At the Corner of King Street (21 page)

He rolled his eyes. “Marcia does, but I don't like her. She always wants to play kickball with the boys and she pushes and shoves.”

“Cut her some slack, Eric,” I said. “She wants people to like her.”

“Yeah, I guess.” He glanced toward the mantel to the picture of Janet and me. “Did you and Mom ever live with Grace?”

“We lived here one summer when I was about twelve.”

He furrowed his brow. “Where did your mom go?”

“Work.” That's what she had told Janet and me, but I knew she was in the hospital.

He frowned. “Did she like being a mom?”

“I think she did. It was just very hard for her.”

He nodded. “It's hard for my mom, too.”

“Remember, Eric. Your mom and grandma have the same sickness. Doesn't mean they can't love.” The words rang hollow. I was a few years older than Eric when I asked the same questions, and none of the answers Grace offered were enough. It totally sucked when your mother couldn't be a mother.

Zeb cleared his throat. “Pal, we need to let Carrie sleep and give Addie a rest.”

“Addie's too big for a nap,” Eric said.

“I might have agreed with you last week,” I said, laughing. “But a nap sounds really good now.”

Eric grimaced. “I hate naps.”

Rubbing my eyes, I yawned. “One day you might like them.”

“Nope.”

Smiling, I rose, my legs heavy and achy with fatigue. “Want to see your baby crib?”

His eyes brightened. “Dad and I brought that over Saturday morning. It's really heavy.”

“It's very beautiful.” My gaze rose and met Zeb's. “Absolutely beautiful.”

The simple nod he offered didn't match the complicated emotions darkening his gaze.

A heat rose, warming my face.

Eric's voice kicked up a notch, not wanting to be forgotten. “I slept in it when I was a baby.”

Zeb's eyes closed for an instant before he looked at his son. “Lower your voice, pal. We don't want to wake the baby.”

“She's cranky when she's awake,” I whispered.

He held his fingers over his lips. “I know.”

With Eric leading the way, we moved to my bedroom. I positioned the baby in the cradle and settled her on her back in the center. I tucked a small blanket over her and gently tipped the edge so that the cradle rocked ever so smoothly.

Eric kissed his fingertips and pressed them on the baby before he and I backed out of the room.

Zeb gathered our plates, dumped the excess crust and crumbs in the trash, and stacked the dishes in the sink.

I slid my hands into my pockets. “Thanks again for the pizza. It really hit the spot.”

“Thank you.” Zeb squeezed Eric's shoulder.

“Sure. As long as I'm here, you're welcome to come visit the baby anytime, Eric.”

Eric frowned and when it looked like he'd ask another question, Zeb gently squeezed his shoulder. “Thanks again,” he said. “Get some sleep.”

“No worries there.”

When the two left, I glanced at the dirty dishes, and as tempted as I was to leave them in the sink, I quickly washed them and stacked them in the drier. By the time I sat on my bed, my lower back hurt and my eyes itched with fatigue. Just ten minutes of sleep. Ten minutes. My phone buzzed and I glanced at the display. Again, I considered letting it go to voice mail. As soon as the thought crossed my mind, guilt took hold, squeezing my heart and twisting my stomach until I hit Answer on the screen.

“Scott.” I moved into the kitchen, fearful Carrie would wake.

“Addie. Where the heck are you?”

At the sink, I stared out the window at the meandering waters of the Potomac. “I'm back in Alexandria at my aunt's house.”

“I've been thinking about this all morning and I know something must be very wrong. You've got to tell me what's going on. This is so not like you.”

“My sister is sick, Scott.”

“You only mentioned her once. I thought she lived in California.”

“She did. But now she's here.”

“Is it cancer?”

“It's more complicated than I can really explain. I did see her this morning, and she's improving a little.” Guilt clenched by heart a little tighter.

“You said yesterday that it would be a few weeks.”

“That's not changed.”

A door squeaked in the background as if he stepped outside his
office onto the porch that overlooked the mountains. “Babe, what am I going to do without you?”

Hearing his voice coaxed a small smile. “You'll be fine, Scott. If ever there was a time for me to take a break it's now. You'll be fine.”

“I'm already swamped with e-mails from the event.”

I rubbed my eyes knowing I needed to check my computer. “What are people saying about it?”

“They loved it.” A smile buzzed under the words. “Knocked it out of the park.”

I stifled a yawn. “That's great.”

“The Chardonnay got the best reviews and a few folks suggested we start entering competitions. Time to really step off the front porch and run with the big dogs.”

My eyes drifted shut. “This is your dream, isn't it?”

“It's our dream. You and me. I couldn't have done this without you.”

My head snapped up, sending a surge of energy up my spine. “This is all wonderful. Hon, how about I call you tomorrow? I'm still dead tired from Friday, and I've things to do for my sister.”

