The View from Prince Street (12 page)

“What exactly are you suggesting?” I said.

“Patience's child, according to earlier letters, is sickly and then suddenly after Faith arrives he becomes strong and vibrant.”

“You said yourself, Faith was a healer. Maybe she helped the boy.”

“No mention of that in the letters.” Her eyes narrowing, she nodded. “You're a good devil's advocate, Rae.”

“I only analyze facts.”

Margaret sipped her coffee. “If these were letters to her ‘mother,' then you would think she'd mention the adoption,” she said.

“Maybe she was so afraid of the secret she didn't dare write it. Secrecy is a common traveling companion with adoption. A very charged subject.”

“Point taken. Daisy's birth mother, Terry, told her current husband about Daisy only a few months ago.”

I held my breath for a beat. “She kept her daughter's birth a secret.”

“For decades. I think I told you, when Daisy first met Terry, it didn't go so well. Terry was very uptight and cold to Daisy. They've struggled ever since. Daisy wants to have a relationship, but Terry doesn't.”

“You think Terry should have done more,” I observed. “But many adopted children think of their birth mothers as fairy-tale characters, instead of the flawed people we all are. It's a natural coping mechanism.”

Blue eyes darkened with anger. “She could be nicer to my sister.”

“It might not be so easy for Terry.”

“Playing devil's advocate again?”

“You're looking at this in strictly black-and-white terms. Adoption is emotional and fraught with gray areas that aren't as easy to define.”

“Yeah, I get all that on an intellectual level,” Margaret said. “But it irks me when I see Daisy wrestle with the rejection. She doesn't talk about it much, but it hurts her. I mean, how hard could it be to return an e-mail?”

The boy's e-mail remained unanswered in my inbox. Coming up on twenty-four hours since I read it, and I hadn't responded. Would he see my silence as rejection?

How could I explain to Margaret that answering letters, e-mails, and questions carried with it a tremendous responsibility? Shame. Pain. Daisy's birth mother was not evil, but afraid. What would the people around her think if they knew she gave away a child? People could be intellectual and talk about adoption as a wonderful act of kindness, but many, in their heart of hearts, would judge the birth mother and find her lacking.

I couldn't put all this into words for Margaret. So I didn't. “Does Patience say what happened to Faith?”

“I'm still reviewing my notes on that issue.”

“Wasn't there one more McDonald child?” I asked.

“There was a girl named Hanna. She grew to adulthood.”

“What became of Patrick? You said he was a lawyer?”

“A very successful one. And Hanna married a planter. She lived to be sixty-four.”

“What else did Patience say about Faith?”

“Patience worried about having the woman on the property, but her husband insisted his wife needed the help due to her fragile health.” Margaret flipped through several pages. “Patience noted that Faith continued to grow herbs and mix elixirs that she sold to many of the good wives of Alexandria, who visited her in secret.” She held up a finger, peering over the edge of her glasses. “She also makes mention of the witch bottle buried in the stone hearth. ‘
Gone is the sting of loss,
' she writes. Her heart, and I quote, ‘
was now coated in a fine sheen of resin.
'”

A heart of stone. As much as we change, we don't. “She made the bottle to protect herself from pain.”

“Maybe.”

“Did she ever say if she regretted that fine sheen of resin?”

“She never mentioned regret. Only relief. But I'll research it and will keep you posted.”

Of course the bottle had no magical powers. And the trauma of losing children would have hardened her. “I'm wondering if Patience wasn't having Faith mix one of her special elixirs to soften the stress,” I said.

“She was self-medicating. Very logical. Certainly possible.”

Margaret thumbed through several more pages. “She does comment on her other women friends who made the bottles. Once Faith returned to the farmhouse, the other two women rarely visited. Mistress Goodwin had issues with a growing madness that made it more difficult for her to think clearly. Addie can tell you all about the mental health issues that run through her family.”

“Genetics.”

“Right. And Patience said Mistress Smyth grew more and more nervous around Faith and often asked if Faith spoke of Mistress Smyth's time in Aberdeen. My guess is that something happened there that Mistress Smyth did not want disclosed.” Margaret reached for a cookie and bit into it. “A regular soap opera.”

“I'm amazed you've uncovered all this in the last day.”

