The View from Prince Street (11 page)

“You sound so calm.”

“I
am
calm.”

Shaking my head, I raked my fingers through my hair. “I wish I could be more like you. I wish I could shut off the emotion and not feel.”

Rae was silent for a long moment. “Be careful what you wish for, Lisa. Be very careful. Because you might discover being like me is a harder road to travel.”

Rae turned and slowly walked away, her heels clicking on the concrete, leaving me to watch her move to a sleek, black BMW.

“Lisa Smyth . . . super bitch.”

“No argument from me.”

Dearest Mother,

Faith and the babes sleep in the corner of our farmhouse, near the fire. The boys are small but they grow and their skin has the color of health. It was a bitter, cold night and when I awoke, I saw that little Cullen was awake. I rose up, my heart hammering. My bare toes curled when they touched the wooden floor and I quietly crossed to the child and lifted him. I carried him to the rocker and sat, baring my breast so that he could nurse. To my surprise and delight my milk flowed.

When Faith started awake, her gaze immediately searched for her babes. Seeing the bare spot, she scanned the cottage wild-eyed until she saw the boy in my arms.

“Give me my child.”

Her harsh whisper woke Mr. McDonald and he quickly understood. He rose up, his nightshirt billowing around his bare legs. “Leave them,” he said to Faith.

The witch wanted to argue, but the warning beneath my husband's words silenced her. Outside, the wind howled while snow fell. The witch's eyes burned, but she wisely lowered back to her blanket. However, she did not sleep until the babe was fed and returned to her arms.

—P

Lisa Smyth

W
EDNESDAY
, A
UGUST
17, 3:00
P.M.

A
fter seeing Rae at the gravesite today, my I-don't-give-a-shit attitude raced out of the shadows and slid right up next to me. I was suddenly very tired of living my life moment to moment and reminding myself that sobriety was the only choice. Charlie looked up at me with a curious gaze. He sensed a change.

“I'm fine,” I said. “Right as rain.”

I drove out of my way to a store north of the city. I normally didn't stop here, but I'd heard about it at the meeting. Many in the group avoided it because it was known for its massive wine selection.

When I parked, I fished the last chew stick out of my purse and gave it to Charlie. “I'll be right back.” I left the car running with the AC on and dashed across the parking lot. Inside the store, I grabbed a cart and moved along the perimeter of the store, grabbing a bag of apples, milk, a carton of eggs, more chew sticks, bread, and tampons before I made my way to the wine section.

I skimmed my fingertips over the bottles of reds and wanted so
desperately not to care. I wanted to be like Rae and find a way to shut off the feelings, set aside the mantle of guilt, and savor the numbness.

“Is there a wine I can help you buy?”

Startled, I discovered a plump woman with very pleasant features standing close. She wore a burgundy store apron decorated with a collection of wine bottle pins.

“No, thanks.” I rummaged and found a smile not used since I joined AA. It was an overconfident and relaxed smile that messaged that I didn't have a care in the world. I chose a red blend from Texas, not really bothering to ask about the price or the vineyard. “I found exactly what I want.”

She didn't remark on the label as she handed me a white invitation. “We're having a tasting in a half hour. If you're still in the store, stop by. We have some lovely blends we'll be highlighting.”

I tucked the card in my pocket. “Thank you. I might double back.”

Pushing the cart, I moved toward the cashier, grabbing a bag of chips and a bottle of soda. I wanted everyone to know I wasn't here simply for the booze. I was grocery shopping and happened to be restocking supplies. Maybe I'd have a glass. Maybe two. Maybe I wouldn't have any. I could handle this. My God, I'd had it under control for a long time.

The old but familiar lies turned over and over in my head. I moved through the checkout and carefully loaded the groceries in my car. Charlie looked up from his half-eaten chew sticks.

“What are you looking at?” I asked as I settled behind the wheel. “Don't judge.”

The dog continued to stare.

“I bought you more treats.”

His attention lingered a beat before it dropped back to the task of demolishing another chew stick.

