The Spirit of Grace Page 6

  Since she had few modern conveniences, I always felt I had slipped into the late nineteenth century when I walked through Gran’s front door.

  Gran stood with her back to me and the phone cradled in her ear. She held up her hand, indicating that she would be finished in a minute. “I think you should do the right thing, never mind the money. I’m going to trust you to handle it,” she said. The person on the other end spoke. “I’m giving you one week. If you don’t handle it, I will. Very well, then, goodbye.” She hung up the phone.

  “Hello, Gran.”

  “Sarah Jane,” she said. “You’ve come home.”

  “Yes,” I said, “at my father’s request. I was hoping you would have come to see me last night.”

  “I thought it would be best if I stayed away. I didn’t want to give you the impression that I agreed with your father’s decision to summon you.” She stood rigid before me, scrutinizing me head to toe with those hawk eyes that missed nothing.

  “He summoned me because he thought I might remember something about the night my mother died if I were home.”

  “Well, have you?”

  “No,” I said. “I’ve been wracking my brain and can’t remember anything. It’s like a blank screen.”

  “Let’s sit,” Gran said. She beckoned me to the couch. “Do you want tea?”

  “No,” I said. “I want to talk to you about the night Jessica died. I need to know if you think I pushed her.” I sat down on the sofa, sinking into the ancient cushions while Gran sat down in the chair.

  “Of course you didn’t push her. I know that. Shame on you for needing to ask me. But you were headed for a breakdown after she died. You were walking around here in a daze, and you know it. I’ve already lost Jessica. I don’t want to lose you, too.”

  She picked up a garment from the sewing pile. I watched for a second, as she stitched up a hole in a cotton shirt of my father’s, repairing it with expert stitching. I always wondered why Gran did all the sewing, rather than have it taken care of by the myriad of seamstresses in Bennett Cove who would welcome the extra money.

  “Ouch,” she cried. She sucked on her finger where a needle had punctured it.

  “Why don’t you use a thimble?” I asked.

  She threw the sewing into the basket on the floor. “Don’t be condescending. What’s happened to your hand?”

  “It’s nothing,” I said. “Just a burn.”

  “You’re not just saying that, are you? You didn’t--”

  “Stop it,” I said.

  “I’m sorry, darling, but I am so very worried about you.” Gran picked up a small swatch of fabric from the overflowing sewing basket, which she twisted and folded while she spoke. Gran had always been energetic. She tromped the walking trails with the vigor of a teenager, but she had aged during my absence. The skin on her face was loose. Deep lines now traveled from the side of her mouth down to her chin.

  “What’s wrong, Gran? Tell me why you don’t want me here.”

  She stopped fidgeting and held the fabric still in her lap, her eyes fixed upon it. She threw it into sewing basket on top of the shirt she had mended. She mumbled something under her breath and shook her head. Was Gran talking to herself now?

  “Have you read your father’s book?”

  “Not yet. He’s left a copy for me. I haven’t had time to read it. You heard about what happened last night? About Zeke--my father’s assistant--getting arrested?”

  “I don’t know why your father hired that young man. He seems useless. He’s clearly had a troubled past. He skulks around as if he’s afraid of his own shadow, but he’s a sly one, you mark my words. He doesn’t miss a trick. He turns up in the strangest place. I’ve often wonder if he--oh, never mind. I don’t want to speak of him.” She leaned back on the couch and crossed her legs. “We need to rationally discuss your future, darling. You don’t belong here, Sarah, and you know it. Your mental health is questionable at best. You’re not stable, and I find myself wondering what you’re not telling me about your hand. Why can’t you just trust me, move to the city, find yourself a nice husband, buy clothes, go dancing, and live your life? You’ve no business here. There’s nothing for you in Bennett Cove, nothing but horrible memories. You’ve no friends here, and I don’t know why you aren’t bored to tears.”