She raised the cookie to her lips and paused. “History's my bag.
And you have a treasure trove here thanks to Patience McDonald. You really need to think about preserving these letters, Rae. Some are so brittle. It's just a matter of time before they turn to dust.”

I thought about the boy. He was a McDonald by birth and all of this was his legacy, if he ever chose to accept it one day. I would never force him to accept any of it. I'd signed away all my claims. But if he wanted to know, I was duty bound to tell him what I could, wasn't I? “Would you be interested in reviewing all the McDonald papers and doing a written synopsis? I would pay you for your time, of course.”

Her eyes widened. “Really? You would pay me to dig through all this history and write about it?”

“I know you have work to do at the salvage yard. But I could pay you twenty dollars an hour.”

“Twenty bucks an hour? What's the overall project cap?” She grinned. “All the projects I've ever had were funded by grants and we always had a cap.”

“How much time will you require to read all this and write up a report?”

“At least a couple of hundred hours.” She quickly calculated the total. “That's four thousand dollars.”

“Thanks, but I can do the math,” I said.

“I could use that kind of change and would love to do the work.”

“So you have time?”

“We're still building the salvage business so it's spotty at best,” she said. “But there's always pockets of time in the evening.”

“You could take portions of the documents home and study there, if that would be helpful.”

“It would. Why the turnaround?”

“Maybe it's time,” I said. “There's also another McDonald that I'm very interested in learning about. My great-aunt. It's come to my attention she was married to my great-uncle. They had a child before she remarried.”

“Really?”

“The child's name was Amelia Smyth. She was a friend of my mother's and she is now in a nursing home.”

“Sure, I know Amelia,” Margaret said. “Wicked sweet tooth and loves gossip. That one should be easy to trace. When was Amelia born?”

“In 1942, I think. Amelia Elizabeth Smyth. She and her husband never had children, and he died about forty years ago.”

Margaret tapped a ringed finger on the side of her mug. “Amelia owns the house on Prince Street. We cleaned out her basement and found the third witch bottle there. Her niece is the caretaker living there now.”

“That's Lisa Smyth.”

She scribbled Amelia's information into the notebook. “Lisa is a wet-plate photographer. Very talented.”

“I've heard she's won awards.”

Margaret circled the name Smyth a half dozen times. “So, why the sudden family interest, Rae?”

“You've shown me that there's a lot of history behind the McDonald family. I have a hunch the same holds true for the Smyth family.”

“Do I have the same writing and publishing parameters as I do with the McDonald project? And where do you want me to start with the family recap?”

“You choose,” I said. “You have a better nose for history than I. But Amelia is old and ill and she might not have much time. I think she would like to know more about Fiona.”

“I'll take the last two boxes then,” Margaret said. “That will get me into the early twentieth century and well past her birth.”

“Okay.” I reached for a box.

Margaret dusted crumbs from her hands. “I can get those.”

I reached for one of the boxes, testing its weight before setting it down. “Manageable. No reason for you to make two trips.”

“They're dusty and you're all dressed up.”

“I'll clean up.”

“I live coated in the stuff. Barely notice it anymore.”

We carried the boxes to an old VW Beetle painted a bright orange. She opened the front trunk and loaded in her box, then took mine.

“Is there anything else I can do for you?” I asked.

Margaret waved her hand and then snapped her fingers. “A favor for my sister Rachel.”

“The baker with the dead husband and the boyfriend that moved back to France.”

“Right. Rachel. If you come across a stray man worthy of her, give me a call. I'd love to introduce them.”

“A stray man? Like a rescue dog from the pound with a good disposition?” I almost smiled.

“A good one who likes kids,” she said seriously. “I have two seven-year-old nieces and he would have to love them as much as their mom. And if he's super hot and rich, well, all the better.”

“Do you think I have a warehouse where I keep these extra men?”

Margaret laughed. “If you do, I sure would like to see the place. I don't want to keep any of the inventory, mind you, but I wouldn't say no to a loaner now and then.”

It was oddly hard to keep a straight face. “A loaner? Don't you want me to match you up with your perfect mate? That's what everyone else wants.”

“Absolutely not. No long-term men for me, Rae. No husbands for Margaret McCrae.” She laughed, her words clearly amusing her. “I'm strictly a renter. But Rachel, she's different. She'll want a keeper.”