When I reached Old Town, I took a right on Washington Street and then a left on Prince Street. The cobblestones of Prince Street rattled the bottles in the bag, making them clink gently against each
other. A parking space opened up and I quickly parallel-parked in front of Amelia's town house. The bags in my hand, Charlie and I hurried inside.

Inside the house, I slowly walked the center hallway to prove I was in no rush, past the collection of pictures I'd developed and framed in the last six weeks. I hadn't taken any new pictures since I'd arrived in Alexandria, and those had been shot during a hike through Montana. God, had it really been three months since I pulled the camera out?

In the kitchen, I dumped the groceries on the counter. Charlie ran to the back door, the stub of a chew stick hanging out of the corner of his mouth. I opened the door and let him outside to the narrow, fenced-in backyard.

Grateful Charlie wasn't watching me, I flipped on a light and moved directly toward the utensil drawer, where I found a wine bottle opener.

The afternoon sun streamed into the large room, which was outfitted with marble countertops, stainless appliances, and an overhead pot rack that held several copper pots Amelia had collected. She had been a marvelous cook and could transform the most random ingredients into a stunning meal.

The kitchen had been updated three years ago when Amelia had the interior renovated. No one had expressed concern that she was foolishly spending money at her advanced age, but she'd liked the idea of giving her home a new life. She'd transformed the house into a real showplace without destroying its historical charm. Her sights had been set on the basement remodel just as her hold on reality began slipping in earnest. She'd left this part of the house for her final project.

Using my thumbnail, I dug into the gold foil seal of the bottle. I tossed it aside and jabbed the corkscrew into the cork and twisted the handle. I should have heard the confusion in her voice and come home earlier. I should have. . . .

Refusing to think, I pushed the levers and worked the cork free until it released with a delicate
pop
.

The scent of the red wine teased my senses as I reached in the cabinet for a coffee mug. I ignored the doubting whispers deep in my brain. I filled the mug nearly to the brim and stared into the ruby depths. I raised it to my nose and let it touch my lips.

The pull was stronger than any rip tide.

“Remember how we used to get hammered in high school?”

I wasn't sure if it were my voice or Jennifer's, but whoever spoke, it was unwelcomed.

“Go away.”

“My God, Lisa, we were hellions back in the day.” Laughter bubbled. “Remember how much beer we could slam back?”

I touched one of the velvet-soft sunflower petals. “You complained about your mother's coldness, and I could only talk about Jerry Trice and wondered why he didn't like me. All I cared about then was boys.”

“And remember the hangovers the next day? We'd order pizza and sit in bed all afternoon, too sick to move? If I had a nickel for all the times I ended up with a jackhammer pounding in my head.” Laughter rose and swirled around my head like storm winds off the Potomac River. “Man, those were the good old days. Sure as shit trumps too many years of not drinking.”

As I raised the stoneware mug to my lips, I spotted my keys, discarded recklessly next to the sack of groceries. Front and center on the key ring were the sobriety chips.

Sobriety was a bitch. I had muscled through depression, sadness, and deaths but still kept the demons at arm's length.

Remember that time you got drunk . . .

Charlie scratched at the back door.

I studied the wine's liquid depths and suddenly my head cleared. The wine had transformed from a craving to a poison. I moved quickly to the sink and turned on the water without a second to lose. I poured out the wine from the mug and bottles. I flipped on the water faucet, hoping to obliterate any trace of it.

“Shit.” I rinsed out the bottles and tossed them in the trash. The mug
went into the dishwasher. I hurried to the back door and let Charlie inside. His tail wagging, he looked up with such trust I almost couldn't bear it. I fished another chew stick from the grocery bag and gave it to him.

Jennifer sat on the kitchen counter, crossing her long legs and laughing. “I figured the jackhammer comment would get you.”

“Zip it.”

“You shut up.”

I moved out of the kitchen into the living room and switched on the television to a cable news show. Dropping my head back against the plush couch, I closed my eyes, pinched the bridge of my nose, and considered how close I came to believing the demons' seductive lies.

“So are you going to lie here all day and mope about poor old you?” She clucked her tongue against the roof of her mouth, mimicking a ticking clock.

“Go away!”

“I think,” she said, close to my ear, “that you should stop worrying about me and think about Amelia.”

