The Spirit of Grace Read online

  ***

  The day was bright and warm, with a refreshing undertone of the fall chill that would set in when the sun went down. I stepped off the bus and took a deep breath, filling my lungs with salty sea air. A queue of soldiers poured out of the post office and onto the sidewalk in front of it. Others came out carrying bundles of packages and letters. Green military vehicles crept along the clogged street in the first traffic jam I had ever seen in my home town. The milkman, who still used a horse-drawn cart to deliver his cargo, headed back to the dairy. His horse, a gentle shire whose hooves were the size of dinner plates, pranced along the streets with his neck arched and his ears pricked forward. There wasn’t a parking space to be found. At the end of Main Street, between the post office and the beach, rows of tents had been pitched. The window in the post office had the same poster I had seen all over San Francisco affixed to the door. “Loose lips sink ships! Please don’t discuss military activities!” Next to it was another plea to purchase war bonds.

  My green-eyed stranger got off the bus ahead of me. He walked up to an imposing black sedan, an incongruity next to the military vehicles and personnel. As he drew close, the back window of the car rolled down. My stranger open the door and slipped into the backseat.

  “Do you want to use my phone to call your family?” Mrs. Tolliver asked. “They’ll want to come and fetch you.”

  “No, thank you,” I said, staring at the car as it pulled away. “I want to walk.”

  “It’s a long way, dearie,” she said, squinting up at me.

  “I’ll take the shortcut along the beach,” I said.

  “Good. You could do with some fresh air,” she said. She reached into the burlap sack and handed me a jar. “Eat this vegetable soup. It will put some color in your cheeks.”

  She picked up her shopping bags and lumbered away from me, toddling on ankles that were swollen over the tops of her brown lace-up shoes.

  ***

  I kicked off my shoes and stepped onto the sand, savoring the warmth of the sun on my cheeks, the soothing rhythm of the waves as they crashed to the shore, and the tangy sea air.

  “Hello, Sarah.”

  I turned, surprised to find Mrs. Kensington standing next to me. We had struck up a friendship at The Laurels, where her daughter was also a patient.

  “Hello,” I said.

  “I’m glad I found you,” she said, smiling at me. “I heard you had left and was sorry that we didn’t get to say goodbye.”

  I set my valise down on the ground and shielded my eyes against the glare from the sun. Today Mrs. Kensington had on a simple black dress and the gold locket she always wore. Inside it was a picture of her husband, who died in 1918 of influenza, and her daughter. I had never seen the pictures, but Mrs. Kensington had told me that the locket held the pictures of her beloved family. ‘I like to keep them close to my heart.’ She had on stockings and fine leather shoes, inappropriate attire for a walk on the beach. But I was glad to see her. Our friendship had sustained me during my time of grief.

  “How in the world did you know I would be here?”

  “They told me you had gone home,” she said. “I was glad to hear that you had gotten out of that horrid place.”

  “I still don’t understand why you’ve come all the way here,” I said.

  “I can explain,” she said. She became serious. “You must be very careful, Sarah Jane. Things at Bennett House are very strange right now. I know you didn’t push Jessica down the stairs.”

  “What? How can you know that? I don’t even know what happened that night. I don’t remember anything. Don’t you read the newspapers--” I stopped myself before I said too much. Oh, what a fool I had been. “You people have no scruples, do you? My god, you’ve been lying to me. You must think I am so very stupid.”

  “I’m not a reporter. I’m here to help you. That is the only reason I am here. Oh, I’ve made a mess of it, haven’t I?” She wrung her hands. Were those tears in her eyes? “I want to fix things, make it all right.”

  “You tell me who you are and what you know about my mother or I’m walking away,” I said.

  She didn’t speak. Instead, she reached out and touched my cheek with fingers that were icy cold. “I’m sorry I upset you, Sarah,” she said, as she turned and walked away from me.

  “Wait,” I called after her. “How do you know I didn’t kill my mother?”

  She slowly turned around to face me. “It’s just a feeling I have right here.” She touched her heart as she spoke. “Go home, Sarah. When I figure out how I can help you, I’ll be in touch.”

  I watched her for a minute before I picked up my bag and set out once again toward Bennett House. She was a smart one, I’d give her that. For a brief second, I was ready to believe her, to let her help me, to confide in her. What a disaster that would have been. I could see the headlines now. She got right to my sensitive spot. But while her behavior was unscrupulous and loathsome, no one had ever uttered those words to me: ‘I know you didn’t push Jessica down the stairs.’ Not Gran. Not my father. How could they? They didn’t know.

  I turned for one more look at this strange woman who acted as though she believed in me. She was gone.

  ‘I know you didn’t push Jessica down the stairs.’

  The words kept repeating in my head as I trudged through the sand toward home. How desperate I was to believe that woman, to think that I might have an ally, someone who believed in my innocence and could help me prove it. How foolish. My heart sank. If one newspaper was onto the fact that I had come home, others would follow. We would have reporters camped out near our home, much like we did after my mother’s death. I had come home, but had brought trouble with me.

