Chapter 4
Adam Sutton rummaged in the back of a bathroom drawer that should have been cleaned out months ago. There had to be something in here that could camouflage the lump on his cheek.
When he found a tube labeled “concealer,” he had to work up the guts to pull the cap off. Just opening the drawer made the whole room smell like Mom.
He was reading a book on the brain and how memory works. The olfactory bulb is part of the brain’s limbic system…closely associated with memory and feeling…sometimes referred to as the “emotional brain.” He looked up at the clock that used to make bird sounds every hour and the birdhouse border surrounding the room. He’d laughed at Mom for stenciling it. “Looks like little outhouses,” he’d told her. The candle on the back of the toilet was covered with dust. Black crumbles of wick speckled the wax. It hadn’t been lit in almost a year. He picked it up and held it to his nose. Green apple. Smell has the power to call up memories and powerful responses almost instantaneously.
As he pulled the cap off, he breathed through his mouth. The olfactory bulb has intimate access to the amygdala, which processes emotion. Science had theories and rules to explain just about everything.
But sadness didn’t follow rules.
Running the tip of his finger over the rounded top of the tan concealer, he tried not to think that the last skin it had touched was his mother’s. Dabbing it under his eye, he winced at the sting, and at the kind of hurt that didn’t show up swollen and purple.
In movies, people talked about being afraid that the face of the person they loved wouldn’t stay in their memory. Maybe that would happen to him someday, but there wasn’t a night he didn’t see his mother’s smile—so clear that at times he actually reached out to hug her as he pulled up his own covers and tucked himself in bed.
He replaced the cap, closed the drawer and his eyes.
New smells filtered under the bathroom door. Eggs, toast, bacon.
He put his hand on the doorknob. Smells would not trigger memories, however, if it weren’t for conditioned responses. He walked out to the kitchen, where a miniature replica of his mother stood in front of the stove, one hand on her hip, the other stirring eggs in a pan. “Morning.” He took four pieces of toast out of the toaster and began buttering.
“Good morning.” Lexi waved a spatula at him. “Don’t do that,” she whispered. “I’ll get to it.”
Lexi was always protecting him. Adam’s mouth hadn’t learned how to stay shut like hers. “If I get in trouble for butter—”
“Get out!” The floor vibrated as Ben slogged into the kitchen. “You got time on your hands? Get started on the lawn.”
Adam’s fingers coiled around the knife. Lexi warned him with a look. He turned away from her, stared at the chunk of butter sliding off the knife and onto the bread. He’d promised Mom he’d take care of his sister, and standing back and watching her cook every meal and wash every dish wasn’t taking care of her. “I’ll get out after I eat.” He spread butter on the last piece of toast and reached into the cupboard for a plate.
Two heavy steps lumbered toward him. The floor groaned. The toast hit the floor. Adam’s back hit the refrigerator.
He didn’t care about the place on his arm that would match his cheek by the time he got to school.
He did care about the tears on Lexi’s face.
One arm wrapped around a bundle of two-by-fours, Jake descended the rickety cellar stairs. The cool was a welcome relief from the heat of the attic.
Working around two other jobs, he’d managed to rewire and insulate Emily’s third story in just over a week. Determined to convince her to put the wrecking ball away and stick her money into new fixtures and cabinets, he’d dedicated his few spare moments to drawing up plans.
Emily wanted to get involved, so he’d suggested she refinish the corner cupboard in the kitchen. The rest of the cabinets had been installed in the fifties or sixties. They had to go, but she’d grudgingly agreed to give this one original piece a second chance. She’d been on her knees, totally engrossed in sanding when he’d peeked in a moment ago. Whether or not she admitted it, she was enjoying the job.
The woman would learn to appreciate history if it killed him.
He dropped the boards and aimed his worklights at the shelves. He’d cut half a dozen braces when he heard halting steps behind him. Emily held out a glass of iced tea.
He took the glass. “Thank you. How’s it coming?”
She shrugged. “It’s coming.”
Hands on hips, Jake studied her. Something about her tone sounded fakely bored. He waited.
The tiniest of smiles snuck across perfectly bowed lips. “I know what you’re up to.” One finger wagged at him. “You’re hoping that cupboard and I have a bonding moment.”
“And? Are you?”
She looked away. “I will admit it has potential.”
“That’s always the first step in a relationship.” Jake took a deep draught of tea and watched as the comment sank in and her right eyebrow disappeared behind a lock of hair. “Good tea.” He set the glass on the ledge under the window.
“Anything I can do to help down here?”
“Sure. An extra set of”—pale, smooth—“hands would be a help. Grab that board.”
With an almost masked grimace, she picked it up and handed it to him.
Jake considered pretending he hadn’t noticed, but he wasn’t all that good at pretending. “Should you be doing that? If it hurts, don’t—”
“I’m just stiff from being in one position too long. I loosen up if I move.” She looked away. “I was in a skiing accident a year and a half ago. I’m basically recovered, just not as graceful as I once was.”
Now what was a guy supposed to say to that? He mimicked her eyebrow arch. “You used to be graceful?”
Her eyes glittered, lit by an actual smile. “I used to glide across the dance floor. Graceful as a swan.” Her arms lifted straight out, moving fluidly like soft waves.
Jake swallowed hard. What she’d intended as a goofy shtick mesmerized him. He managed a laugh. And managed not to tell her she was beautiful.
She put her hands on her hips. Every time she did that he had the impression she hadn’t always been the timid woman she appeared to be now. Her head tilted, giving him a new angle from which to appraise her chin. He’d always thought “heart-shaped” was a strange way to describe a face. Until now.
“I have a confession.” She rested a fingertip on her chin. As if he needed it pointed out. “A concession.”
He couldn’t help the grin. “You’re keeping the dining room wall.”