“Amelia is fine. She naps this time of day.”

“I'm talking about the baby book, you dumbass. Why are you letting it sit in that hospital room, forgotten?”

I shoved a jittery hand through my hair, trying to brush away the buzzing imaginary voice. Over the years, I'd felt Jennifer's presence, but had she never actually spoken to me? “I don't need this.”

“Well, you sure as shit don't need a drink.”

“Shut up.”

“Back at you.”

Dearest Mother,

I want to send the witch away. I can find no charity for her. Her presence is a reminder of all that I am not. This morning, when she found me nursing Cullen again, she didn't get angry or demand the boy back. As she cut a strip of salt pork into small pieces for stew, she told me she could create a mixture of herbs designed to strengthen my constitution and fortify my unfertile womb for another babe. As much as I cherished holding Cullen, I long to carry one more child. I desperately want to give my husband a son. I stared into her piercing blue eyes, knowing the dangers of striking a bargain with a witch. But desperation makes fools of us all. I agreed. Smiling as she dropped the salt pork into the simmering pot on the hearth, she told me when Dr. Goodwin made his rounds I should not let him bleed me. Later, she made a tea with herbs. I hesitated, but when she bade me to drink, I did. Perhaps a devil's bargain, but a new babe might salvage what remains of my heart.

—P

Rae McDonald

W
EDNESDAY
, A
UGUST
17, 3:30
P.M.

A
fter the visit to the cemetery, I returned to work. I toyed with cancelling my afternoon appointments but knew work would keep my mind off seeing Lisa. Now, as I stared at the rain-soaked yard, I wondered what else could happen.

My patients arrived in good order, and by three in the afternoon I was listening to a young man who had outlined all the traits he sought in a perfect wife.

“If it will help, Dr. McDonald, I've prepared a list.”

“I'm not a matchmaker, Mr. West. I'm a family psychologist. Don't believe the paper.”

“I rarely do.” He held out the neatly typed and organized list. “But I've heard from several people whom you've assisted.”

I scanned his unreasonable criteria for the perfect mate. “This is a tall order.”

“I know of several people in my firm who speak highly of you and your mother's talents,” he persisted.

“My mother would cringe if she heard this conversation.”

Leaning back in his chair, he shook his head, unswayed. Impeccably dressed, he had his appeal. “I have a client who swears your mother introduced her to her husband. Grabbed him off the street.”

“You're with West & Murphy, correct?”

“Yes.”

“Would that client be Amelia Murphy?”

Green eyes sharpened. “Perhaps.”

“Her husband was a partner in your firm a long time ago and she was a friend of my mother's. Not such a stretch. I heard a story or two about the day Amelia met her husband.”

He brushed his pant leg. “This client was certain your mother had made several successful marriages.”

He was careful not to reveal Amelia's identity. That kind of discretion won him points in my book. He might have unrealistic expectations, but he wasn't a bad guy. “I don't know what to tell you, Mr. West. I can't speak to what my mother did.”

“No. But I can see you have an analytical mind. Now that I've met you, you strike me as the type of person who can find the right match for me.”

My mother never admitted to being a matchmaker, but she did have a knack for tossing out a name or making an introduction just at the right time. Often, her suggestions led to successful marriages. When I asked her once about it, she said she simply tossed out the first name that came to mind. “Have you met Amelia's niece, Lisa Smyth?”

The question caught him off guard. “We met once when she came to pick up Charlie. She strikes me as a free spirit. Attractive, but not for me. How's Charlie, by the way?”

“I suspect Lisa is spoiling him with chew sticks and table scraps.”

A half grin tugged at the corners of his lips.

Lisa had been on my mind since this morning when I saw signs that she was struggling. Shaky hands. Watery eyes. Depressed. Having someone like Mr. West stop by the Prince Street house might offer enough of a distraction to help her through a rough patch. “I wasn't
suggesting she was your type at all. But I know Amelia would appreciate you helping her with the sale of the Prince Street house.”

He tugged at his cuff. “She's not reached out to the firm for help.”

