The Rose of Winslow Street (3 page)

“I don't know,” Michael admitted. “Many of the plants in America will be different from what we are used to back home.”

“I like these pictures,” Luke said. “Let's take down the picture of the scary old man and put up one of these instead.”

It was not a bad idea. Michael disliked looking at Professor Sawyer every time he entered the parlor, the man's blank stare as he held the strange gyroscope a constant reminder of the family he was evicting. Michael picked up a framed painting of a spectacular amaryllis. “Let's hang this one up over the fireplace,” he said. “Slide the others back under the sofa and keep your hands off them. Grubby boys and fancy parchment are not a good mix.”

He lifted the picture gently, knowing that he must not damage anything in the house. He still felt bad about the drainboard he had cracked while cleaving the cheese into pieces, but it had been worth it to see the delight in his boys' eyes. He had been showing off his skill with the hatchet, which was stupid, but it felt good to be a family again. For a few hours that morning he had felt like a normal man waking up in his home and sharing a laugh with his children. He had been only twenty-four when Andrei was born, but the war meant he rarely had a chance to enjoy the simple pleasures most men probably took for granted. Now, at thirty-six, Michael would finally learn what it was like to be a normal father who did not have to fear separation from his children ever again.

He took down the portrait of Professor Sawyer and gave it to Andrei to hold.

“What are you doing?” Mirela asked from the far side of the room. She had been there all this time and no one even noticed her.

“Just swapping this picture out for a better one,” he said.

“And Joseph and Turk? Where are they?” Sometimes it was hard to tell if Mirela was being bossy or if she was afraid. Or, most likely, a combination of the two. Had there ever been a woman with such a unique combination of kindness and autocratic willpower as Mirela?

“I sent them to town for supplies,” he said. “I have discovered an old greenhouse in the backyard. It is in disrepair, but it can be fixed and brought back into service.”

Mirela's eyes narrowed. She had the exact same shade of stormy blue eyes as Michael, but that was where the resemblance ended. Mirela's skin was like ivory and her hair a glossy black sheen she brushed a hundred strokes each night. “Michael, please don't make any more changes to this house. We can't afford it, and a greenhouse is a luxury.”

He shook his head. “We need that greenhouse. I will be able to plant the seeds I brought from Romania. Too much of our fortune is wrapped up in those seeds to be careless with them, and the greenhouse is a godsend.”

Andrei looked at him curiously. “Why can't we just plant them in the ground? Why do they need a greenhouse?”

Michael cast a wary glance out the window. It was a hot, humid day in late May, but autumn was coming and he knew the winters of New England would be harsher than anything they had known in Romania. “Our seedlings will be too young to survive the winter without a little help. A greenhouse can do that for them.”

Mirela sank down onto an oversized leather chair. She looked as fragile as a porcelain doll as she was enveloped by the carved sides of the wing-back chair, but she smiled a bit as she curled her legs beneath her like a little girl. “I'm sure you'll take good care of your plants, Michael. Just like you look after all of us. I wish I could do more to help.”

He swung his head in her direction, looking for any trace that she might be on the verge of breaking down. In the last few months, Mirela had finally regained a semblance of normalcy, but every day had been a struggle. On the ship across the ocean she had been forced into close proximity with hundreds of strangers, but she never once complained, even though she sometimes clenched her fists until her knuckles went white.

“You
have
helped us,” Michael asserted. “Look at how quickly the boys are learning English now that you have been teaching them.”

“You don't have to say that just to make me feel good,” she said. It was true that Mirela had been a burden since the day she fled to his house last year, but considering the type of life she had been born to lead, her courage in following them into the unknown was extraordinary. Still, the hopeless tone in Mirela's voice was obvious, and Michael rubbed the ridge of the scar that marred his cheek, wondering what life would have been like for Mirela had she chosen to remain in Europe. He pivoted and strode to kneel down beside her chair. His voice was low but firm.

“Stop saying you are not helpful to us,” he said. “You complete our family merely by existing. We would be a pack of barnyard animals if you were not here to keep us in line.” She dropped her gaze as though she did not believe him, which was maddening because Mirela was the finest person he had ever known.

