The View from Prince Street (2 page)

Dearest Mother,

The witch's voice rode in on a frigid wind, heavy with the promise of snow, and tugged me from a restless sleep. Fresh on the heels of her witchcraft trial, I feared the beautiful widowed sorceress had arrived to curse me. I glanced to Mr. McDonald only to find rumpled sheets and a fading crease in his pillow.

Moonlight streamed through the unlatched front door and drew me from my bed and across the one-room cottage, past the glowing embers of the hearth. My aching heart momentarily forgotten, I peered into the night and saw the witch standing in the yard. Her wild red hair unbound and her gaunt, pale face illuminated by the heavens. She spoke in hard, desperate tones to Mr. McDonald, who wore work pants and boots pulled on hurriedly under his nightshirt. When I heard a babe's squawk, I knew she had also brought her infant twin sons, who lay swaddled and tucked in a small cart she must have pulled over five miles of rutted paths from the Alexandria settlement.

As I leaned against the doorjamb, I watched her drop to her knees in front of my husband and beseech him to give her and the babes shelter. “I will do anything to save them,” she said.

They spoke in whispers and for a long moment she did not move before she slowly nodded and rose. When I saw him lean into her
and raise his hand as if he wanted to touch her, I shouted, “Witch! The good wives have banished you, Faith, from the settlement!”

Faith didn't dare look in my direction, but I saw her fingers curl into fists. My husband didn't meet my gaze as he spoke in a low voice. She nodded again, never looking up. I realized a deal had been struck, and I was too late. The witch had spun her magic. My husband would allow her to stay.

She has cursed him, us, our lost children. Of that, I am sure. And I fear what evil Faith Shire will do now that she lives under our roof.

—P

Rae McDonald

M
ONDAY
, A
UGUST
15, 9:00
A.M.

T
he headline glared on the page.
Rae McDonald: Matchmaker with a Heart of Stone?

When the reporter first reached out to me and explained she was doing a profile on successful businesswomen, I assumed her focus would center on my doctorate in psychology and my private family practice. The interview began well enough. I discussed my undergraduate work at Georgetown, graduate studies at the University of Virginia, and my thriving family practice. The reporter scribbled notes and appeared interested. Then she mentioned a friend of a friend who was a client of mine. “Not a family practice client,” she said, leaning forward with a grin. “One of your matchmaking clients.”

I am not a matchmaker. There are times when I make suggestions to couples, I explained, but I was not a matchmaker. Then, she detailed my high success rate and shared several glowing quotes from couples that had found happiness because of my marital advice. I supplied more statistics about my family practice, and she listened. Took notes. Nodded. And when she left my home, I assumed the matchmaking was a forgotten diversion.

Rae McDonald: A Matchmaker with a Heart of Stone?

People read the weekly Lifestyle edition of the paper, but also the online version, which had the potential to reach far beyond the limits of Old Town Alexandria to every corner of the world that had access to a computer.
Dr. McDonald, who sometimes appears to have a heart of stone, cuts through the emotional chaos of finding love to help her clients discover lasting happiness.

It felt like a tabloid exposé.

Heart of stone.

It didn't sit well. I wasn't the Tin Man looking for a heart. A robot. Mr. Spock. In fact, sadness nearly destroyed me when I was sixteen. My older sister had died, and I subsequently made reckless choices that resulted in a pregnancy. I carried a healthy baby boy to term, gave birth, and when he was hours old, laid him in another mother's arms forever. The loss and pain were crushing. Devastating. And on that day, I realized my very survival depended on suppressing all my feelings.

Heart of stone. Anyone with a heart of stone would never be forced to live with such a choice, because they lacked the capacity to feel. Such are the traits of sociopaths. And my pain had been very real until I exorcised it.

My detachment had served me well. I survived abandonment guilt, and I also thrived academically and professionally. My ability to keep feelings at bay is the reason I can navigate my clients' emotional maelstroms. Because I remain detached from all their turmoil, my perspective is unencumbered and clear. I can see the forest for the trees.

As I stare out the window at the square, muddy patch of dirt in my backyard, raindrops roll lazily down hand-blown glass. The panes were original to the home, which was built over two hundred fifty years ago. I thought about the couple sitting behind me on the couch. They were here because of the article. They wanted a matchmaker to politely analyze and approve their union. They didn't need counseling. They wanted a rubber stamp on their rock-solid relationship.

