-gold sunset. “No problem. Did you know Otis Redding wrote ‘Dock of the Bay’ in Sausalito?”
The squeal hurt her ear. “You’re going to take the job?”
“I’m going to apply. Maybe she’s already found someone.”
“She hasn’t. I was serious when I said I told her to stop looking. I guess you should send her your résumé and references, but honestly, I don’t think she’ll even look at them. The job’s yours, girlfriend.”
Emily leaned her chin on her hand. If she closed her eyes, she’d be on that beach, reclining in the sand, watching the last rays of California sun kiss the muscled bronzed back of the surfer. He’d turn and smile and say, “Hi, I’m Fabio. I don’t want children, but I do want you.” Relief giggled up in her like a shaken soda bottle. Anyone in the coffee shop who couldn’t see her headset would label her a nut case.
No more concerns about the housing market. No more moving to a town and trying to figure out how to live in it without becoming part of it. The most obvious “no more” she’d have to deal with soon. But not until she had a guarantee in writing from her future employer whose name she didn’t yet know. “E-mail all the info.” She crossed her legs and a sudden familiar spasm grabbed just below and to the left of L4. She stood, stepped behind the chair, and pushed down on the top of the chair back with both hands. Emergency decompression. “Do you know the ages of the kids?”
“Yeah. Cute kids. She has a whole wall of black-and-whites of them at the gallery. They’re on her website. She planned them exactly two years apart. Can you believe it? They were all born in the business lull right after Christmas. How’s that for planning?”
“How old are they?”
“Oh yeah. The girl is five. One boy is three, the other’s a year and a half.”
A year and a half. Born right after Christmas. They could have been in the hospital at the same time. Straightening her arms elongated her spine. The spasm weakened along with her resolve. Flipping a house on her own—wielding a sledgehammer and carrying eight-foot slabs of Sheetrock—might be easier than pretending to parent someone else’s children. Eighteen-month-old children needed to be picked up. And read to. And rocked. And snuggled. Massaging her low back, she slid back onto the chair. “Send me the info.”
But not a picture.