The View from Prince Street (16 page)

“She's sleeping more each day.”

“The nurses tell me you're there every day, but we seem to keep missing each other.”

“If she's asleep, I don't stay long,” I said. “And I mix up the times of my visits. Keeps the staff on their toes.”

A smile tweaked the edge of his lips. “Unexpected is a good thing.”

“So cute.” Jennifer giggled.

“You said you had the name of a real estate agent?”

“Yes. Her name is Rebecca Tuttle. I can have her here tonight if you're free.”

“Is there a rush?”

His mood shifted, signaling that the obligatory time for polite conversation had ended. “It requires money to keep her in assisted living. And the only source is the house.”

“I thought she was set financially.”

“I thought she was, too, until I opened her files late yesterday and started reading. When she accepted ownership of the house, she had to refinance it with a home equity loan to cover some of the renovations and her living needs. She's managed it all until now, but there's not enough money to keep up the house and care for her.”

Bracelets rattled on my wrist as I pushed a stray strand of hair out of my face. “Debt. My father racked up quite a bit of it.”

“It looks like he used the house as collateral against loans that mostly remained outstanding when Amelia took over.”

“Amelia never told me the house was so leveraged.”

“She thought if she could keep the house in the family, and in good condition, you would have enough equity in it to pay off the loans and sell it for a tidy profit . . . if you wanted to leave Alexandria.

“I never wanted this house. I told her that.”

“How old were you when you told her?”

“Seventeen.”

“She likely didn't think you knew your own mind.”

“I did.”

He remained silent for a moment. “This house has a ballpark value of $1.2 million dollars and roughly seven hundred thousand worth of debt against it. You should clear over four hundred thousand after fees but before taxes. I can help you with the taxes.”

“Jesus, Amelia has less money than I originally thought.”

“Five years ago she did a major, but necessary renovation on the house, which was financed against the equity.”

“I never understood why she wanted to fix this place up.”

“She knew one day this house would be yours and she wanted it in better shape than when she got it.”

“I never asked her,” I said, more to myself.

He pushed his hand into his pocket and rattled change. “But if you sell the house and settle the outstanding liens, she'll have enough for five or six years of expenses.”

“What prompted you to look into her finances?”

“I'm an attorney, and I always want to know what my client's risk is.”

I pinched the bridge of my nose. “Mr. West, she may outlive her money.”

“Sadly, I see this quite a bit.”

Frustration sparred with anger. “You're not making my day, sir. Not at all.”

“Better to know the bad news sooner than later.”

“I agree.”

Panic tugged at my sleeve, but I shooed it away. A few bottles of wine wouldn't help the situation, but Lord did it tempt. But I didn't need guilt ladled on top of fear and worry.

“Hey, what happens to me if you leave the house?”

The house looked different than it had moments ago through the viewfinder. “It's stood for centuries, but may be lost by the Smyth family for good this time.”

He stared at me for a long moment. “I anticipate a solid bid in a matter of weeks given the location and its condition. Where will you go?”

“I'll manage. Sell it as quickly as you can.”

“And Charlie?”

“Charlie will be fine with me. Sell it.”

“It's been in your family for years. You have no attachment to it?”

“I do, but I have to be practical.” My shirt smelled of chemicals, my hair needed washing, and I could use a manicure. “Besides, do I look like the lady-of-the-house type?”

“I'll tell the agent to come by tonight.”

“Thanks. Give me a time, and I'll be here.” I wished I could control this mess as easily as I could my negatives. “Have any more good news for me, Mr. West? Fire, plague, or maybe some other natural disaster I should know about?”

“No. No other news for today.”

The problem of Amelia had morphed from crisis management in the beginning to the slow daily grind of watching her deteriorate. Amelia had done right by me and I would take care of her. I wouldn't panic. Or get stupid and drink. I would have to find a way to fix this.

“Why did you drop the baby book off at Amelia's room, Mr. West?”

The abrupt shift in conversation caught him off guard. Clearly, he expected more drama and discussion from me. “She asked me for it. She was having a good day and wanted it so she could show it to you. I assume she did share it with you?”