“Loaners and keepers. Lease with an option to buy. I get it.”

“Well, not all of us want Mr. Forever.” She grinned. “You should consider an offshoot of your matchmaking business.”

“What would that be?”

“You find Mr. Forever for those that want him and for those that don't, you find Mr. Until Next Friday.”

I smiled. “He might get underfoot if you had to keep him around a whole week.

She winked. “I like the hint of sarcasm in the comment, Rae. You're loosening up a bit.”

I squared my shoulders and raised my chin a fraction. “I certainly hope not.”

Her laugher burst out of her like a bullet. “Rae, I'm assuming that's more sarcasm.”

Dearest Mother,

My son, Patrick, grows stronger each passing day. He is going to be a stout, healthy boy. A very cautious hope stirs in me as a new baby grows in my belly. Mr. McDonald does not speak of the baby, but I sense that he is thrilled at the prospect of another son. Each time he enters the house at night, he glances at our boy, his eyes heavy with thought. I worry for Patrick for fear Mr. McDonald will favor the unborn baby. Surely one child cannot replace another's in a parent's heart.

My friends from town visit, but they are always nervous and agitated when they see the witch moving about the cottage. Though they do not speak to her in front of me, I see them exchange coin for herbs before they leave. It is difficult to resist the allure of Faith and her magic.

Faith's son Marcus is a sweet child, though I see he is a bit of a ruffian. When he plays with Patrick the two boys get into tugging matches that end with one crying. The cries make my heart throb, but Faith is always on hand to settle them. I've begrudging respect for the way she cares for my son as if he were her own.

—P

Lisa Smyth

W
EDNESDAY
, A
UGUST
17, 7:30
P.M.

T
he nurse at the assisted-living center read my driver's license. “Lisa Smyth.” She handed it back to me. “Silly I have to check this each time you come by, but that's policy.”

“Just doing your job.”

“Where's Charlie?” she asked.

“At home tonight. This is just a quick visit.”

The sun hung low and sullen in the evening sky as I returned to Amelia's room. Though the air held the summer's warmth, sunset came earlier and earlier each evening. Soon summer would give way to fall and cooler winds would chase away the heat.

When I arrived in my aunt's room, my hands shook a little and my nerves were stretched thin. As I drew in a breath, my eyes adjusted to the dim lights. Amelia liked the heat turned up and she slept better when wrapped in blankets brought from home. Her doctors said this constant chill was a side effect of age.

When I came into the room, I moved to the foot of the bed and reached for the folded quilt. She said the quilt was made by her
grandmother and had been with her since she was a child. As I fingered the frayed fabric, memories resurfaced. Years ago in the weeks after the car accident I couldn't sleep. My body was bruised and battered and my mind full of the sound of screeching brakes and the rip of tree through metal. I couldn't forget the flames or the screams. Amelia had laid this same quilt over me and told me she loved me.

“How can you love me?” I asked.

“Because you're my girl.”

And then, through tears and endless sighs, I told her what happened. Jennifer and I were driving on the George Washington Parkway along the Potomac River that last night. The moon was full and the stars so vivid and clear. It was one o'clock in the morning, and we knew we were breaking curfew. A nameless rock song blared on the radio.

But neither of us felt the least bit of guilt. There was a deliciousness in the freedom. We were soaring. At seventeen, we were all grown up and believed life was ours for the taking.

And then, I made a crack about this guy she liked. A real moron, in my opinion. She took exception. And in a span of seconds the mood turned on a dime and we began arguing. Under normal circumstances, I view those harsh words as childish. Foolish. But on a bad day like today, they triggered bone-searing guilt and regret.

On that day long ago, Amelia kissed me and told me again she loved me unconditionally. She told me old people became wise by making mistakes when they were young. It didn't make them bad or evil, just human.

But I could not accept forgiveness. My focus was on the moment the car swerved. The tree. The flames.

Jennifer was dead.

And I wasn't.

Tears welled as I straightened and touched the smooth, well-worn folds of the quilt. Pulling the frayed edges, I tucked it under her pale
chin. Immediately, her skin looked warmer and her body relaxed, as if she sensed love.