“Sure thing. But remember they can't have you forever. You're my treasure.”

“Will do.”

“Love you, babe.”

“Love you, too.”

“I'm not hearing much emotion,” he said.

I made myself smile. “Sorry, just tired.”

“I'll give you a pass this time,” he teased.

“Thanks.”

I hung up and moved to my bed, lowering slowly, expecting Carrie to wake. Carefully, I eased back and swung my feet up onto the bed.

*   *   *

As the sun dipped lower on the horizon, closer to the banks of the steady waters of the Potomac, Grace sat staring at the basket nestled in her lap. Inside the basket rested a bottle, several needles, and a small set of scissors. Scents of the river mingled with the freshly cut grass along the path of the Washington & Old Dominion Trail, a forty-five-mile bike and walking trail that connected the Potomac River with the Shenandoah River Valley. She'd walked that trail every year for years, considering it more like a spiritual journey than a hike. She'd once read about the Camino, a long trail that snaked through France and northern Spain. Travelers from all around the world walked the rocky pathway, but she'd never make it to southern France and walked the five-hundred-mile trek into Spain. However she could imagine what it was like as she moved along this trail that snaked from riverbanks to the mountains.

It had been years since she walked the trail. There'd been reasons of course. Work. Bad knees. Poor eyesight. But all those were excuses. The reality was that she could handle the walk, which wasn't all that spectacular in the big picture. It didn't require courage. Or faith. It didn't require real courage or real faith. It required putting one foot in front of the other.

Real courage, real faith, well, that she did not have. Once she was tested and once she failed badly, and for two decades the weight of that failure hung on her shoulders.

Carefully, she unpacked her basket. First the bottle, then the scissors, and then the needles. The Universe had offered her another chance for redemption. It had sent her Addie, Janet, and Carrie.

She lifted the scissors to her hair and clipped several long strands. She tucked those strands with the locks of hair she'd clipped from
Addie's head while she slept. She dropped them into the bottle. Next came the needles. Four. She never understood why each bottle required four needles, but according to her grandmother, the magic number was four. One. Two. Three. Four. Each clinked into the bottle and nestled on top of the hair.

From her pocket, she pulled a small knife and pricked the edge of her finger with it. Blood oozed out in a bright circle, rising higher and higher until it threatened to spill. Before it slid over the edge of her skin, she pressed it to the bottle's mouth and allowed four drops of blood to drip over the glass and into the bottle. Again, always four drops, all of which she was careful to count.

Next came the scroll, which really was a small piece of paper inscribed with her single-word wish. Clutching her fingers around the paper, she repeated the word four times. Redemption. Redemption. Redemption. Redemption.

Finally, she dropped a small picture featuring her, twelve-year-old Addie, and fifteen-year-old Janet taken at the warehouse when the Universe had offered her a chance to break the curse.

Carefully, she wiped her finger on her jeans and reached for the bottle cork in her basket. She wedged the cork into the top of the bottle and worked it into place until it was so secure it would have to be dug out with a knife.

She closed her eyes and drew in a deep breath. The bottle would weave its spell for her and for Addie, Janet, and Carrie.

Dr. Goodwin and I strolled along the bluffs today toward the warehouse. I saw Faith outside the tavern. She was threading freshly stripped green saplings into the wattle fence guarding her budding rows of herbs. She is heavy with child. Dr. Goodwin tells me she is a foolish woman. Her indenture will be extended two years as a penalty for her folly. A cold wind blew off the river as Faith turned to look at me. Her blue eyes were heavy with scorn. The seas grew unsettled and cold winds heralded a terrible storm.

M
argaret arrived the next morning minutes before seven, carrying a box of papers tucked under her arm. She wore faded jeans shorts that cut off an inch above her knee, a loose blue peasant top, and very worn, sensible sandals. Her hair remained in the topknot as always and a collection of silver bracelets rattled around her left wrist.

I handed her a cup of coffee. “Good morning. Isn't our job scheduled for tomorrow?”

“I couldn't wait that long. Did you know the house on Prince Street belonged to a ship's captain?” She sipped the coffee and closed her eyes, experiencing a pure moment of joy. “You do make the best coffee.”

“I've been making it since I was four. My mom loved it.”

“Four is kinda young to be making coffee.”

A shrug and a sip. “I knew Mom was happier with coffee, so I learned to make coffee.”

“She showed you?”

“I watched her do it. Mom said as I made it, I would swear. She didn't understand why until one day she caught herself swearing as she made coffee. She figured I learned that swearing went hand in hand with brewing.”

“I could laugh at that story, Addie. Or I just might cry.”

Odd to talk so freely about a secret hidden away for so long. “Mom was sick. She had the same mental illness that Janet has.”

“Bipolar?”