“She did. But how did you get it?”

“She left it with the firm about two years ago. Asked us to keep it safe.”

I moved around to the front of the camera as clouds hovered
around the sun. Mentally, I added another minute to the exposure time. “She never asked you to dig into her past.”

“No. I offered, but she refused. Said it didn't matter.”

The Alzheimer's had stripped away pretense and exposed raw feelings. She did care. Very much. “I've dropped it off with a local historian who is digging into the history behind it.”

“Did you know she was adopted?” he asked.

I checked my watch, and seeing I had only twenty seconds left of exposure time, readied the lens cap. “It was news to me. But it makes sense. She was different from my father.”

“How so?”

“She was open. Funny. Never kept secrets.” I gently replaced the cap on the camera lens. “Though her finances make me realize she learned how to keep secrets. If you don't mind, I need to keep moving with this negative if I want it to turn out. Seems even more important now than ever that I capture the image.”

“Of course, go ahead. Mind if I stay and watch?”

“Sure.” I pulled out the negative cartridge, grateful that Mr. West's car blocked the street, I hurried to the back of the SUV.

He followed in no rush, but keeping pace with me. “May I ask what you're doing next?”

“I'm pouring developer over the glass plate and then the negative should materialize. You may want to stand back so that this doesn't splash on your suit.” I reached for a glass bottle and uncorked it. And then, holding the glass over a shallow bin, I poured the clear liquid onto the exposed glass surface.

The acrid smell rose, but it didn't seem to deter Mr. West. He watched with fascination as the liquid developer slowly coaxed out the black-and-white image on the glass. The negative space was light and the positive space dark. It was a view of the house, angled slightly so that bits of the river drifted in at the edges. I was pleased by the contrasts, especially since the sun had run for cover mid-exposure.

“It's backward,” he said.

“It will flip around when I actually develop the picture.”

“And the streak of white in the upper right corner?”

Frowning, I looked at the glass and then up at the house. “Maybe I didn't disperse the chemicals correctly. I'll know better in the darkroom.”

“Your timing is perfect. No cars are blocking the view. It looks like it could have been taken hundreds of years ago.”

“In the last six weeks, I've noticed the cars on this side of the street are gone about this time of day. And a few well-placed plastic cones always keep people away.” I laid the negative on paper towels so it could dry.

“A lot of work for one shot.” His deep tone carried with it the question many asked.
Who works so hard for just a moment?

“That's photography. Lots of waiting and watching and then hoping you finally snap the right image at the right time.”

“You've been doing this awhile?”

“Since I was sixteen.”

“Impressive.”

“Maybe, or perhaps I'm a little nuts.” I shook my head, a half laugh catching in my throat. “Who spends this much time on work that pays below minimum wage?”

Instead of answering the question with an answer, he said, “If you're willing to make an extra print of the house, I'd like to buy it.”

“Why?”

“I've always liked this street. This town. And a print of that house would fit nicely in my home.”

I imagined a house filled with the sleek and modern, and tried to envision the photo hanging on a white sterile wall. “Sure. I've got all your contact information. Seeing as I might not have a house soon, I'll take a few more pictures and after the Realtor leaves, I'll spend tonight in the basement developing several prints.”

“Great.”

I half expected him to leave but he lingered, watching me prep the next glass negative. His quiet, steady energy had me glancing at his left hand for a wedding band. None. I was intrigued.

It had been a long time since I'd had a man in my bed, and in these few silent moments, I was very aware of his presence. My hands trembled a little as I poured the syrupy collodion onto the next glass plate, which would become a negative. The liquid didn't quite make it to all the edges of the glass, but I let it go, accepting that the flaw might add interest to the picture.

“Looks like you missed some portions of the glass. Will that mean it won't develop?”

“Correct, but sometimes there's great beauty in imperfection.” I dunked the glass into the tank of silver nitrate. “The process isn't precise, but it's like scratching a lotto ticket. I never know when I'll hit it big.”