He grabbed her hand, imploring her to look at him. “Mirela, you were two weeks old the first time I saw you. I remember when your baby carriage was wheeled into the garden. You wore the most extravagant baby gown I've ever seen, with little pearls and lace covering every inch. The sun was shining and your tiny face was squeezed up like you were sucking a lemon, but for me, it was love at first sight. From that moment I would have stepped in front of a stampeding cavalry for you. You are the reason men fight battles and write symphonies. We
need
you, Mirela.”

And for the first time in almost a year, when tears started to pool in the bottom of Mirela's eyes, they were tears of happiness. How many months had he watched Mirela wobble on the thin edge between reason and despair? If she could pull through this suffocating wall of despondency, Mirela's true spirit would emerge like a piece of white hot metal that had been tempered and strengthened by the firestorm she had endured. “You belong with us,” he said with conviction. “You are my sister. We are a family, and we are
home
.”

Two fat tears grew larger and spilled down Mirela's cheeks as she traced a finger down the scar on Michael's face. “I never really felt like I had a family until you took me in,” she said in a fragile voice. “All of you have been so kind to me. I could not ask for a better family.”

Michael swallowed hard against the tug in his throat and a suspicious sting behind his eyes. If this sentimental talk did not stop, he was going to be un-manned in front of his boys. He gave Mirela's hand a good shaking. “Tell me I am the best brother you have ever had.”

She gave a watery gulp of laughter. “That is certainly true!”

“The most handsome too.”

A glint of humor showed in her eyes. “Dearest Michael, I am afraid you are now pushing things.”

And Michael breathed a sigh of relief. For now, Mirela was back on an even keel.

A
ll the despair in the world was encapsulated in Tillie's precious little five-year-old face. Libby knelt beside the child on the floor of her brother's summer cottage and saw tears well in Tillie's huge brown eyes, her lower lip trembling with pure tragic grief. A pint-sized Joan of Arc, misunderstood and condemned by the world.

“Mama says I have to go to bed and I'm going to miss the eclipse,” she sobbed.

Libby wanted to scoop the child up and kiss the tears away, but she was only Tillie's aunt, not her mother. For weeks Libby had been telling all the children on the island about tonight's rare lunar eclipse. First the edge of the moon would darken, and then the darkness would gradually overtake the moon until finally the whole moon would take on an eerie red glow. Libby invited the children of the neighborhood to meet in the backyard of her brother's cottage to watch the extraordinary event. Libby and Tillie spent the afternoon making gingersnap cookies and lemonade for the festivities. It promised to be a magical night beneath the stars as they gathered on blankets to watch the miracle of nature that was about to occur.

Only now her sister-in-law had ordered Tillie to bed. It seemed cruel for Regina to send Tillie to bed just as the eclipse was about to begin. For days Libby had prepared the children for the eclipse party and would never have included Tillie in those excited conversations if she'd known the child could not attend. Libby knew how it felt to be excluded, and she would face down a firing squad to prevent inflicting such anguish on any child.

Tillie's arms were fierce as they clung to her. “I wish you were my mommy,” she sobbed into Libby's neck.

Libby's eyes widened. “Shh, baby. You have a wonderful mommy,” she managed to say. “She loves you and is just trying to do her best.”
And Cleopatra was just another homemaker struggling to make ends meet.
Libby hoped that white lies weren't really a sin, but didn't Regina know how long Tillie had been anticipating this evening?

Libby closed her eyes and held Tillie closer, savoring the feel of the little arms clinging to her, of the baby-fine curls against her cheek. These summers with Tillie were the best part of her year. Ever since her brother bought this cottage, she and her father had spent their summers on the island. Jasper ran the only bank in their hometown of Colden, Massachusetts, and owned a splendid house in town and one on the island to show for his hard work.

“What has my princess down in the dumps?” Jasper asked. Libby looked over Tillie's glossy curls to see her brother and Regina framed in the kitchen doorway.

“The poor dear is all aflutter about this silly eclipse,” Regina said, which triggered a fresh wave of sobs from Tillie. “Only grown-ups can stay awake long enough to watch eclipses, honey,” Regina said. “Look at how overtired you are already. We need to get you to bed before you make yourself sick with all this foolishness.”

Jasper's dark brows lowered in annoyance. “If we send her up now, we will be listening to her shake the rafters all night. What time is the eclipse?”

