Chapter 2
I don’t think you are either, Mr. Braden.
Emily closed the door behind him and walked over to her duffel bag. Her stomach burned. She hadn’t put much in it today. Rummaging through clothes and books, she found a bag of rice cakes. Nibbling on one while massaging her lower back with the other hand, she walked through the kitchen to the cellar door. She had half an hour to explore until the next contractor arrived. If the cellar was dry, she could store her few belongings there, protected from drywall dust and out of the way of whomever she ended up hiring.
The top of the door was level with the top of her head. She turned the porcelain knob, but it just kept turning. With a yank, she pulled the door open. Half-moon chips along the opened edge displayed at least five different colors of paint. Sage green, salmon, pale yellow. Did each color represent someone’s fresh start?
Cool, musty air wafted up. She pushed a mother-of-pearl button on an old-fashioned switch. A dusty bulb hanging from a wire above her head came to life. Two-by-four railings flanked the open-sided wood staircase that was little more than a wide ladder. Emily hung her cane on the doorknob. Rough planks gave slightly beneath her feet, sounding as though they were pulling free of the rusty nails that held them in place.
It took a moment for her eyes to adjust to the dim light from two bare bulbs and a small, algae-covered window. Canning shelves that once bowed under Grace Ostermann’s trophies stood barren. The whole unit listed slightly to the right. With a little reinforcing, they would hold her bins. The other three walls were made of field stone with wide mortared spaces between the rocks. A deep ledge ran the length of the wall beneath a small window just above her eye level. Shapes cluttered one end of the ledge, but she couldn’t make out the objects. She walked closer, wishing she’d brought a flashlight.
A cricket and two spiders scurried into the shadows when she lifted a heavy, stained and tattered Havoline Motor Oil box. Emily shivered and blew off a coating of dust before she opened it. The box was filled with pint jars. Full pint jars. She lifted one to the light. Apple slices.
She could almost taste Nana Grace’s apple cobbler swimming in warm, brown sugar syrup. But these jars, blue-green with mottled zinc lids, looked like they’d been filled long before that magical summer. It may have been sitting in this very place when she and Cara had come down here with armloads of canned peas or carrots or beets. She put the box back, leaving out one jar. She’d wash it off and set it on the kitchen counter—a tribute to a woman who’d made daily chores a labor of love.
Grimacing, she reached into the shadows and pulled out a tall metal container. A hairy-bodied spider ran across her hand and she jumped. She wasn’t afraid of spiders. She just didn’t want to keep company with them. The tin was surprisingly heavy. When she moved it closer to the window, she saw color. About four inches square and eight high, the tin was covered in a blue and green plaid. She pulled off the lid. An enormous clear glass marble with tiny bubbles suspended in its core sat near the top. She set it carefully in a divot in the ledge and pulled out a cast-iron Indian on horseback and a miniature carved wooden frog. Who made you? Who did you belong to?
Coins, tokens, a whistle, and a wooden matchbox. A boy’s box of treasures? The picture that came to mind was a 1940s version of the little guy who’d asked for “peanuhbutter” cookies. Striped T-shirt, blue shorts, and brown tie shoes, a homemade slingshot sticking out of his back pocket.
A cricket chirped from somewhere near her feet, and she suddenly sensed she was surrounded by crawling creatures. As she put the marble and the frog back in the can, she scanned the cellar. The floor appeared dry. After a bug bomb, a good sweeping, and a few braces on the shelves, it would once again be usable.
She lifted her foot to the bottom step then turned back to the desolate shelves.
Would she still be here when the apples ripened?
“I get your vision, but it seems kind of a shame to change things that drastically. I’ll be honest with you, ma’am, you’ll lose some potential buyers and”—Matt Rayburg laughed at whatever humorous thing he was about to say—“don’t be surprised if the neighbors have a thing or two to say about it.” His mouth twisted to one side and he nodded as if responding to a voice only he could hear.
They already have. “But you’d do it?”
“I’d do it. Might try to persuade you a bit before I take a hammer to that wall, but I’d do it. I’ll write you up an estimate and get it to you Monday.”
“Thank you.” She shook the man’s hand and opened the front door for him as the third contractor walked up the front walk.
Mr. Rayburg eyed the taller man, muttered hello, and got in his truck.
“Mr. Hansel?” Emily’s neck arched to make eye contact.
He wore a dress shirt, cuffs rolled to just below his elbows, and khakis with knife-sharp creases. He held out a soft hand. “You must be Emily. You’re much younger than you sounded on the phone.”
More than just his hands were smooth. The compliment generated an instant distrust. When they reached the last bedroom on the second floor, he bent forward just a degree, a subtle bow. “Refreshing. It’s encouraging to meet a forward thinker. French doors in place of these would be lovely, and I can envision a few skylights here in the master suite.”
Emily stared at a robin’s nest in a branch just beyond the window. Had her imaginary friend in the striped T-shirt held his giant, clear marble up to this same window to catch the sunlight? “I do need to keep the cost down.”
“Of course. Our specialty. And just for you, I’ll throw in some extras. We’re based out of Milwaukee and just beginning to branch out.”