“Yes with psychotic features. They can't seem to stick to the medication schedule. Mom was never really regulated and Janet's good periods never last more than a week or two. Nothing long-term.”

Margaret sipped her coffee. “So what does that mean for the baby?”

I splashed milk in my coffee and swirled it, watching the color change. “I don't know.”

“If Janet can't take care of herself, how can she take care of a baby?”

I smiled but felt no humor. “I'm still working on that.”

“Baby's father?”

“So far, Janet doesn't remember who he is.”

She tapped a ringed finger against her cup. “Adoption? My folks adopted Daisy.”

“I've thought about that. I'm just worried the baby might have inherited three generations of illness.”

“She could be like you.”

“If I had to place a bet, I'd say she's going to have issues.” Emotions welled in my chest when I thought about the road ahead for Carrie. I was Addie Fixer of All Things, and I didn't know how to fix this. I sipped my coffee, needing a moment to steady my voice. “Only time will tell.”

“Damn.”

“I know. Not a great way to start life.”

“Speaking of the kid. She's quiet. Where is she?”

“Sleeping. She's up all night. Sleeps all day.”

Margaret shook her head. “My sisters went through that with their babies. Daisy looked like the walking dead for months after her son was born.”

“Sounds like she came out on the other end.”

“She's crazy about the kid. Stupid crazy, if you ask me. I often ask her where the hard-driving corporate executive went, and she just laughs.”

Daisy found happiness in motherhood and that made me a little jealous, because it was a joy I'd never know. Of course, this was not a new realization to me. There'd be no biological children for me. I made that choice ten years ago. But lately, in the quietest part of the night, nestled close to Scott, it bothered me that I also unwittingly made a decision for him. I swore over and over that I could love him enough to make up for what we would never have, but now wondered if that was even possible.

“So tell me about the house,” I said. The distraction of work always saved me. “We'll be cleaning out the basement tomorrow. Owner says we can keep it all. You said the house was built by a ship's captain.”

“Yes. Ship's captain.” She moved past me into the living room and set her box of papers and large satchel purse on the couch. “In fact, the house, or at least parts of it, dates back to the 1750s when building lots were first drawn and sold in Alexandria.”

“Do tell.”

“Our first owner, Cyrus Smyth, was a Scottish ship's captain who, like his father before him, specialized in human cargo.”

“Like slaves.”

“Initially, not African slaves, but indentured servants from England and Scotland.”

“And you said life for the indentured servant was rough?”

“Very rough. They arrived in debt to the ship's captain or the person who sponsored their passage, so they were forced to work off the debt. The reality was that many of these men and women died before they were ever freed.”

“What killed them?”

“Disease, exhaustion, or in some cases beatings. An indentured servant's contract owner wielded about as much power as the slave owners did over their slaves.” Bracelets rattled as she brushed bangs from her eyes. “A woman's service could be extended because she got pregnant while in service. Though I might add that the fathers were often the men who owned the women.”

“Why did they extend the service?”

“Compensation for the working time lost during the pregnancy and after child birth.”

“So why would anyone sign up for a gig like that?”

Margaret arched a brow. “Initially, it was seen as a great opportunity. The promise of land was huge. But by the 1730s, word reached England and Scotland that being an indentured servant was close to a death sentence. But Virginia needed men and women to work the land. So men like Smyth got clever. They lured street children, or any children for that matter, in Scotland, Ireland, and England onto the ships with pennies or promises of a hot meal. They went after men and women who were drunk or in trouble with the law. They paid off the local magistrates to sentence the accused to transportation to America. One way or another, men like Smyth filled their cargo holds with laborers. And once the ship arrived in America, the servants were charged for their passage. Of course, they had no money so they had to be sold to pay off the debt.”

“That's some business.”

“It was very profitable. Smyth would arrive with people, sell them,
fill up his cargo holds with tobacco, and then return to England, where he'd sell the crop for profit.”

“Credit for being a good businessman, but no points for humanity.”

“Cyrus and his father made a lot of money transporting people.”

“How do you know all this?”

“I've been researching the houses in Alexandria.” She waved her hand over the pile of papers. “Kind of a hobby, or an obsession according to Daisy. Who knows, maybe one day I'll write a book.”

“So what else do you know about Cyrus Smyth?”

“He built the house for his wife, Imogen. She was much younger than he when they married and a deeply religious woman.” She sipped her coffee as she rummaged through her papers. “But that's not the best part.”

I settled into the couch, enjoying her excitement. The stories were what made this business so fascinating. If not for Janet and her illness, I could very well have stayed. “Tell me the best part.”

“Seems Imogen feared witchcraft.”

No one usually got rich in the salvage business, but most days were never dull. “Think we'll find a witch bottle at her house?”

Her eyes brightened with a passion I truly envied. “That would be amazing.”

My excitement for the job grew. “How do you know she feared witches?”