“I can see it's quite technical.” His cell phone rang in his pocket and he pulled it out, frowning as he studied the display. “Excuse me, I have to go. But I'm glad I caught up with you. I'll text you the time when Ms. Tuttle will come by this evening.”

“The sooner it's sold, the better.”

“You're remarkably calm, Ms. Smyth.”

“You just told me I'm about to be evicted, and I may or may not have enough money to care for my aunt. I think you can call me Lisa now.”

Colin West grinned. “Well then, you may call me Colin.”

I pulled the negative out of the silver nitrate, waved it until it dried, and then inserted it into the antique cartridge. “Cheer up, Colin. One door closes on me and another will open.”

“I'll talk to you soon.”

Dearest Mother,

The baby stirs in my belly and I still feel full of vigor. Last night, I spied Faith under the full moon speaking in low whispers and I know she again prays to her god that I deliver a boy. I see the way she looks at my son, and I think she believes I will forget all about Patrick if I deliver a boy. He is my child. Mine alone. And if she has issue, there is no one in the colony that will not back me.

—P

Rae McDonald

F
RIDAY
, A
UGUST
19, 6:00
P.M.

I
received Margaret McCrae's voice mail after the last client of the day left my office. Speaking in her customary staccato delivery patterns, she said, “Rae, I've got information about the family and want you to come by the salvage yard this evening at seven . . . that is, if you can. Thanks.” I texted her and told her I was available.

Before leaving, I checked my e-mail one last time in case the boy had responded in the last thirty minutes—which he had not—and then I headed into the city. The drive up the George Washington Parkway was always pretty this time of day. With the sun hugging the horizon, the treetops glowed with a delicate orange and the waters of the Potomac River shimmered. Traffic was light—most of the commuters were safely home and sitting down to dinner at this point.

In town, I drove along Union Street and turned left on King Street. With no street parking to be found, I circled the block and came back around where I eventually found a spot. Once out of the car, I fed the meter and started toward the salvage yard.

I strolled the street until I looked up and saw the Union Street
Bakery sign. Slowing, I was surprised to see the
Open
sign in the door. From what Margaret said, the bakery now only maintained storefront hours on Fridays and Saturdays.

The picture of baby Michael eating a sugar cookie flashed and made me wonder if any sugar cookies had been baked here. A bone-deep craving took hold. I didn't believe it was a craving for something sweet, but a missed moment with my baby.

I stopped at the brightly painted front door. Elbowing aside rational arguments, I pushed open the door and entered. Bells jangled above my head. Immediately, the soft scents of cinnamon and chocolate greeted me with a warm embrace.

The walls were painted a soft yellow and decorated with a collection of black-and-white pictures featuring the bakery over the decades. The storefront was the same in all, but the city around it changed with the passing decades. Horse-drawn carriages, women in long skirts. Model T Fords. Fedoras. Tie-dyed shirts and bell bottoms. The bakery had steadfastly stood its ground for nearly a century, a sentinel in a world that hinged on change and modernization.

Huddled close to the back wall of the bakery was a large spotless glass display case. On its white shelves were two different types of heaven, chocolate chip and sugar cookies. A sign read
Get 'em While They Last
.

A small woman with rosy cheeks and strawberry-blond hair tied up in a topknot pushed through a set of saloon doors. She wore jeans and a white shirt under a full-length apron that was double knotted at her waist. “Welcome to the Union Street Bakery.”

Her coloring matched Margaret's and their similarities were clear. Margaret was taller and sturdier, whereas this woman was petite and trimmer. This was Rachel, the widowed sister with two children and an ex-boyfriend from France, who was in need of a good man.

“I'm Rae McDonald,” I said.

Her head cocked. “Rae. The lady with all the family papers.” She
wiped her hands on a towel tucked in her apron before extending her hand over the display case. “I'm Rachel.”

Accepting her outstretched hand, I noticed her grip was firm. I thought about Margaret's request on Rachel's behalf. It was doubtful that Rachel knew about this. “Your sister is studying quite a few documents for me.”