I kissed her on the cheek, then opened the nightstand drawer and removed the baby book. Hugging it close to my body, I whispered, “I'll bring this back. I'll find out what happened to Fiona.”

She didn't wake or move but I imagined the wrinkles of her brow soothed as my words seeped into her brain and calmed a mind that knew no true peace.

I tucked the baby book in my backpack.

Out in the corridor, fluorescent fixtures cast a milky white light. I waved to the nurses at their station and took the elevator to the first floor. As I got into the car, my phone buzzed. The number was local and I didn't recognize it. It was likely about Amelia's home and the parade of folks that would have to become involved in getting it sold.

“Lisa Smyth.”

“Hey, Lisa, this is Margaret McCrae with Shire Architectural Salvage. We cleaned out your basement about a month ago.”

“Right. What can I do for you?”

“We found this bottle in your basement.”

“Okay.”

“It's a pretty unusual bottle, and I'm doing a little historical research on it.”

“There's not much I can tell you about anything in the house,” I said. “It all belonged to my aunt, and since her hospitalization she has a hard time with details.”

“I'm sorry. I like Amelia. I was hoping to find out more about your family's history,” Margaret said.

“Like what?” I asked.

“Specifically, the relationship between the Smyths, the Goodwins, and the McDonalds,” Margaret said.

“I don't know any Goodwins.”

“Well, the Goodwin name fell by the wayside over the last couple
of centuries. The family branch that survived in that line went by the name of Shire.”

“As in your company?” I asked.

“Exactly.”

“Margaret, it's funny you should mention the McDonalds,” I said. “I'm trying to track a connection between the McDonald and Smyth families dating back to about 1940.”

“Really? Small world. I saw Rae McDonald today at her home. I'm doing a bit of family inventory for her.”

“And?” I was trying to sound interested.

“She wants me to dig into the story of . . .” I heard the rustling of pages. “Fiona McDonald. I did a little digging after I left her place and identified the woman.”

Rae spoke to Margaret? The Ice Queen stirred. “Margaret, I'm close to Old Town now. I could stop by your King Street shop if you're there.”

“The salvage yard is my home away from home. I'll be here for a couple more hours.”

“See you in about twenty minutes.”

“There's parking in the side alley behind the store.”

“Great.”

I detoured through the evening traffic, winding along side roads until I passed the tall stone spire of the Masonic Temple and merged onto King Street. From there, it was a straight shot to the Potomac. Traffic slowed to a stutter step as I entered the very heart of the city where tourists and shoppers flocked on warm evenings.

I missed the alley entrance on the first pass and needed to drive around the block once but found it on the next go-around.

Down a cobblestone alley, I parked beside the white Shire Architectural Salvage van and, grabbing my backpack, walked around to the front entrance. The large picture window that faced the corners of King and Union Streets was filled with a collection of odds and ends,
including a claw-foot tub, a crystal teardrop chandelier, a fireplace mantel, lighthouse lanterns, and a wooden chest. The store had been here for longer than I could remember. I'd come here with my mother when I was about six or seven. She was looking to fill a long summer afternoon. I spent our time at the warehouse sneezing and avoiding the darkened corners and the old unsmiling woman who lingered behind her cash register. To my amazement, my mother was glad to see this shopkeeper and they laughed and joked, leaving me to stand and wonder how my mother knew so many odd people.

After that day, I never paid much attention to the shop because it held on to the past. As far as I was concerned, the past held only sadness.

Bells above my head jingled as I entered. Bright lights illuminated once-darkened corners and highlighted a half dozen neat rows with bins filled with all sorts of history. I heard a baby fuss, followed by the soft voice of a woman who sang quietly to the child.

“Be right there,” the woman said.

“No rush.” I moved toward a collection of furniture created from repurposed items: a desk fashioned from an old pie safe, a bench made from reclaimed timbers, and an iron gate fashioned into wall art.

Seconds later, a woman rounded the corner. She had curly brown hair tided up into a topknot and wore jeans and a T-shirt that read
Shire Architectural Salvage
. She had a baby front pack strapped to her chest and carried a small box filled with an assortment of doorknobs and keys.

“Oh, hey,” she said. “You're Lisa, right? I'm Addie.” Addie set the box on the front counter next to an antique register, wiped a hand on her jeans, and extended it to me.