  “You may recall I agreed to go away from here after Jessica’s death because we were being hounded by newspaper reporters, and I thought that you were sending me to a spa, not an asylum.” I would never forget or forgive the way those same reporters had used their headlines to sensationalize my involvement in my mother’s death and cast suspicion upon me. Although no charges were officially brought, the cloak of suspicion hung heavy on my shoulders. It was difficult to defend my innocence, since I couldn’t remember a thing from the night my mother died. But there were no reporters now, and I’d been invited home by my father. I intended to stay at Bennett House until I remembered what happened the night Jessica died.

  “Sarah, won’t you believe me when I tell you that it is not safe for you here? Not now?”

  “What am I in danger of? Tell me that and I’ll listen. If the threat against me is real, I should at least know what it is. Surely you can understand that.”

  “I didn’t realize you could be so stubborn.” Gran walked over to her desk where a white envelope lay, addressed to her in a bold vivid hand. I couldn’t see the return address. She held the envelope in her hand, stared at it for a moment, then shook her head and tucked it away in the top drawer of her desk, which she locked with a key that she wore around her neck on a silver chain. “I can’t tell you, not yet. You’re going to have to trust me,” she said.

  “No,” I said. “You’re going to trust me. If you have a good reason for me to leave, tell me. Otherwise, I’m staying right here until I remember what happened that night. Then I will make a decision about my future. It’s time I leave here anyway. Perhaps I’ll go to night school and learn type writing. I could join the WAVES.”

  “The WAVES will not hire someone who has spent time in an asylum. Why won’t you just go back to The Laurels, at least for a little while? Or we could get you an apartment in the city. Wouldn’t you like to be around people your own age? You could start school now. Once you’re in the city, you’ll find a suitable husband. I’ll see you have entry into the right clubs and parties. There is no need for you to work.”

  “I am not leaving until I remember that night. I need to be here at Bennett House to remember,” I said, catching myself before I told her I didn’t want to leave Zeke. How foolish that would have sounded, wanting to stay here in Bennett Cove because of a man I had known for twenty-four hours.

  “It’s that assistant of your father’s, isn’t it? You’ve conjured up some silly crush.”

  “Don’t be ridiculous,” I said. “I’m home to find out what happened to my mother. That’s all.”

  “Then you and I have nothing more to say to each other,” Gran said. “I pray that you come to no harm.” She picked up her sewing again, dismissing me without speaking.

  ***

  I burst out of Gran’s house and jumped on my bike. Rather than ride on the main road to town with the automobiles, I opted for the dirt path, a shortcut which wound through the trees parallel to the beach. The wide trail was covered in smooth red clay, topped off with duff from the pine trees that provided the shady canopy above. In record time I reached the end of the trail and emerged onto Main Street.

  Military vehicles, soldiers, and tourists crowded the streets. I rode through town, once again surprised by the throngs of people in Bennett Cove. A long queue of uniformed soldiers clogged the sidewalk in front of the bakery. They stood in line waiting to buy the scones, cakes, and pies displayed in the glass cases. I stood for a moment near the sidewalk holding my bike when a group of school-aged children came wandering down the crowded walkway.

  Two young girls in pigtails and fancy coats led the way. They had on their good white gloves and carri
ed little purses. Three boys trailed after them, one carrying a baseball bat, the next one carrying two baseball mitts. The third boy carried the baseball, which he tossed up in the air and caught with his bare hands.

  I smiled as they passed by. The girls smiled in return, but the boys ignored me, all but the third child. When he passed me, he paused, stopped tossing the ball in the air and said, “Spooky Sarah,” in that taunting voice that children use.

  “What are you saying?” One of the girls turned around and came back to the boy. “It’s not polite to speak to adults unless you are spoken to first.”

  “Everyone knows she’s a witch,” the boy said. “Everyone knows she murdered her mother, pushed her down the stairs, and broke her neck. Everyone knows it.”

  “I’m sorry for my brother,” she said to me. “He has no manners.”

  I smiled at her.

  “Come on, Harry.” The girl grabbed Harry’s arm and started to pull him along. “If you can’t behave, you can go home.”