Libby's quick glance out the window revealed that children from the island were already beginning to gather in the yard. Their excited chatter filled the night air as they sat on the spread-out blankets covering the rough scrub grass. One of the O'Donnell boys was making spooky sounds while the other children squealed in delight.

“It's a little early yet,” Libby said. “The moon won't start to darken for another twenty minutes or so.”

Jasper checked the watch that was hanging from a chain on his vest and Libby held her breath, praying he would permit Tillie to stay at least until the moon took on the red glow. “We won't have any peace if we send her to bed now,” he said. “And I can't see how another hour is going to knock Tillie off her schedule for more than a day or so. Let her join the other kids.”

With her cool blond beauty, Regina was like an ivory rose that remained utterly gorgeous despite a storm brewing around her. Her southern accent had a musical lilt as she turned her doe eyes to Libby. “I know you have not had the opportunity to read
Dr. Goodman's Manual on Childcare,
” she said sweetly, “but this sort of overstimulation can ruin a child for days.”

Libby caught the veiled barb even though it flew right past Jasper, whose mouth hardened into a thin line as he glared once again at his watch. Despite his law school training, he only had about a fifty-fifty record when it came to battles with Regina. “Libby, take Tillie outside while I talk with Regina. I'll let you know shortly what we decide.”

“Good plan,” Libby said as she rose to her feet, Tillie still huddled in her arms. She scooped up a tray of the gingersnaps before angling her way through the door. She deposited Tillie on the weathered planking of the porch so she could close the door to block the sound of Jasper arguing with Regina.

There was a low buzz of excitement as Libby joined the group. A few of the older children had gone off to chase fireflies, while others spotted the tray of cookies in Libby's hands and came scampering across the yard toward her.

“Miss Libby! I caught a firefly in my hand! Do you want to see it?”

She struggled to remember the boy's name. His family was summering on the island for the first time this year, but he had joined a group of the children she led on a nature walk into the scrub last weekend. She landed on the boy's name as she peered through the fingers of his cupped hands. “My heavens, Samuel! It looks like you have managed to catch two of the little critters in there. We should rename you the Wild Man of St. Catherine's Island.”

At her compliment, the boy beamed and seemed to grow two inches. Tillie's spirits were restored as the little girl trotted around the perimeter of the yard, trying to imitate the older children as they raced to catch fireflies. Libby settled herself onto a blanket and Ivan the Terrible, the petulant stray cat she'd foolishly adopted five years ago, deigned to join her. Whatever loyalty and affection most people received from their pets was an alien concept to Ivan, but she could not bear to leave him to fend for himself in Colden all summer. None of the residents of Winslow Street had much affection for Ivan, and he was liable to starve if she did not take him along.

A glance at the moon revealed that the eclipse was getting closer, so she darkened the two lanterns that were on the corners of the blanket. The children noticed the dimming of the lights and came racing back to her.

“Is it time?”

“Soon,” Libby said. Ivan was spooked by the gathering children and he darted into the scrub. Almost immediately, Samuel flung himself into the vacated spot beside her. “I think you are the prettiest lady on this island,” the little boy said quietly.

Libby bit back a smile.
Wait until you get an eyeful of Regina!
“You are very sweet for saying so,” she whispered. Libby knew most people considered her pretty, with thick chestnut hair and a willowy figure, but those physical blessings had never helped her much in life. She would trade it all for the ability to read and be a normal woman. No one ever treated her quite the same when they discovered she could not read, but children were far less judgmental. Was that why she had always adored children? She watched Tillie chase Ivan in the tall scrub grass and smiled. No, some people were designed in the womb to relate to children, and she was one of them.

She heard a thud of steps on the porch, and then Jasper joined her on the far side of the blanket. “I think I'll join you in your little shindig,” he said. “It is a bit frosty inside the house right now.”

Which meant that Regina was likely to be spitting nails, but at least Tillie would be allowed to see the eclipse. A glance up at the sky revealed that the earth was starting to cast its shadow on the edge of the moon. Some of the children squealed, while others jumped and pointed. Thousands of miles above them, a magnificent act of nature was taking place. So great was her thrill that Libby barely noticed the stranger who rode up to the cottage, dismounted from his horse, and hooked the reins over the hitching post. He was probably just one of the parents of the children, come to share in the excitement.