“Right.” Addie had come by the house with Margaret. “I was a little overwhelmed when you came through.”

“Do you have a sister named Janet Morgan?” I asked.

“I do. Where did you meet her?”

“At a church meeting.”

“Janet attends an AA meeting in the church.”

“So do I.” I was used to talking about attending AA meetings, but not everyone was as open.

Addie grew still. “Well, I'm glad to meet you.”

“Likewise. Your sister seems nice.”

“Yes.”

No missing the rippling tension. If Janet was only five weeks into the program, that meant her family was holding their breath, hoping she'd make it work. The first twelve to eighteen months was such a fragile time. Failure was common. I'd had a couple of false starts of my own.

When Addie didn't expound, I decided to drop the line of conversation. I cleared my throat. “I'm here because I got a call from Margaret about a bottle.”

“Ah, the bottle. Margaret is my new business partner and she's now on a mission to find out all she can about three witch bottles.”

“Witch bottles?”

“You haven't heard about them?”

“No. Sorry.”

Shaking her head, Addie began to rock back and forth while patting the baby's back. “Basically, there were three women who lived in Alexandria around 1750. They each made these bottles as a kind of protection spell against a woman who they thought was a witch.”

“Wow, that's a story.”

“Margaret is determined to dig up every detail she can about the three women. She's reached out to the McDonalds and now you.”

The bells jingled and I turned to see a woman with strawberry-blond hair enter. She wore jeans, a loose-fitting shirt, bracelets, and flip-flops. She was carrying two cups of coffee.

“Speak of the devil,” Addie said.

Margaret raised one of the coffee cups to her lips and swallowed quickly, her brows rising as she smiled. “Hey, Lisa. That was quick.”

“I was close by.”

Margaret handed Addie the second cup of coffee and waved her hand around the shop. “Welcome to the past.”

Addie laughed. “I can attest to that.”

“Now,” Margaret said, “if you talk to my sisters who work at the Union Street Bakery, they'll tell you I'm the biggest slacker they've ever met. I haven't met a bakery deadline I could keep.”

My blood pressure dropped as I stood here listening to Margaret launch into a story about boxing mail orders through the bakery and how Satan invented the clear packing tape that always ended up in a useless wad. Honestly, I was happy to be here, away from the solitude of the Prince Street house.

Margaret clapped her hands together. “But you don't want to hear me go on and on about shipping labels and box sizes. What do you have for me?”

Moving toward the front counter, I pulled out the baby book. “My aunt Amelia told me about it. She says her birth mother made it for her.” Hesitating, I wondered if I'd spoken out of turn, but I knew if I didn't operate as an open book we might not find out about Fiona. “The other day she told me for the first time she was adopted. But you should also know my aunt has the onset of Alzheimer's. She was having a really good day when we had our visit and discussed the book.”

“So Fiona McDonald was Amelia's birth mother?” Margaret asked.

“It appears so.”

“And you and Rae have talked about Fiona?”

How to explain without all the drama? “Our families go way back. She asked about Amelia and I told her about the book.”

Margaret stilled. “Did you know Jennifer McDonald?”

“I did,” I said, cautious now.

Margaret offered, “After I left Rae's today, I got to thinking and remembered her older sister died in a car accident when she was a teenager.”

“That was sixteen years ago.”

“Right. I must have been away at college and recalled Mom talking about it.” Margaret focused her attention to the worn, faded silk binding of the book. “What can you tell me about this book?”

“Not much, other than what I saw when I leafed through it,” I said.

Margaret tugged on white gloves and carefully opened the front of the book with deliberate slowness that belied her crazy curly hair pulled up in a ponytail and her brightly colored peasant top. She studied the book. “I can tell Rae's smart. Though I'll never understand how she got into matchmaking.”

“McDonald women never admit to being matchmakers.”

“So, it's true?” Margaret asked.

“It's just known,” I said. “Every woman in the McDonald family was a matchmaker. They never really had to advertise it.”

Addie moved closer, her head cocked with interest. “A family of matchmakers.”

Margaret lifted her gaze. “I've been reading her ancestors' letters and there's no mention of matchmaking, though she often mentions the marriages of local couples. One letter goes into great detail about a lavish wedding.”