  I craved a bath, a cup of good strong coffee, and my bed. By the time the pitched gables of Bennett House peaked out above the trees, my shoulder ached from carrying my bag and my feet smarted from the hot sand. I put my shoes back on and stepped into the grove of old redwoods that circled the house, separating it from the dunes that led to the beach, then out of their protective shade and onto the shabby lawn. Bennett House loomed, tall and strong and timeless.

  Weeds poked through the bricks that made up the walkway to the front porch. One of the shutters on the front windows had come loose and hung sideways on its hinges. The roses that grew on either side of the walkway had been neglected in my absence. They were overgrown and covered with dead flowers and brown leaves. The nasturtiums had gone wild and taken over the other perennials that grew along the foundation, their orange and yellow flowers bright and lovely. Fat, lazy bumblebees hovered around them. The clematis that grew on the lattice near the front door had reached the top of the wooden structure and was now intent on weaving itself into the old copper gutters, which had turned a mellowed patina of green decades ago.

  A large raised-bed garden had been planted on the sunniest patch of lawn, its pristine rows a stark contrast to the rest of the unkempt landscaping. I recognized what was left of peas, beans, tomatoes, and squash, most of which had already been harvested.

  As I stepped away from the cover of the trees, a flock of gulls circled above me, as if to announce my presence. They called out to each other, cawing in harmony, with the Pacific Ocean as their accompaniment. I headed up the path, took the two steps up the porch, and paused for a moment before knocking on the massive wooden door. Would I be welcome? Or should I turn around now and run, while I still could?

  I reached out my hand to knock as the door burst open. A woman I did not know stood before me on the threshold. She fumbled with a bag designed to hold a camera and several lenses. When she saw me, her mouth opened and her eyebrows shot up in surprise. Her flawless make-up accentuated her beauty. The dress she wore, a charcoal gray sheath, flattered her slim waist and narrow hips. An emerald-green silk scarf held her hair away from her face. Her eyes now traveled up and down my body, taking in my old and much-mended linen skirt, my blouse, now wrinkled from my trip home, and my hair, which had grown during my time
away, and had now escaped from the clip that held it away from my face. I didn’t speak. I just stood there stupidly, not quite sure what to say.

  “You must be Sarah,” she said.

  “I am,” I said, faking a smile. “Who are you?”

  “We wondered when you would show up.” She ignored my question and stepped away from the door, holding it open for me. “They called to tell us you had left. I know Jack told you to come home, but you could have called us, let us know when you were going to arrive. How did you get here, by bus? Did you walk all the way from town?”

  She didn’t let me speak.

  “You may as well come in.” She stepped aside and allowed me to enter my own home.

  As we stood for a moment in the foyer, I took in the parquet floor, the sweeping staircase that led to the second story, and the mahogany table that had graced the center of the room since the house was built. For as long as I could remember, a crystal vase the size of a small child had graced the center of the table, always filled with a huge bouquet of flowers. Today the table was bare and the crystal vase that had rested upon it was gone. I ran my hand over the smooth wood, surprised at the dust that had been allowed to accumulate on top of it.

  “It’s hideous, isn’t it,” the woman said.

  “I’m rather fond of it,” I said.

  She smiled at me. “I wanted to get rid of it, but your father wouldn’t hear of it. I tried to have it hauled up to the attic, but it wouldn’t fit up the staircase.”

  Who was this woman?

  A shotgun rested by the front door. She saw me eyeing the weapon, so out of place and strange.

  “That’s for us to shoot invaders,” she said as she shut the door and locked it, sliding the dead-bolt home with a resounding click, something I had never done in my entire life. She headed down the long hallway toward my father’s study, not bothering to see if I followed.

  The inside of the house had changed. Furniture had been rearranged; pictures had been taken off the wall and re-hung. My father’s office, a large room just off the library, was still full of the books that he and my mother loved. They were everywhere, jammed without order into the floor-to-ceiling bookcases, stacked in piles on the floor near the window, and on the credenza behind my father’s desk. The silver inkwell that had belonged to my grandfather was gone, along with the pictures of my mother and me that had rested on his desk for as long as I could remember.

  I stood in the doorway watching my father as he sat at his desk, hunched over one of the many pads of paper that were piled next to the brass banker’s lamp. His reading glasses had slid down his nose, and when they did fall off, he reached for them while continuing to read, oblivious to us interlopers in his literary domain.

  When the woman who had opened the front door slipped behind my father, wrapped her arms around his neck, and kissed the top of his head before snuggling cheek to cheek with him, my stomach clenched. Still reading, my father reached out and grabbed her hand. Something was very wrong.

  “Darling, someone is here to see you.”

  My father looked up. When he saw me, his eyes opened in astonishment before they relaxed into relief. “Sarah, thank God,” he said. He took off his reading glasses, set them on his desk, and came toward me with open arms.

  I stepped into them. My father hugged me. When he moved away from me, he put both hands on my shoulders and looked into my eyes. “I’m so glad to see you.” He studied my face. The woman stood near his desk, her arms crossed over her chest. “I think it’s time you came back to the fold,” my father continued. “It’s been a year. Can you believe that?”