Fatigue descended on Emily in a sudden rush. Leaning on her cane, she suppressed a yawn. “When could you start and how soon could you have it done?”
The man cupped his elbow in one hand, and tapped his cheek. “Twelve weeks from the day we start, which could be within the week. And that’s a generous estimate. Chances are, we could have things wrapped up in ten. Does that suit your timeline?”
“Th-that would suit me just fine.”
“Very well. I could fax an estimate yet today.”
“If you could e-mail it, I should be able to get it by Monday.”
“Consider it done.”
Blinking away the vision of bubbles dancing in a crystal ball, she imagined skylights and French doors and nodded. Consider it done.
“I’ll make it up to you.” Lexi whipped her ponytail over her shoulder and threw her book bag into the truck. “Ice cream. Uncle Harry’s.”
Jake arched an eyebrow at his niece. “You’re buying?”
“Of course not. You are.”
He put the truck in first gear and pulled away from the school. “And this would be making it up to me how?”
“The pleasure of my company.”
“Do you seriously think there’s room in my packed social calendar for hanging out with a seventh-grader?”
Lexi Sutton giggled like a girl with no cares in the world. “I seeeeriously think.”
Giggles could be deceptive.
“Just so you know, if I agree to this, it’s because of grasshopper ice cream, not the seventh-grader.”
She raised her own eyebrow mockingly and rolled down her window. “Whatever.”
“Where’s Adam?”
“Doing penance. He had to skip science club and go home on the bus for feeding Pansy in the middle of the night.”
“Ben has rules about midnight feedings?” The name of his late sister’s second husband left an acrid taste in his mouth. Strange how a man with zero self-discipline handled his stepkids like a drill sergeant.
“Ben has rules about when you can breathe.”
“So he hides your inhaler on you when it’s not time to breathe?” It was hard to make light of a subject like Ben Madsen, but Jake wasn’t going to allow the slug to wreck the little time he could steal with the twins.
“He would if he could. I keep it locked in my safe in Mom’s box.”
He had to shift the focus onto something positive. “So how was school?”
“You do realize that’s the lamest question in the universe, don’t you?”
“Okay, so give me a better conversation starter.”
Lexi opened her backpack and pulled out a large white envelope. “Well, you could ask me if anything special happened in school today.”
Jake cleared his throat. “Hi, Lex. Did anything special happen in school today?”
“Funny you should ask. The track coaches awarded me the Congeniality Person of the Month award.”
“Wow. That’s awesome.” Emotion roughened his voice. “I’m proud of you.”
Lexi smiled shyly and turned to the window. “Ben will get a good laugh out of this one.”
Jake let several miles pass in silence as he tried to formulate an answer that wouldn’t push them into a downward Ben spiral. He turned left onto W. “Is he still bowling on Thursday nights?”
“If that’s what you call sitting at a bar with maroon shoes on.”
Taking his eyes off the road, Jake lifted her chin. “I’ll take you and Adam out for pizza Thursday night.” It was a statement intended to bring hope.
A tiny smile rewarded him. “Don’t worry about us so much. We’re okay.”
Right. By the time he trusted his voice again, they could see the sign for Uncle Harry’s. “I promised your mom I’d watch out for you two.” His throat tightened with something very much the opposite of hope. “That includes worrying.”
“I know.” She tipped her head to one side. “You’re really good at uncle-ing.”
Emily stared up at the leather loop that served as a handle for the door to the attic. There was probably a drop-down ladder, but it did her no good when the handle dangled at least two feet beyond her reach. Instinctively she looked around for something to stand on, a futile gesture in an empty house.
Leave it.
Common sense spoke loudly, but curiosity overruled. She had plans for that space.
On the main floor, she scanned her meager pile of essentials and headed out the back door. A small shed hid behind the lilac bushes in her backyard. She took the key ring off the black hook, hoping one of the rusty keys Cara had sent would open the shed.
The smell of rain tinged the air. How much higher could the river rise before it caused real problems for the people living along its banks?
The shed wasn’t locked, but she had to grab the edge of the door with both hands to pull it over clumps of dirt and grass. Once again she wished for a flashlight. An old push lawn mower sat in one corner and an upturned barrel held a bag of sidewalk salt and an array of garden tools. In the darkest corner she found what she was looking for—a ladder. Between the rungs, a streak of light reflected on glass. Pulling the ladder aside, she found a rough-hewn shadow box lined with faded blue calico cloth. Inside, a heavy-looking dog collar hung on a square-headed nail. Emily smiled. Who would frame a dog collar? She pictured the white dog in the photo Jacob had shown her. Was that yours, Fluff?
This place was having a strange effect on her. Or maybe it was just the result of time to think. Since the accident, her days had been filled, first with pain then with therapy. Before that, there’d never been enough hours in the day to have time left over for her imagination to take its own course on anything.
Thoughts of life before the accident made her feel like a voyeur, peering in on a stranger’s world. The laughing, confident woman who had sung “Ring Around the Rosie” to preschoolers by day and sipped sake on a black leather couch at the Monkey Bar in Grand Rapids by night was someone else.