“As a favor to Amelia, please reach out to her. And I'll see you again as a family practice patient if you're willing to talk further about your high standards for a mate.”

He wasn't classically handsome, but his intensity set him apart. “There's nothing wrong with high standards.”

“No one's perfect, Mr. West.”

“I don't believe that.”

We hashed out the subject of perfection for the next fifteen minutes, but clearly he would not be returning. He wanted a matchmaker, not a therapist.

Another client arrived. More talk about perfect love. I made notes, listened, but my thoughts continued to scatter.

I again read the boy's e-mail, analyzing each word for clues. I couldn't think of a word to write but knew the delay might be sending the wrong message.

When the phone rang and I saw Margaret's name on the caller ID, I was relieved by the distraction. “Dr. McDonald,” I said.

“Rae, I have mucho facts.” She sounded breathless and barely able to contain the words. “Can I come by?”

“Sure. I'm here.”

“Great. See you in a few.”

“Okay.” I rose and moved toward the kitchen, where I set the coffeepot to brew. I'd never wanted to be the keeper of the flame of the McDonald family history, or to be responsible for others knowing about our accomplishments. But as I stood at the cemetery today, surrounded by generations of McDonalds, I realized it was no longer about me.

I wasn't the last McDonald. There was the boy. For his sake, not mine, I would do what I could to unearth secrets held too long.

The front doorbell rang and when I opened it, I found Margaret
brimming with excitement. Clutching the strap of a large leather satchel, she pushed past me, smelling faintly of boxwoods and cinnamon, scents from recent visits to the bakery and the salvage job in Prince William County.

“Any salvage trips today?”

“Same as yesterday. Old church. We retrieved several amazing stained glass windows. They date back to the 1920s. Not exactly ancient, but they deserve to be saved.” She grinned, much as she had when she stood on my front porch over the summer and announced the discovery of the witch bottle.

“I'm guessing you've read some of the letters,” I said.

“Just fascinating.”

A glance toward the kitchen and widening eyes prompted, “Is that coffee?”

“Help yourself.”

Margaret dug in her purse and pulled out a pink Union Street Bakery bag. “Excellent. I have cookies.”

“Ah.”

Margaret started toward the kitchen but paused in the hallway to study the painting of the Potomac circa 1920. “Three women found their way to Alexandria, Virginia, by 1751. A doctor's wife. A farmer's wife. And a sea captain's wife. I know it sounds a bit like a limerick or a bad joke, but it's a kickass story.”

“Kickass. You aren't the shy, deferential type, are you?”

Margaret grinned. “Well-behaved women rarely make history, Rae. You should know that.”

“Really? Then I'm doomed to obscurity.”

“You, Rae? Never. There's a wild woman in there somewhere.”

“Have you looked at me lately?”

Margaret laughed. “I bet, given half the chance, you could kick off those high heels and really shake it up.”

Even in my very young days, I had been well behaved and followed
the rules. Part of me craved excitement, but I always found an excuse to toe the line. Until I didn't.

Ironically, if not for my single mistake, I might have been doomed to obscurity. “Do you like cream in your coffee?”

“Absolutely.”

Normally, interruptions irritated me, but I wasn't the least bit put out. I wouldn't say I wanted to make a habit of all this, but it was a welcome respite.

The crisp strike of my heels clicked double time to the steady clip-clop of Margaret's clogs as we moved into the kitchen. She dumped her bag on the marble island, and I moved toward the nearly full coffeemaker.

“The letters I read were fascinating,” she said. “Patience did an excellent job of sharing some of the hopes and dreams of each woman, who would have all been in their late twenties when they arrived on the shores of the Virginia Colony. The doctor's wife, Mistress Goodwin, dreamed of a new life free of shame. The sea captain's wife, Mistress Smyth, wanted distance from a tainted past in Scotland. And Patience, the farmer's wife, wanted to escape the pain of losing her children.”

“All this is in the letters that Patience wrote?”

“Yes, in the letters dated around the 1750s. She was quite the historian. Her attention to detail was fascinating.” She dug out a large spiral notebook covered with stickers and crammed full of extra papers. She flipped toward the end.

