The House on Foster Hill
Jaime Jo Wright
I washed the weather and the journey from my face and hands, and went out to the memorable old house that it would have been so much the better for me never to have entered, never to have seen. . . .
That was a memorable day to me, for it made great changes in me. But it is the same with any life. Imagine one selected day struck out of it, and think how different its course would have been. Pause you who read this, and think for a moment of the long chain of iron or gold, of thorns or flowers, that would never have bound you, but for the formation of the first link on one memorable day.
Charles Dickens, Great Expectations
Chapter 1
Jvy
OAKWOOD, WISCONSIN
MARCH 1906
Death had a way of creeping up on a soul, and Ivy Thorpe was determined that when it visited her, she would not be surprised. Her story would be recorded and remembered. There was nothing worse than seeing the casing of a soul that had drifted into eternity, knowing the body would return to dust while the life lived became a tin-plated photograph with a forgotten name. Lives lost in the passage of time. Unremembered. Like Andrew.
Ivy averted her eyes from the path leading to the pond where her brother had died. A different soul needed her attention today. Shedding tears over Andrew would only waste time and leave her dehydrated.
“Where did they find her?” She posed her question to her father, whose long strides were in rhythm with the medical bag swinging from his hand at his side.
He stepped over a tree root buried just under the surface of the dirt road. “In the hollowed oak tree.”
Ivy hoisted the hemline of her green wool skirt. She frowned. The tree was ancient, and the memories it had witnessed fascinated Ivy’s curiosity. Stories hidden in its leafless soul—if such a thing were possible.
“The oak that has no bark on its trunk?”
Her father gave a curt nod. He was as focused as she was but for different reasons. The mind of a doctor dubbing as medical examiner would be spinning with the questions about how the deceased died. Or what the method of death could tell them about her last moments? But for Ivy, separating the person from the science of her death was impossible. Who was she? Not just her name, or if she struck a familiar chord, or could be identified. But, what was her story? What memories did she leave behind, and what hearts were broken in the wake of her passing? Ivy blinked to shove away a surge of unwelcome sentiment. Grief was a high currency to pay for loving someone, and she paid her dues on a moment-by-moment basis.
Trees arched over the road, their scraggly arms outstretched. Spring was on its way, though ice was still trapped in tree crevices, with patches of snow in the shaded pockets of the root base. As they rounded the corner, Foster Hill came into view, so named for the town’s founding family. At the top, glaring down at them with empty eyes, was Foster Hill House. It had been abandoned before Ivy was born. The years had not been kind to the old house.
Ivy squinted into the sudden glare of sunlight as the bright orb escaped from behind gray clouds. Several men congregated at the bottom of Foster Hill, their backs to her and her father as they surrounded the base of the largest oak tree in Oakwood, Wisconsin. Three of the men she recognized: the sheriff, his deputy, and Mr. Foggerty, who liked to trap animals on the abandoned property—mostly raccoon and mink by the stream that ran into the pond, and . . .
“For all that’s holy.” Ivy froze, releasing her grip on her skirt and allowing the hemline to settle on the muddy earth.
“Ivy!” Her father should be used to her unorthodox exclamations by now.
“Joel.” She knew the lifeless expression in her voice did nothing to represent the pounding of her heart in her ears. Her vision grazed the broad back encased in a black wool coat. The fedora that tilted on his head hid the majority of the familiar dark brown hair, but Ivy still narrowed her eyes at the strong column of his neck.
“Who?” Her father resumed his long strides, unwilling to allow Ivy’s momentary shock to dissuade him from reaching the body discovered only an hour earlier.
Ivy matched his pace, yet this time she questioned whether uncovering the dead woman’s story was as critical as avoiding Joel. The orphan. The childhood miscreant. Her best friend, who had abandoned her when she’d needed him most so many years before.
“Joel. Cunningham.” She reminded her father. “Andrew’s Joel.” My Joel.
“Oh!” The name jolted her father’s memory and earned her a sideways glance.
Yes. Him. Ivy’s unspoken words to her father sparked a different light in his eyes. Would he defend her now, or did he still believe Joel had a reasonable explanation for his behavior that night? Her relationship with her father had never been quite the same since Andrew’s death and Joel’s subsequent actions.
The men turned as they neared. Joel’s hands were deep in his trouser pockets. He twisted just enough so she could see his squared jaw, furrowed brows in that old familiar look of concentration, and his blue eyes. Blue eyes with a hint of gray. A flicker of recognition lighted in them, then vanished, as if he’d snuffed it out along with their past. Their friendship merely a speck on the timeline of their lives. Ivy avoided his gaze, stiffening her shoulders. He wasn’t worth her consideration. She bit her bottom lip as a rush of memories threatened to overwhelm her. He really wasn’t, she convinced herself.
“How old is she?” Ivy’s father dispensed with formal greetings, and he brushed between the men to approach the tree.
“No idea.” Sheriff Dunst’s voice carried on a cold gust of March wind.
Ivy set her focus on the tree. It was long rumored that the Foster Hill oak tree was not only the largest but also the oldest tree in Oakwood. While its top rose to a marvelous height, it was still dead and its branches never blossomed. The trunk was very wide at the base and split open to reveal a hollow inside. Many a child had hidden there during a rambunctious game of hide-and-seek. They wouldn’t hide there anymore. Not after today.
The petite body was curled into the position of a babe, inside the tree’s womb. Blond hair hung free over her cold, bare shoulders and floated out on the wind. Her torso was covered in a paper-thin dress of gray calico. It was nowhere near enough to keep her warm, but it was more than the cold that tinted the young woman’s skin blue. It was death.
Ivy watched as her father fingered the wrist. It was clearly too late. As Ivy tilted her head to see around his shoulder, she sensed a presence beside her. Joel. Their eyes met, locked, and then broke. The next breath Ivy took shuddered, and she hated herself for it. Years had passed. Joel should no longer affect her with such magnitude.