  “She’s a witch,” Harry wailed. He allowed his sister to drag him away as he looked back at me.

  “Oh, for heaven’s sakes, Harry, everyone knows there are no such things as witches.” She gave me an admonishing glance as she dragged Harry away.

  His two friends had stopped walking. They stared at me, mouths agape. When they realized their friends had moved on, they took off running after them.

  “Are you all right, miss?” A soldier young enough to still wear short pants stood before me. “You look a bit pale.” When I didn’t answer him, he spoke again, his voice full of concern. “Don’t mind what kids say. They can be mean sometimes.”

  “I’m fine.” Bitter tears threatened to spill down my cheeks. I wanted to run after those children, buy them sweets and show them that I wasn’t a witch, assure them that the rumors were false. I was a pariah in Bennett Cove. The small town gossip would never change. If I wanted to get away from it, I would have to leave.

  “I’ll be off then,” the young man said.

  I was about to get on my bike and ride the rest of the way down Main Street to the school house, when I saw Zeke walking down the street carrying a brown attaché case. He moved like a cat with an equal measure of tension and grace. I ducked into the doorway of the five-and-dime and watched as he went into the lobby of the Bennett Arms.

  Curious, I situated my bike in one of the new racks near the post office. Careful not to be seen through the lobby window, I crossed the street, thinking I could slip inside and get a look at whoever Zeke was meeting. If he happened to see me, I would tell him I was running an errand for Anca. Pleased with my plan, I walked toward the hotel.

  The same black sedan I had seen yesterday at the bus stop rolled up to the curb, then it turned into the service alley on the side of the hotel. I slipped through the door into the vestibule where the hotel guests registered.

  On the far side of the vestibule area, an arched doorway led to a common area where the guests could read the newspaper or sit before the fire. I tucked myself into the window seat by the clerk’s desk.

  From this vantage point I could see into the common area, a high ceilinged room with a huge fireplace and an array of comfortable club chairs arranged in “conversation areas” around low tables.

  A sweeping staircase ran up one wall. Zeke had chosen the chairs tucked away near the staircase, the most private place in the room. I pretended to be engrossed in the newspaper, but all the while my eyes sought Zeke. When the man from the black sedan opened the lobby door and came into the room, I held up the newspaper to cover my face.

  After he passed, I peered over it and got a good look at him, memorizing as many details as I could. I took in his thick black hair and the fine suit. Power. It crackled off him like heat lightning. Zeke rose from his chair and greeted the man like an old friend.

  “May I help you, miss?” The clerk came out from the private area behind the desk, startling me. He squinted at me through his thick spectacles. “Oh, hello, Miss Bennett. I didn’t recognize you.”

  “I was just leaving. Thanks just the same.” I hurried out of the hotel and took off on my bike, grateful that Zeke hadn’t seen me.

  ***

  The Bennett Cove schoolhouse had been built in 1890 and hadn’t changed much in the fifty years it had been standing. Its white walls needed paint, but the building proper had withstood flood, wind, and storm. A wrap-around porch encircled the entire building. A flower garden, which the school children planted and tended, was now filled with fall vegetables and mums in assorted colors.

  Since I had been schooled at home by a live-in governess, the schoolhouse didn’t hold the fond memories for me that it would for the local children. I hadn’t been educated with the general population. That wouldn’t do, not for someone of my station--Gran’s words and ethos, not mine.

  I leaned my bicycle against the mailbox in front of the building and headed up the muddy path to the schoolhouse, the parcel for the Allied Family Charity under my arm. On the porch, two signs made of heavy blue paper pointed in two different directions, one way to the Allied Families Charity collection point and another way toward the ration book office.

  Anxious to get rid of the bundle of clothing, I headed toward the office that handled Allied Family’s donations, when a voice startled me.

  Mrs. Kensington appeared out of nowhere. “Have you read your father’s book yet?”

  “Hello to you, too,” I said. “Do you always just appear out of nowhere?”

  “I’m sorry. I’m not used to this and everything is a little fuzzy for me.”