“You actually read all the letters?” I didn't try to hide the fact that I was impressed.

Margaret drummed her fingers on several pockets until she found a pair of purple reading glasses. “I'm not much of a sleeper when I get on a roll.”

The machine dripped out the last bit of coffee and I dug mugs out from the cabinet as she opened the bag of cookies. “I'm impressed.”

“We're in luck. Fresh sugar and chocolate chip cookies at the bakery today. My sister Rachel bakes when she's stressed.”

Normally, I wouldn't have asked about the state of Rachel's stress levels, but Margaret fostered an openness that invited questions. “Why is your sister upset?”

She bit into a sugar cookie. “Kids, the business, and her French beau finally called it quits. I wanted her to kick him to the curb when he moved back to France. Hard to keep love alive with four thousand miles between the love birds. But Rachel is loyal to a fault.”

I set two plates on the counter along with a small pitcher of milk and the sugar bowl. “I'm sorry to hear about that. But you're right. Four thousand miles, compounded with long periods between visits, doesn't bode well for a successful relationship.”

She poured cream and sugar into an empty cup in anticipation of the coffee. “A blind man could see that coming. And she's been through worse, when her husband died.”

“He was young when he died?”

“Twenty-nine. Brain aneurysm.”

For Jennifer, I would have bargained with Satan himself for a different outcome. Think how different all our lives would have been had she never been killed. We would have been no less devastated when she died at twenty-nine, but how different would all our lives be had she lived a little longer? I filled Margaret's cup and mine with coffee. “I made an effort to review some of the old farm ledgers, but I couldn't decipher the handwriting. I assume the handwriting in the letters you have is just as challenging.”

“I've been reading that stuff for years so it comes a little faster to me. Patience's handwriting is a bit odd but I've developed an eye for her lettering quirks.”

“That's talent.”

“It's one of those talents that won't make me rich.” She sipped her coffee, closing her eyes as she savored the taste. When she opened her
eyes again, they were sharp with excitement. “Do you know why Patience McDonald still had all those letters addressed to her mother? Stands to reason the letters would have been with her mother's belongings back in England.”

“As I said yesterday, I always assumed they were shipped back to Patience at the time of her mother's death.”

She tapped her finger on an illegible word she'd circled multiple times in her notebook. “That was my original theory, but, as it turns out, it's incorrect.”

She enjoyed the slow tease of a story. “But you know the real reason,” I prompted.

“I do.” She grinned, clearly proud of her detective work. “Her mother died prior to Patience's move to the Virginia Colony. Patience never mailed the letters to her mother. She knew she was writing to a dead woman.”

“Really?”

“I suppose those letters were her diary, her confessional—her way of pretending that she still had her mother. Like most of us, she felt safe talking to her mother and didn't want to give it up.”

“It's a natural response, I suppose.” How many times did I try to connect with my mother after Jennifer's death? How many times did I fail before I gave up?

“I still have my mom,” Margaret said. “She drives me crazy and I know I do the same to her, though it's all normal in a good kind of way. I'm not sure what I'd do if she were gone.”

Words and emotions unexpectedly bubbled up, but as quickly as they rose, I suppressed them. No need to crack the lid of Pandora's box. I learned long ago that hope was not waiting to flutter free and ease pain and suffering. “What did Patience have to say to her mother?”

“Lots of loss. As we know, she lost children. Tough life. But what I find very interesting is that she chronicles the day Faith Shire Talbot moved back to their farmhouse.”

“Ah, Faith, the witch, mother of twins, and healer.”

“The very same. Patience refers to Faith along with her twin sons taking up residence. She isn't close to Faith but is very drawn to Faith's son Cullen. A year's worth of letters later, Patience mentions her own son Patrick is thriving.”

“Why is that odd?” I asked.

“The day Faith arrived, Patience mentions her aching heart.”

“She could have been upset about many things.”

“Don't think so. I think her baby boy died shortly before Faith arrived,” Margaret said. “I believe she thought documenting his death in one of the letters would somehow make it all too real.”

“Why do you think he died days before Faith's arrival?”

“She mentions nursing Faith's baby, which means her milk never dried up.”