The View from Prince Street (27 page)

My Dearest Children,

The famer's wife lies in the new fancy four-post bed on the first floor of the brick home. In the spring, the farmer will begin on the second floor. But she does not notice the new home with its white plaster walls, freshly hewn floors and grand hearths. All she knows now is the pain that grows worse by the day. All the color has faded from her face, her hair now thinned to faint wisps.

As I tended her with a compress to her fevered brow, she confessed she and the other women had made witch bottles to cast a spell against me. I bade her to tell me where the bottles were hidden. I would smash them, for wishes can easily turn to curses. She refused to tell me. They know not what they've done.

—F

Rae McDonald

F
RIDAY
, S
EPTEMBER
2, 3:45
P.M.

I
was nervous when I arrived at the Shire Architectural Salvage yard. Once again, choosing what to wear was a headache as I thought about seeing Michael. I finally settled on dark pants, a matching fitted jacket, and a white shirt. Hardly a fashion statement, but this was my “go-to” suit and it made me feel confident and comfortable. And more than anything, I wanted to at least appear relaxed and confident around Michael.

Pushing through the front doors of the King Street warehouse, I noticed that Margaret, or more likely Addie, had arranged a collection of mismatched chairs in a theater style. They faced a long, makeshift table made of a reclaimed door and two sawhorses. In the center of the table stood a tabletop lectern that looked like it had come from a church.

A baby's cry echoed from the back of the warehouse, and as I heard footsteps, I expected to see Addie with Carrie bundled in the front pack. But it was Margaret who rounded the corner with the child tucked in a sling. The baby was awake, bright eyed, her fists balled up with energy and excitement.

Margaret raised a hand. “Rae. Are you not thrilled about this event?”

“I am. I hope you don't mind, but I invited Zeb and Eric as well as a couple of friends of mine.”

“Wonderful. My lectures are not typically well attended. I have a talent for developing a great fascination for things few care about.”

Around Margaret, my blood pressure dropped. Even the baby, normally fussy, appeared content.

“The local reporter did say she might come,” Margaret added. “Though, I'll warn you, I think it was the same reporter who gave you the ‘heart of stone' moniker.”

“Even better.” I moved forward and took the baby's foot in my hand. “I didn't expect to see you with a baby.”

“Addie had to deliver a 1910 hand-carved mantel to a client, and Grace was too tired to watch the kid.” She rubbed Carrie on top of her head. “And I'm fairly sure that Carrie is not a real baby. I think she's a thirty-five-year-old woman trapped in a baby's body. I find the more I talk to her like an adult, the calmer she becomes.”

“Really? What makes you say that?”

“When I speak, her eyes are always open and studying me. And yes, she can be a crier, but this kid knows what she wants. You've got to admire a woman who knows what she wants and then promptly demands it in full. I've been running through my presentation and she's been offering her opinion freely. She likes offering critiques.”

It was hard not to grin. “What's she saying so far?”

“Well, that depends on how you interpret burps and grunts. I'm thinking it means, ‘Good job, Margaret. You're brilliant.'”

“That's how I would interpret it.”

“Good, because there have been lots of burps and grunts. Some noises even sound as if they have exclamation points on the end.” Margaret checked her watch. “Lisa should be here soon.”

“Great.”

“I did find out a few tidbits on Fiona. I'll share after the meeting if that's okay.”

“Perfect.”

Lisa pushed through the front door. She was dressed in dark jeans, a black T-shirt, and a lightweight gray jacket. Her blond hair was twisted into a loose topknot and secured by two red hair sticks. Silver feathers dangled from her ears, and though her makeup was slight, there was just enough to accentuate her blue eyes. She was nearly two years older than I, but she looked hip and cool, whereas I felt a little stiff. I considered popping the collar of my shirt or pushing up my jacket sleeves, but in the end it just wasn't me.

Tucked under Lisa's arm was a leather portfolio case. “Rae, I'm glad you're here a little early. I have something for you.”

“You brought something for me?”