Each had a clipboard, paper, pencil, and the charge to perform a simple exercise.
Write your deepest, darkest secret. Fold the paper in half and wait for my instruction.

These two individuals, like many of my clients, were successful in their own right. They were well on their way to enviable careers and shared high IQs, elite educations, drive, and ambition. But as valued as all those traits were on the corporate ladder, they didn't necessarily translate into thriving marriages.

Today,
He
was Samuel Morris: mid-thirties, a lawyer on track to be a partner in a Washington, D.C., law firm. He had a passion for great food and intended to have at least three children.
She
was Dr. Debra Osborne, a surgical resident at Georgetown Hospital who loved hiking, visiting Paris, and skiing. Though she spoke briefly of children, she neglected to check the box regarding children on my questionnaire.

In the first minutes of our initial interview today, they said that as soon as I gave my blessing on their match, they would formally announce their engagement. But this office wasn't a drive-up window, and I didn't give out gold stars unless they were earned.

Pencils scribbled, stopped, and scribbled again as I continued to stare out the window at the freshly graded square patch of land in my backyard.

This spot had once been the location of the original McDonald homestead hearth, which had long ago fallen into a tumble of moss-covered rubble, entwined with weeds and strawberry vines. It had stood on the property like a sentry since the Native Americans walked this land.

As legend had it, the stones were collected from the rivers and streams of Scotland to serve as ballast on merchant ships bound for the Virginia Colony. They were then loaded into the hull and placed around cargo so that in the event of a storm, the goods wouldn't shift, throwing the vessel off balance and sinking it. These stones arrived with the 1749 voyage of the ship
Discovery
, which also carried two
newly married Scots, Patience and Michael McDonald. They'd fled Scotland and a cholera epidemic to start afresh and tame the wild Virginia woods into profitable farmland.

According to my mother,
Discovery
's captain had been ready to dump the stones into the deep harbor at Hunting Creek and fill his hull with hogsheads of tobacco for the return voyage when my ancestor, never one to waste, offered to transport the stones ashore. The captain, anxious to anchor and see his wife, agreed. Michael McDonald and his wife offloaded the stones into a cart on shore and built the hearth that would be the centerpiece of their cottage. Those stones warmed two generations of McDonalds before lightning struck the hearth in 1783, sending loose cinders from it onto the cottage's thatched roof. Fire broke out and within minutes chewed through the roof, the rafters, and the home's contents.

The blackened stones were forgotten, and there they lay for over two centuries. Someone in each generation suggested that the stones be dismantled and hauled away, but there was always an elder at the ready to prevent their removal. The stones, the old ones said, warded off evil and protected the family. How many times had crops been spared from gale-force winds? When the Union troops marched through Virginia, why was the McDonald house left untouched? The stones protected the house and the land. But perhaps not its inhabitants.

I didn't believe in talismans or curses, but if I did, I'd note that the stones' power was bogus. The McDonald farm, which had been reported to cover a thousand acres at one time, had dwindled to a one-acre lot. Generations of McDonalds died young, including my sister. And my son was gone. Complete bunk.

After my mother's passing two years ago, the stone sentry grew more and more unsightly and became an embarrassing reminder of superstition and outdated fears.

My contractor had finally cleared the land six weeks ago, but the angry patch of red clay still looked startlingly out of place each time
I glimpsed at it. I still expected to see the stones. My gut was beginning to tell me I had made a grave mistake.

The near-monsoon rains prevented any new construction, and with each passing day, the bare soil looked more and more like a sunken grave. Whatever relief or sense of accomplishment I might have anticipated was sorely missing.

Turning from the window, I studied the couple. They each sat rigid, their hands gripping their papers. Body language spoke volumes. “Have you finished?”

Debra tugged her black skirt, sitting a little taller. She was petite, with dark brown hair and eyes that carried an intensity that was difficult to miss. She was the type who studied hard, made good grades, and played by the rules. “I'm not sure of the purpose of this exercise.”

Samuel raised a soft uncallused hand to his mouth and coughed. “Doesn't really make sense. You've heard us talk for an hour today. Surely you must see we're nearly perfect for each other.”