She thumbed through papers covered with scribbled handwriting and coffee stains. “According to court papers of the time, ‘Imogen Smyth, widow of Cyrus, accused one woman by the name of Faith of witchcraft, and under a court mandate, Imogen with two other goodwives in attendance, searched Faith for the signs borne by a witch.'”

“Faith again?”

“She keeps popping up. Funny, but I never really gave her much thought before, and now I'm finding her name everywhere.”

“What designates a witch?”

“The usual. Mark of the devil. Hair where it shouldn't be. Birthmarks. An extra nipple.”

I laughed. “Really? An extra nipple. Who comes up with this stuff?”

“I didn't say it was logical. I'm only a teller of history. But we know that Imogen did go after Faith and accuse her of witchcraft. And you might laugh or think this sounds insane, but it would have been a very real problem for Faith.”

I savored the warmth of my coffee cup. “Why go after Faith?”

“Like I said, evidence suggests she was a midwife and healer, for one. Midwives often fell under suspicion of the church or physicians. If she were good at what she did, she could relieve the suffering of a laboring woman.”

“What's wrong with that?”

“God gave women pain in childbirth as punishment for the whole Garden of Eden disaster.”

“She was punished for helping.”

“Not saying it's right, but life was hard and tenuous back in the day and people were frightened.”

“Aren't witch bottles protection spells?”

“Yes. If these women were afraid of Faith, they would have made their bottles and buried them under their hearths, or maybe just inside the front door.”

“What else do you know about Faith?”

I waited, watching as Margaret scrambled through more papers. Though the pile looked to be a complete disorganized mess I could see that there was some type of organization, at least in Margaret's mind. She produced yellowed sheets of legal-sized writing paper clipped together with a purple clip. “We know Faith died in 1793 at the age of seventy-four.”

“Wow. That's an impressive age.”

“It's saying a lot. Most women didn't make it past forty. Childbirth was the big killer. There were a million other easy ways to die then, but that was the big one.”

“So born 1719 and died 1793. She would have been about thirty when Cyrus Smyth built his house on Prince Street.”

“According to her headstone and a records search at Christ Church, she left behind one son who she raised almost on her own. The boys' father was listed as Ben Talbot, tavern owner.”

“Talbot. Like Zeb?”

“I don't know.”

I drummed my fingers on the side of the mug. “A connection would be fascinating.”

“This kind of stuff is what I live for. I could barely sleep last night when the pieces came together. I almost called you.”

“Oh, I would have been awake.”

“Go, Carrie.”

Yawning, I raised my hand to my mouth. “This is sleep deprivation, not boredom. I know you have more.”

Margaret nodded. “There was a suit filed against Ben Talbot in 1750. A farmer accused his indentured servant of bewitching his tobacco crops and making them fail. Ben fought the charges in court and the suit was dismissed. He later released Faith from her contract and they married.” She drummed her hands on her knees to build suspense. “I also have a last name for Faith. Care to guess?”

When I shook my head, she said, “Shire.”

“Shire. Damn. She's my clan?”

“Wouldn't be surprised.”

“The Talbots and the Shires have a long history.”

“Maybe.” She shuffled through notes. “Imogen's husband, Cyrus, was killed when his ship was overtaken by a storm in 1751. When
word reached Alexandria, Imogen was devastated, as were others who invested heavily in Smyth's cargo. Very soon after, the goodwives of Alexandria accused Faith of conjuring the storm. Imogen believed Faith killed her husband with a spell.”

“Damn.” For a moment I listened, reaching through the silence until I heard Carrie's soft, steady breathing. I counted five breaths before my thoughts refocused. “You think grief drove her?”

“Maybe. Maybe it was fear or a delusion that Faith could somehow stand on the bluffs overlooking the harbor and conjure the seas.”

“We have no bluffs in Alexandria.”

“We did then. Most of Union Street and a couple blocks north didn't exist at this time. The bay was crescent shaped. Eventually, the bluffs were leveled and portions of the bay filled in so that it's a gentle slope like it is today. We're standing on fill.”

“I didn't know that.”

Margaret waggled her brows. “I'm a wealth of information.”

“What happened to Faith? You said she lived until 1793.”

“She vanished from the records until her death notice in 1793.”

“How did a woman accused of witchcraft end up buried in the church cemetery?”

“Her son, Marcus Talbot, became quite a successful tavern owner. Word is he was the kind of guy who knew where all the bodies were buried, and I bet he twisted arms when his mother passed.”

“If Marcus owned a tavern, that might mean he inherited land from his father.”

“That could very well be possible.”

“Wow. And here I thought this was just a picking job.”

Margaret's gaze gleamed as she sipped coffee. “What are we picking?”

“The basement. The new owner, a woman from New York, is renovating the basement, and she wants the space cleared.”