Lisa set the portfolio on Margaret's table. I approached as she unwound the string that was holding the top flap closed. “When Addie and Margaret cleaned out Amelia's basement, I didn't realize they had found a box of glass negatives. I told them to take everything, and they did. When I was here at the warehouse a few days ago, I spotted the box. Until that moment, I'd forgotten all about it.”

Margaret studied the portfolio. “I knew they were glass negatives but assumed they were really old.”

“They're seventeen years old. They were one of my first attempts at wet-plate photography. I cringe when I see all the mistakes I made in the early days.”

“I stopped worrying about my mistakes a long time ago,” Margaret said. “It's about the only kind of history I don't track.”

So much of me wished I could be like Margaret. I meticulously catalogued every error I made. I'd become so focused on making no missteps that I couldn't move forward. I was a dowdy thirty-two-year-old who hadn't had a real date in more years than I could count. But I was realizing that to wish away my mistakes would also cast off
Michael. Something I would never do. “It looks like you developed some of the negatives.”

Lisa reached into the portfolio. Her fingertips on a print, she hesitated. “I made this for you and Jennifer, Rae.”

Slowly, she pulled out the image, its white backing facing me. “It's not the best photography I've ever done. In fact, the negative had technical mistakes that I couldn't fix. However, I was able to capture a great moment.”

Drawing in a breath, she turned the picture around and I found myself staring into Jennifer's face. For a moment, I could not move. My heart stopped. I studied the image, feeling the last of the barriers to my heart splinter and crack. Feelings so long in hibernation stirred.

My chest tightened with emotion and hands shook as I accepted the picture from her. My gaze lingered briefly on my young face before shifting to Jennifer's expressive eyes. A lock of her reddish-brown hair, which looked darker here, cascaded over her shoulder, thick and full, and a small strand dangled over her left eye. She wore the gold hoop earrings that Mom had given her on her sixteenth birthday and the black V-neck I'd given her for Christmas. Her smile was so slight it would have been easy to miss. She possessed a look that suggested to the world she knew a secret.

We were sitting on a bench. She had slung her arm around my neck and I was grinning. This was the Jennifer I remembered. She was real. I'd never liked the formal pictures Mom displayed at her funeral or the last yearbook picture, which made her look so prim and proper. The girl looking back at me now was the bossy, sometimes irreverent sister who took all the chances and broke the rules.

Words escaped me until, finally, I cleared my throat and said, “That's her. That's Jennifer.”

Lisa released the breath she held. “That's you, too. The kid I remember.”

“I'd forgotten we looked so much alike.”

“I've had these faces in my memory for so long, but I realized when I saw this picture, I'd forgotten so much.” She pointed to a small white scar above Jennifer's lip. “Remember when she got that? We were in the sixth grade.”

“You and Jennifer were playing baseball in the backyard. She called you a wimp and you hurled the ball at her. Hit her in the mouth.”

“Your mom was so freaked out. Jennifer had a cotillion dance that Friday and your mother was certain she would greet her date with no front teeth.”

“The doctor said the cut could use a couple of stitches, but Jennifer wouldn't let him get near her with a needle,” I remembered. “She said the scar would add character.”

“I'll never forget all the blood. She must have made up a dozen stories about how she got the scar. Milked it good.”

A flood of memories of the girl we both dearly missed came rushing back.

“Really nice job,” Margaret said. “I can see you had the gift, even in high school.”

“There are so many technical problems with the negative,” Lisa said.

“I see none,” I countered. “It's absolutely perfect. I'll frame it. I know exactly where I'll hang it in my house.”

The bells of the shop jingled, and Addie pushed through the door. Carrie, hearing Addie, began to kick, fuss, and cry.

Margaret shook her head as she pointed at the baby. “She was not crying while you were gone. Do not believe her.”

Addie grinned as she set down her purse. The baby cried louder and kicked her feet. “Did Margaret lock you in a trunk again?”

The baby cried as Addie pulled her from the front pack and kissed her on the face. Carrie wailed and smiled all in the same instant.

“I'm being set up,” Margaret said. “The kid and I were inventorying doorknobs and reviewing my witch bottle presentation. I talked. She burped. She was happy until she saw you. She's a sly one.”