  “It’s good to be home,” I said.

  “I see you’ve met Grace.” He walked over to the woman and put his arm around her.

  “Not officially,” I said. “Hi.”

  “Grace and I--” My father hesitated.

  “I’m Jack’s wife,” the woman said.

  Chapter 2

  After blurting out the words that my father wouldn’t say, Grace moved away from him and walked to the fireplace, which in my absence had been filled with ferns.

  I almost laughed out loud at the absurdity of that. Ferns? In the fireplace? “Congratulations. When did this happen?”

  He went back to his desk and sat down. “About eight months ago. I know it’s a surprise. I had every intention of telling you, but a letter just seemed so impersonal.”

  “You could have visited me,” I said.

  “No.” My father shook his head. “The doctor told us that it would be best to leave you alone for a while, to see if your memory would come back on its own. Sarah, I don’t blame you for being angry. We didn’t want a big ceremony or a party. We just--”

  “We just wanted to be married, Sarah,” Grace interjected. “We didn’t have a big ceremony, just a few close friends. I hope you can understand and forgive us for not including you. You were away, and we thought it best that you stay at The Laurels so you could get better.”

  We were all silent for a moment, my father looking at the papers on his desk, out the window, anywhere but at me. When the phone on his desk rang, I jumped.

  My father answered. He listened for a few seconds and then spoke. “She’s here. She’s fine.” He paused before he said, “Thanks,” and hung up the phone. “Come sit over here, Sarah.” He beckoned to one of the chairs that sat before his desk.

  He didn’t ask Grace to sit. She continued to stand behind him, as though they were a united front, as though I were the intruder.

  “Does Gran know you summoned me home?”

  We had all suffered when my mother died. I had lost a mother, but Gran had lost her only child. She doted on my mother and, although she didn’t always agree with my mother’s free-spirited attitude, she still loved her daughter with a singular devotion that continued to surprise me. For my father’s part, he had allowed his mother-in-law to live in the small gardener’s cottage, and this arrangement seemed to suit everyone.

  Gran had her own place to live near her daughter, and my father didn’t have his mother-in-law continually underfoot.

  “She knows, but she wasn’t happy about it. I’m just being honest, Sarah. I’ve missed you, and I’m anxious to put that night behind us. Have you been able to remember anything at all?” My father wanted me to remember that night, too.

  Finding out what happened to my mother that horrible night would set us all free.

  I shook my head. “No, but not from want of trying. I don’t remember anything about that night, nothing at all. Maybe now that I’m home, I will start to remember.”

  “We may never know what happened, how Jessica came to tumble down the stairs. We may have to accept that she tripped.”

  “Which means the cloud of suspicion will hang over my head forever,” I said.

  “That’s a little dramatic.” My father leaned back in his chair, his movement forcing Grace to step away from him.

  “I need to clear my name,” I said. “Everyone in Bennett Cove thinks I am a murderer.”

  “I understand,” my father said. “If there’s anything I can do, if you want to talk, I’m here.”

  “Thanks,” I said.

  “Jack, don’t you think she should be under the care of a doctor? What if she does something while we are asleep in our beds?”

  My father ignored his young wife, as though she hadn’t spoken at all. “You’re welcome here, Sarah. I’ve missed you and I’m glad to see you,” he said. “Now let me tell you what we’ve got planned for this evening.”

  I waited, not speaking, taking in everything that had happened during my absence. My father’s successful foray into the world of mystery writing and his marriage proved that life had gone on without me.

  I took a deep calming breath, a technique I had learned at The Laurels, pulled it deep into my belly, and exhaled slowly.

  “Are you okay?” My father looked at me with the usual concern and worry, but there was something else, another emotion that I couldn’t read.


  “I’ll be fine. I just need to get used to being here.” I stood up. “Thanks for encouraging me to come home.”

  “I am going out to shoot some film. I’m headed up to the ridge if anyone wants me. Do you want me to go to the post office,” Grace asked, “or will your assistant go for you?”

  “Assistant?” I asked.

  “After you left, I needed some help,” my father explained. “He schedules my appearances, tends to hotel reservations and whatnot.”

  “He’s kept busy answering your father’s fan mail,” Grace said. “He gets piles of it.” She nodded to a burlap sack in the corner behind my father’s desk that burgeoned with unopened envelopes.

  “It’s nice to have someone tend to those things,” my father said. “It frees me up to focus on writing.”

  “Does he stay in town?” I asked.

  “No,” my father said. “As a matter of fact, he’s been staying here. There are no accommodations in town. The inn has been booked solid due to the housing shortage in the city. It’s easier for Zeke to live here.”

  “I think he’s a spy,” Grace said. “Did you hear that we have a ring of spies in Bennett Cove?”

  “I hadn’t heard,” I said. “They didn’t allow--”

  “I’m sure Sarah’s exhausted from her trip home,” my father said.

  “Of course she is. Apologies, Sarah. If you’ll follow me, I’ll show you to your room.” She walked toward the door with her head held high.