One hand on the ladder, she looked up at the rafters. Wroughtiron hooks hung from the beams. A small tubeless wheel swung from the highest hook, the once-white rim and spokes the right size for a tricycle. She exhaled through pursed lips and dragged the ladder out the door.
Everywhere she turned, something reminded her of little boys.
She’d long since shed her sweater, and now her white T-shirt clung to her clammy skin. With a flashlight shoved in her back pocket, she propped the ladder against the trim that surrounded the trapdoor in the ceiling. A spasm clenched her low back. A stabbing pain shot through her sacrum. Leaning on the ladder, she took two slow breaths and waited it out. When the pain lessened, she tested the rungs.
The skinny planks whined as she ascended. Emily tapped her back pocket. Assured her cell phone was in place in case she needed to meet the local rescue workers, she climbed until the top of her head nudged the door. There were no hinges. She shoved the loose panel out of the way. It scraped against the attic floor, shooting echoes and dust through the opening.
She climbed the last few rungs and landed safely on gritty boards, but as she swung clumsily into a sitting position, her foot banged the ladder. She lunged for it, but the bottom of the ladder lost its grip on the floor below. The top did a strange little jump, banged once against the frame, skimmed her hand, and crashed to the floor.
“No!” Scrambling to her feet, she hobbled to the window. Across the street, Russell dribbled the basketball. Michael sat on the beach ball, crying. Relief coursed through Emily, disarming every adrenaline-activated nerve. She unlatched the window and pulled on the brass handle at the bottom.
It didn’t budge. As her shoulder wrenched, she noticed the strips of furring nailing the window shut.
She whirled. Even from here, she could see the strips of wood sealing the other window.
She banged on the glass. “Russell! Up here! Michael!”
After a minute it dawned on her—if she couldn’t hear the slap of the basketball on the cement, they couldn’t hear her.
Don’t panic. She reached for her phone. It’s not an emergency. Back home in Traverse City, she knew several guys on the volunteer rescue squad. She’d heard their stories, and she wasn’t about to become a Friday night laugh. She was resourceful. Hadn’t she heard that very word from professors and coworkers? Hadn’t her therapist told her over and over that she was stronger than she thought she was? She scanned the room for a rope, a hammer, anything. On the other end of the attic, a large square of gray linoleum covered the floor. It matched the flowery pattern showing through the hole in the kitchen floor. If she could find a way to secure it, she could use it as a slide.
And end up back in the hospital.
Along one wall, an old quilt covered something about ten feet long. She yanked the quilt. Dust plumes danced in the shaft of gold sunlight straining through the west window. A church pew, dark-stained and shiny. Clusters of grapes with pointy leaves and curling tendrils decorated the back. On the end of the bench sat a Bible, the edges of the black cover ragged and curled. With the quilt at her feet, Emily sank to the bench.
On the wall directly across the room from her hung a three-foot-high black iron cross.
With it, she could break a window. But the thought of breaking the old glass seemed as sacrilegious as using a cross to do it.
Who had hung it here in this silent sanctuary? And who had made the decision to leave it?
She reached into her pocket and pulled out her phone, opened to her contacts list, and scrolled it. She knew two people in this town. Matt Rayburg and Jacob Braden.
Banishing the last shred of her pride, she decided to call the arrogant man who lived in the neighborhood. When she’d finished leaving a message, she sank back on the pew and stared at the cross. This would be a perfect place to pray.
She looked down at the faded quilt and began counting stitches.
September 2, 1852
“We need more.”
Hannah knelt in the stifling attic and dropped a buffalo robe onto the two quilts in Papa’s open arms. Only one blanket remained.
“Bertha Willett said we’ll find some in the buggy after church.”
“Bless that woman.” She put one high-laced shoe on the ladder step, straightened her skirt about her ankles, and climbed down. “She’ll be blessed in eternity, and we’ll get just the opposite for lying to her.”
Papa stood at the top of the stairs, petting his newly plastered wall as if it were a prized heifer. He shook his head. “When faced with two moral dilemmas, always choose the greater good. We’ve done no harm to Mrs. Willett by letting her believe she’s making quilts for orphans.”
Hannah shook the dust from her skirt and held out her arms for the blankets. “What was it that made a man with a spiritual answer for everything become a shopkeeper instead of a minister?”
A sad smile crinkled the skin at the corners of his eyes. “A sweetheart who wanted to marry a man who would indulge her.”
Mirroring his smile, Hannah touched the wall in the same endearing fashion. “You did well for Mama.”
A long sigh echoed off the empty walls. “If only she could have seen the house finished.”
She refrained from saying We will not speak of what might have been. It was good for them to talk of Mama, to keep her memory alive. “She had three years to enjoy her stove and the cupboard…” She almost added before, but the word didn’t need to be spoken. “She was happy. You built her ‘the best new house in the best new state.’” She watched Mama’s phrase darken his eyes. Hard as it was, he needed to be reminded.
Papa walked into the room that would be Hannah’s as soon as the wallpaper arrived—a room with an actual closet with shelves on the bottom, and Liam’s hooks on all three sides—the closet she’d already covered with a gingham curtain to hide the bit of carpentry she’d done herself.
She took him by the arm and steered him away from her closet. “The pies should be cool by now.”