“Exchange papers,” I said, ignoring his comment.

“What?” Debra asked.

“You tell Samuel your darkest secret, and he'll tell you his. If you love each other, then you should be able to know the worst and still find acceptance. Long-term relationships require that kind of trust.”

Neither moved, and a heavy silence settled between them as they exchanged nervous glances until Samuel asked, “What does the past have to do with now? Today is what matters.”

“The past isn't separate. It's part of us,” I said.

Debra glanced at Samuel, her grin uneasy. Neither budged. “I have to agree with Samuel. We accept each other for who we are now. The past is over and done. Neither one of us wants to dredge up or catalogue yesterday's news.”

A grandfather clock in the hallway chimed ten times, indicating our session was over. “When you two can exchange papers, then call me for another session. Otherwise you're wasting your time and mine.”

Samuel shoved his paper in his pocket. “We didn't come here to create a problem where there is none. All we want is a confirmation that we're a good couple.”

Arching a brow, I studied him, not with anger or frustration, but with mild interest. “If you're looking for a yes or a no regarding your relationship, I would have to say, given the current conditions, that my answer would be no.”

“What?” Samuel asked. “That's absurd.”

“I would wager you've done more due diligence on prospective corporate mergers than this marriage,” I replied.

“No?”
Debra nearly shouted, glancing at Samuel. “We paid one hundred and fifty dollars for a
no
?”

Staring her down, I replied, “You paid for my opinion. I've given it.”

Debra rose, straightening to her full five feet five inches. “We get a lousy
no
, because we don't want to open the past? Our future does not earn a
no!
”

“I won't give you a patronizing yes. Past, present, and future are links in a chain. For a chain to hold, all the links must be strong. You can't simply pick and choose.” I traced the face of the simple wristwatch nestled next to the pearls. “There's also the fact that Debra didn't check the box for children on the questionnaire.”

She turned a bit red-faced. “I missed it. Give me the form and I'll check it now.”

“Not until you exchange pages.” I looked at my watch. “Now you must excuse me. I have another appointment.”

Samuel stood, wrapping a protective arm around Debra. “This was a waste of time. A waste of money.”

“I disagree,” I said. “I have saved you the cost of an expensive wedding and a more expensive divorce. The one hundred and fifty dollars was well worth it to you.”

“But we
love
each other,” Debra said. “That must count.”

“You've been dating three months,” I pointed out. “Yes, you have
an affection, but what both of you are feeling is sexual attraction. It'll fade in less than a year. And then you'll be left with each other. If the foundation is not solid and the goals are not in alignment, the marriage won't survive.”

“This is ridiculous,” she said.

The front doorbell chimed. “That's my next appointment.”

Samuel shook his head. “I'm telling everyone who'll listen that you're a fraud.”

Slowly, I turned back toward him. As a family practice psychologist, I was accustomed to dealing with raw nerves, tears, and anger. This couple's determined need for my approval was the first red flag. Debra's worried expression and Samuel's ire were the next. My approval was an excuse for a deeper reason. “Show Debra the paper in your pocket.”

His eyes narrowed. He was now opposing counsel, and in his mind's eye, we were facing each other across the negotiating table. “Fine. I will.” He dug the crumpled piece of paper out of his pocket and handed it to Debra. “Go ahead, read it.”

She lifted a chin. “I don't need to read it. I trust him.”

Whereas he took her words as an act of faith, I saw it for what it was: a diversion. The front doorbell rang again. “Return when you both agree to exchange papers in front of me.”

The couple looked at each other, but Debra did not look at his paper or share her secret. Samuel's face lost some of its ire. Instead, he took Debra by the arm and exited through the pocket doors.

As they marched down the center hallway toward the wide front door, I followed.

My house was a two-story built in the Federal style and fashioned of red Virginia clay brick. The first floor had four large rooms divided by a wide center hallway that stretched from the front door all the way to the back into a thirty-year-old addition that housed a recently updated kitchen. My office and a dining room occupied the east side, and on the west there was a parlor and a small room where I sometimes
watched television or read. Upstairs were four bedrooms and two bathrooms. I used the smallest bedroom, the one that had been mine as a child, because it caught the morning sunlight. After my mother died, I had her room and bathroom updated but had never gotten around to moving into the larger space.