Addie kissed the baby in the crook of her neck until she stopped fussing. “I know. Carrie's a little con artist. She does the same when Grace watches her. How is Grace doing?”

“Sleeping. She babysat earlier today and the kid wore her out. But she's fine. The kid and I held down the fort.”

“I knew you would.”

“So, do we have press yet?” Addie asked.

Margaret pulled her phone from her back pocket. “The reporter texted and said any minute.”

The doorbells jingled and I turned to see a tall blond woman. She wore skinny jeans accentuating a flat belly, an off-the-shoulder T-shirt, and boots. “Am I late?”

It didn't take a Ph.D. to see the tension ripple through Addie as she smiled. Putting two and two together, I came up with Janet Morgan, Addie's sister and the baby's birth mother.

“Hey, Janet,” Addie said. “You came to hear Margaret talk about the bottles?”

“Wouldn't miss it.” She moved to the baby, grinned, and held out her hands. The baby smiled back as Janet reached for her. Addie allowed her to go, but kept a close watch.

As I studied Addie's body language, my respect for Susan grew. She could have handled Michael's relationship with me a dozen different ways. It wouldn't have been hard to shut me out completely. I'd certainly made it easy for her over the years. But she stepped back and let her son, our son, find his own way. Michael and I weren't guaranteed anything. We would both have to want it. Susan loved Michael enough to let him love me. And Addie was doing the same for Carrie.

Janet nestled the baby on her hip, though her hold wasn't quite as relaxed as Addie's. One baby and two mothers.

I checked my watch and realized Margaret's show was starting in a few minutes, if she stuck to schedule. Michael and his mother would be here soon. Tension banded across my chest. I stole another glance
at the clock and door. Maybe they were stuck in traffic. Susan didn't live in this area and she might very well have underestimated the time it took to find a parking space. Maybe I should have told her to leave earlier? Should I call and check on them? Or would that be too pushy? Technically, they weren't late, and she could be circling the block right now looking for parking.

The bells jingled again and I turned to see Zeb and Eric. The boy's grin was wide, thrilled as he rushed into the room and up to Janet.

“Mom!”

Janet rumpled his hair with her hand. “Hey, baby. How are you doing?”

Eric's exaggerated frown almost made me laugh. “I'm not a baby.”

She made a good-natured face at him. “You're my baby.”

“I'm not a baby, Mom. Carrie is your baby,” Eric said.

Addie took a small step back, fingers tightening on her forearms.

Zeb placed his hand on Eric's shoulder, squeezing gently. Puzzled, the boy looked up at his dad.

Janet was oblivious to Addie and Zeb's tension as she held the baby closer.

Margaret coughed loudly and clapped her hands. “Let's get this show on the road.”

The loud noise startled the baby. Her eyes widened and she began to cry. Janet rocked the baby for a minute or two longer, but when the crying didn't ease, she turned to Addie, who gladly took the child and rested her against her shoulder.

Janet's hands trembled slightly as she tucked them in her pockets. I studied her more closely and caught the averted gaze and the nervous tap of her toe. No wonder she couldn't deal with a crying baby. She couldn't deal with herself. I didn't know exactly what she struggled with, but clearly, the burden required all her attention.

Margaret, in a hushed voice, said, “I've a lot of good information on Faith and the witch bottles.”

Glancing toward the door, I wanted to ask Margaret to wait but caught a glimpse of Addie's stone face. Carrie was Janet's child by birth, but Addie was the child's mother in every other way. “Your reporter isn't here, Margaret.”

“She said she would be here any minute and I've e-mailed her all the facts.” She rubbed her hands together, more quietly this time, and grinned. “Let's talk witch bottles.”

We all took our seats, Janet in the front next to Eric and Zeb, flanking the boy's other side. Lisa and Addie took the second row and I opted to sit in the back, choosing the row with the most empty seats. Plenty of room for Susan and Michael. I looked at the door again and when I faced front, found Zeb looking back with a questioning look. When Michael and his mother arrived, he'd learn more answers about the McDonalds than he ever wanted.