  “Do you want to get a cup of coffee? We could go to the Bennett Arms and sit in the lobby,” I said. Two could play this game. If she were a reporter, I would find out.

  “Your young man is there,” she said, smiling. “But no, I have to be somewhere.” She put her hand on my arm. “Read your father’s book, Sarah. It will help you remember.”

  “Remember that night?” I asked, incredulous.

  “It’s not going to be easy,” she said, “but your memory will come back. And when it does, you must be very careful.”

  “I had a dream of a fire. You were in it. I woke up with burns on my hands,” I held up the bandage for her to see.

  “I’m sorry about that,” she said. “There’s so much to tell you, but I’m not sure where to start.”

  “How about telling me why you’re here and what you know about the night my mother died.”

  “I can’t tell you now.” She looked over her shoulder. “I have to go. Be strong, Sarah. All this will come out right in the end.” She turned and walked away from me, as she had done before.

  Time stopped. I couldn’t move or speak. My feet were riveted in place as I just watched her walk away, unable to call after her, unable to grab her arm and force her to tell me what she knew and how she knew it. She had spoken with a conviction that I found frightening.

  I shook my head, as if the movement could bring some sense of order to my day, but was still a little unhinged when a familiar looking woman in a blue dress, also dressed for the city in white gloves and a hat, walked up to me. “Miss Bennett, you look a little lost. Can I help you find something?”

  I had met this woman at one of my mother’s charity luncheons, but I could not recall her name. “No, thank you,” I said.

  “You probably don’t remember me. I’m Mrs. Jones, Mrs. Edgar Jones. My husband and I donated the Limoges pieces to the charity auction your mother had.”

  “Of course, Mrs. Jones, it’s nice to see you again.”

  “May I ask you a favor? I hope you don’t think me forward, but do you think your father would speak at my book club? A few of us ladies get together to discuss art and literature. The ladies would welcome an appearance by Jack Bennett. Why, you could come, too.”

  “He has an assistant that keeps his calendar. Perhaps you could call?”

  “Okay. I’ll do that,” she said.

  “It was nice seeing you aga
in.” I forced a fake smile and indicated the parcel in my hands. “I’ll be off now.”

  A small hut with a Dutch door had been constructed behind the school. Beside the hut, a large cargo container sat with its door open, the rows of stacked packages ready and waiting to be shipped overseas. Inside the hut, Mrs. Tolliver sat reading a Life Magazine that lay open on the counter before her and knitting something pink and fluffy, with such expertise that she didn’t need to look at her stitches.

  “Hello, Mrs. Tolliver.”

  “I see you’ve got roses on your cheeks, girl. Coming home was a good decision, yes?”

  “Yes,” I said, putting the parcel of knitted socks, wrapped in brown paper and tied with string, on the counter for her.

  “So have you been in the sun or are you in love?” Mrs. Tolliver counted her stitches as she spoke.

  “It’s the beach, Mrs. Tolliver,” I said.

  “How do you like your new stepmother? She’s a dolly, that one.” Mrs. Tolliver set her knitting down and took the parcel from me.

  “Please come for a cup of tea sometime. I’m sure Anca would love to see you.” I waved and headed down the path toward the front of the schoolhouse, anxious to get away from Mrs. Tolliver’s uncanny ability to see inside my heart.

  “You keep your chin up,” Mrs. Tolliver called after me.

  Chapter 5

  My bedroom smelled of the orange oil that Anca used for polishing wood. A few of my mother’s dresses, now mended and pressed, hung in my closet. Although my mother and I were both slender, I was much taller. Her dark, sleek hair fell in raven tresses down her back, and while my strawberry blond hair curled on good days, most of the time it frizzed uncontrollably. I couldn’t count how many times I had heard, “You two don’t look anything alike.”

  At the foot of my bed, one box remained unpacked. I opened the lid, expecting to see more clothes smelling of mothballs. Instead, I was surprised to see my sketch books and charcoal pencils. Seascapes were my passion, even though I had never shown any remarkable talent.