Rachel hitched her hands on her hips. “And might I say, she's having a ball. Any time she finds new information on this city, she's in heaven. I suppose she told you all about the witch bottles.”

“I've heard about them. In fact, I'm headed to the salvage yard now to hear her latest update. Margaret sounded very excited on the phone.”

“She is, but she won't tell any of us what she's discovered until she tells you first.”

“I've never given much thought to my family history, but I'm very intrigued.”

“My sister has already left for the salvage yard.”

“I know, but I saw your sign in the window and heard good things about the bakery.”

“Can I interest you in some cookies?” Rachel asked. “I'm testing new recipes and when I have too many extras I flip the sign to
Open
for as long as they last. You're in luck because I just put these out.”

“What do you have?”

“A very chocolate chip cookie and a sugar cookie made with lemon and polenta. I'm considering both types for the mail-order business. My sister Daisy always says I'm throwing too many recipes in the mix, so I thought some informal market research might sway her.”

Ah, Daisy. The adopted one. “How about a dozen of the lemon polenta.”

“I can do that.” She reached for a pink box and lined it with white parchment paper.

“How is the mail-order business?”

“Great.” She smiled. “We were hoping it would be an extra source of income, but it has actually surpassed our in-store sales. As a matter of fact, Daisy is out today with a real estate agent, scouting locations for a larger factory outside the city.”

“That sounds promising.”

“Terrifies me to stretch beyond these walls, but she feels it's a risk worth considering. If she gives the thumbs-up then I'll head out and see the site.” She carefully folded the paper over the cookies, closed the flap on the box, and sealed it with a gold sticker.

I reached for my wallet. “How much do I owe you?”

“On the house. You've made Margaret the happiest I've seen her in a while, and that's easily worth a box of cookies.”

I fished out my wallet. “I'm paying Margaret for her time and expertise.”

She waved away the bills I extended toward her. “Believe me, she would have paid you to do the job. Take the cookies. It does my heart good to see her smile and chatter so happily about her work.”

Reluctantly, I tucked the bills back in my wallet. “Thank you. You seem like a very close family.”

She laughed. “We're not perfect, but close.”

Her positive energy and attractive looks made her an easy candidate for a relationship if she were truly open to a union. I decided to drop a line in the water. “Margaret brought by some of your cookies the other day and I happened to have several when my contractor, Zeb Talbot, came by with his son, Eric. The boy loved the cookies.”

Rachel's smile was as warm and genuine as her bakery. “Eric's a great kid. He goes to the same school as my girls.”

About the same age. Common interests. Children. Self-employed. Some matches came together with almost no effort. Clearly Rachel and Zeb thought well of each other, so why hadn't they connected? Could it be both were too busy with their lives and children to go after
love? Perhaps it was fear of being hurt? Both were attractive, so the chemistry shouldn't have been an issue. Was it a matter of a nudge or was there a piece of this puzzle I was missing?

“Mr. Talbot did a top-notch job on the renovation of my kitchen a couple of years ago, and he's building a garage for me now.”

“The spot of the infamous hearth of stones.”

“The very spot.”

She handed me the box. “So why, after all this time, did you decide to remove the stones?”

“Seemed logical. The land needed to be put to a better use and the pile of stones was becoming an eyesore.”

“Land here is scarce, so I can appreciate the need to put it to use. If we had more, we wouldn't be scouting new locations outside the city.”

“I suppose an expansion in town is out of the question.”

“Unless we could figure a way into one of the empty warehouses on the river. And then there's the issue of parking. Growing also means more people to hire, and they need to have a place to work and park.”

“Sounds like good problems to have.”

She tugged at the strings on her apron. “I'm not complaining. Two years ago I thought we were losing the bakery, and I was in a panic. Now we're growing by leaps and bounds.”

The scramble of little footsteps thundered down a back staircase. My back stiffened slightly, but Rachel took the disruption in stride.

“In seconds you're about to meet the two little tornados that are the center of my life,” she said.