Tillie raced up to her blanket and curled against Libby's side. “Is it magic?” she asked.

Libby had tried to explain the phenomenon to the children, but honestly, she wasn't sure how to make the concept clear to a five-year-old. She hoisted the child up higher on her lap. “It's a little like magic,” Libby whispered as she gazed over Tillie's head and up at the sky. What a miracle of science and nature that such an event could be predicted, but even more thrilling was the sense of belonging she felt with Tillie's weight on her lap. This evening would not be nearly so magical without the dozen children who were sharing it with her. She breathed deeply of the salty air, trying to imprint the scent and sounds of this night onto her memory.

The screen door slammed and her father staggered down the steps, a small piece of paper clutched in his hand. Professor Sawyer was seventy years old and his gait was often a little on the shaky side, but tonight it was more pronounced than normal. She set Tillie to the side and rose to meet her father.

“Papa? What's wrong?”

He looked confused. His gray hair was always a little wild, but the way he kept dragging his hand through it made it stick out at all angles. In his other hand he held the paper, which had letters printed on it, out toward her. A telegram?

“Someone has taken my house,” he said blankly.

Libby glanced at the cottage behind them. “What are you talking about? We are simply having the neighborhood children over to watch the eclipse.”

He dragged his hand through his hair again and waved the note in her face. “My house. My house in Colden. Someone has taken it.”

Jasper came to stand behind her. “Nonsense,” he said. “You own that house outright. No one can take it from you.”

Now her father was waving the telegram in Jasper's face. “I am telling you,
someone has taken my house
,” he said in his thin, cracking voice. Jasper snatched the paper, but it was too dark outside to read.

“Let's go inside and figure out what is going on,” Jasper said as he headed indoors, Libby's father following close behind. She cast a lingering glance at the moon, now aglow with a hazy red blaze. She lingered for a moment, staring in awe as the brownish-red shade intensified before her very eyes. All the children were staring in wonder, for it was a staggering sight, but she needed to tend to her father.

By the time she arrived inside, her father and Jasper were holding the telegram before the kerosene lantern on the small kitchen table, and now Jasper looked as concerned as her father.

“What has happened?” she asked.

Jasper's dark brows dipped ominously. “It sounds as if a pack of gypsies has invaded the Colden house. They claim to be descendants of the old Cossack. What was his name?”

“Constantine Dobrescu,” her father said. “He came from Romania ages ago, but he never married, never had a family. He was crazy all his life. That house was a wreck when I bought it.”

Jasper tapped the telegram against the table, his expression dumbfounded. Libby wondered what kind of people had the audacity to march inside a house and declare it their own. If they were gypsies, heaven only knows what foul deeds they were committing inside the house.

“Do you have documents proving you paid for the house?” Jasper asked. “A deed?”

“Of course I do,” her father said. “But all the papers are
inside
the house. The filthy thieves have probably burned the deed by now.”

Libby's hand flew to her throat in alarm, but Jasper did not seem concerned. “Anything of importance will be registered at the county courthouse,” he said. “All you need to do is return to Colden and have those documents pulled. It should be a simple matter to show them to the sheriff and have the squatters evicted.”

She was grateful for the calm reassurance in her brother's voice. Neither she nor her father had any grasp of business, but Jasper knew what he was doing. Her father was a brilliant inventor who could rig together a mechanical cooling fan from parts lying about their storage shed, but he was helpless when it came to business affairs and relied on Jasper to look out for the family's interests.

“By heaven, if those gypsies have tampered with any of my inventions, I will have them prosecuted. I'll have them hauled up on charges and deported. Sued for every penny to their name.”

Her father continued to ramble, none of it making much sense. If these people were gypsies, surely they had no money, but there was no point in trying to stop her father's tirade. He was too consumed with worry about the value of the inventions he had stored in the house to think rationally. It was clear he felt violated and cheated and heartsick. As did she.

A terrible thought came to her like a smack in the face. All of her paintings were inside that house. Those paintings were her only source of pride, the only thing that proved she had something of value to offer the world. She would not care if the Mongolian Golden Horde looted every item she owned, so long as her paintings were safe.