“Not a chance. But—I want to keep the old windows. The glass, anyway. Is that possible—to replace the frames but keep the old glass?”
“Of course.” His grin morphed to a smirk.
“Don’t go getting your hopes up. I’m not caving. I’m refining my vision.”
“Whatever you want to call it.”
“You’ve got to be the only remodeler in the country who has to be begged to do more extensive work. My vision makes you money.”
He turned toward the shelf. “Oh, I’ll make money off you. Don’t you worry about that.” He picked up a hammer. “I started working on some ideas last night.”
“I’m hearing the cha-ching already.”
“That’s the sound of quality you’re hearing. You get what you pay for. If you want a decent return on your investment, you won’t cut corners.” And you won’t desecrate a historic landmark. “If you want cheap and fast…”
Her gaze hardened.
“Any problem with securing this to the wall?” He gestured toward the peeling bead board that showed between the boards.
“No. Whatever it takes. I’ve got all my earthly possessions in Rubbermaid bins.”
He rapped his fist against the wood. “It looks stur—“The entire wall swung inward a good inch, banging at the bottom. “What in the…?” He looked up. The top edge of the wood hid behind a ceiling beam. “Do you know what’s behind this?”
She shook her head. As if needing to test the wall’s stability herself, she pushed the panel. Again, it banged at the bottom.
Jake stepped back. The shelves butted up to the adjacent wall on the left, but not on the right.
“Why don’t you stand back a bit? I’ll try moving this.” He grabbed hold of the freestanding shelving unit. It swayed side-to-side, but he couldn’t budge it away from the wall.
Emily stepped in front of him and placed her hands below his. Her ponytail tickled his Adam’s apple. She smelled like the lemon slices floating in the glass on the ledge. “One…two…three.”
It didn’t move. They both stepped away. Jake looked again at the way the top of the wall was hidden from view. With one finger on his lips, he tapped out a nameless tune and then suddenly stopped. He took a closer look at the bead board. His breath caught. “There are two parts.” He pointed to the right side of the wall. “See if you can slide it toward me.”
“The wall?”
“Yes.”
Emily slid her fingers between wood and rock, pulled, and gasped. The entire thing slid, clanging into the far wall. “It’s a door!”
Cool, stale air wafted through the opening. “What do you see?”
“Nothing.”
Jake bent down and dug in his toolbox for a flashlight. He flicked it on and stepped behind her, lighting up the darkness.
“It’s a room.”
Tamping down his curiosity, he handed the flashlight to Emily. The light arced across rock walls. He tried to peer around her.
“Looks like an old cistern.” She slipped through the opening. “But there are shelves.” Her voice echoed.
Turning sideways, Jake squeezed through the opening and stared at the shadowy emptiness. Low, two-foot-wide boards braced with thick posts lined three walls.
Emily rubbed her bare arms. “It must be ten degrees colder in here. A root cellar maybe.”
He didn’t answer. The width of the bottom shelves reminded him of something altogether different—berths in the hold of an ancient ship.
The flashlight beam bounced from wall to ceiling and stopped at a square door in the wood above their heads. “Where does that lead? Wouldn’t it open under the porch?”
“It would now. Maybe the porch wasn’t there when the door was put in.”
Emily ran the beam across high shelves and a row of black hooks. “It looks like a coatroom like you see in old schoolhouses.” She lowered herself to a bench and scanned the room for a long moment then turned her eyes to him. “This feels significant. I can’t explain it. I guess that sounds crazy….” Her voice trailed to a whisper. She flattened her hand against a wall.
She didn’t sound crazy at all. He didn’t believe in ghosts, but the space almost vibrated with a sensation of—Emily had nailed it—significance. He reached up and touched the cold roughness of an iron hook. “I think you’re right.”
The flashlight painted the walls in systematic strokes. Floor to ceiling, ceiling to floor. When the beam reached the northwest corner, it stopped. The halo of light spilled onto the bench. Emily leaned forward then rose and stepped closer. The light concentrated into a plate-sized disk. She knelt. “Come here,” she whispered.
Jake crouched behind her. Carved into the bench was a picture he’d seen before—four five-petal flowers with rounded petals and two concentric circles in the center of each, connected by stems with three leaves. Crude block characters curved around one side of the wreath, spelling out “MARIAH 1852.”
His long, low whistle split the shadows, eclipsing Emily’s gasp. “What do you know about the Underground Railroad, Miss Foster?”
September 2, 1852
Water lilies brushed the sides of the canoe with a soft whisper. Quiet, yet more noise than Liam would have liked. The night was still. A chill hung over the moonlit river in clouds of low fog, engulfing him in thick gray mist one moment then dropping like a sheet falling from a clothesline the next. Paddling just enough to steer clear of the bank, he combed the river’s edge with seasoned eyes. His newly rifled musket rested on his thigh. A dozen minié balls rattled in his pocket like a handful of lead acorns. But the weapon that fit his hands as if he’d been born with two fingers attached to the string nestled beside him like a trusty hound. Balancing his paddle across his knees, he reached over his shoulder and stroked the turkey fletching of an arrow pulled out, ready and waiting, from the others in his quiver. Soon. A half mile ahead, a clearing created a gathering place. As the deer nibbled on the lily pads and stems, he would find the young buck that had eluded him for three nights.
He shifted his cramped legs, inadvertently grazing the traps with his boot. Chains rattled. Liam gritted his teeth. Ten more yards and he’d pass Hannah’s porch. No one should have to travel at night in this dampness that seeped through buckskin like it was parchment.
With a deep breath for courage, he let his gaze travel the riverbank to the porch. Two rugs hung over the railing. His heart missed two beats. His stomach felt as though he’d swallowed the bullets in his breast pocket.
He would be back tomorrow night.