No sooner were her last words spoken than two little girls burst through a side door. They were about seven and while one had strawberry-blond hair like her mother, the other's was a dark brown. They each wore their long hair in ponytails and were dressed in matching jean shorts, red T-shirts, and sneakers.

The girls didn't notice me as they scrambled toward their mother
and elbowed each other for their mother's attention. The child with the dark hair grabbed Rachel's left hand first, but the other was only a split second behind her, tugging on the other.

“Mom!” one shouted. “She's being mean to me.”

“Not true!” the other shouted. “I did not call her a bad name.”

Over the rumble of an argument that I did not fully follow, Rachel said, “Rae, meet Anna and Ellie. Girls, turn around and say hello to Dr. McDonald.”

In unison, they each delivered a high-pitched “Hi” before quickly reengaging in their squabble.

Rachel shook her head and turned each of the girls around to face me. “Look Dr. McDonald in the eye when you address her.”

This time they each looked up with eyes filled with laughter and excitement, and giggled. “Hi, Dr. McDonald.” Again, the address came in unison.

“Good evening, ladies,” I said.

Whereas Eric had a calm energy, these two children fed off each other. Jennifer and I must have been like these kids, because Mom often reached for the aspirin bottle after a long day.

Rachel patted each on the back. “Girls, go upstairs. I'll be there in a minute.”

Ellie shook her head. “But Mom, we need to talk to you about our teacher.”

“In a minute. Go.”

The girls puffed out bottom lips but turned and scurried up the back staircase. Rachel brushed back her bangs with the back of her hand. “My mom had three girls who were all under the age of four. I don't know how she did it.”

“I have vague memories of Mom needing naps after a long day with my sister and me.”

“I could use a nap. Does your sister live in town?”

Dark emotions shifted in the shadows. “Jennifer died in a car accident when she was seventeen.” I hadn't told the story in a long time and had forgotten how telling it could challenge my composure.

Rachel's expression softened before understanding dimmed her brightness. “God, Rae, I should have connected the dots.”

Hundreds of people had attended Jennifer's ceremony. Tragic deaths of those so young rattled lives and shined a spotlight on mortality. “It was a long time ago. Life moves on.”

“I was a year ahead of Jennifer, but we were both in the cheer squad together. I was dating my late husband, Mike, then and she was dating a boy named Jerry Trice?”

“I haven't heard that name in a long time.”

“I hear he moved to California and opened a wine shop,” Rachel said. “He made it back to town for a high school reunion. Still looked good.”

“I didn't realize Jerry came back to town.” After Jennifer's death, Jerry came by the house to visit, but the meeting was awkward and too painful for him and for me. His connection to us severed with my sister's death.

“He didn't stay long. A day or two and then he had to get back to the West Coast.”

“Ah.” More emotions rattled below the ice and bumped up against its underside, testing its strength.

Rachel's brows knotted. “Does it bother you when I talk about her? After my husband, Mike, died, everyone stopped talking about him. They were afraid that mentioning him would upset me, so they ignored him. But forgetting someone only makes it worse.”

“I haven't talked much about her in years, so it's nice to hear stories about her. Easy to forget there was a lot of fun in her life.”

“Same with Mike.”

“You must miss him very much.”

“I do. It's been two years and there are still moments when I swear he's standing right beside me. Moments when I'm laughing and I want to share; and moments when I'm angry and want to blame him.”

Imagining her with Zeb just didn't feel right. They made perfect sense as a couple on paper, but now that I'd met her, I wasn't so sure. Perhaps the problem was they were too much alike. No friction to make a spark.

There was someone for her, but his name danced out of reach. It would come to me soon. “Rachel, it's been a pleasure, but I need to hurry along to meet Margaret.”

“Don't keep her waiting. She'll bust if she has to wait too long.” Rachel flashed a smile, but it didn't quite hide the sadness. “Don't be a stranger, Rae. I'm glad we got a chance to meet formally.”

I extended my hand and she accepted it easily. Her hand was slightly callused but her touch was gentle. “It was a pleasure,” I said. “And I'm certain we'll meet again soon. Good luck with your business.”