Hearts at Home (3 page)

“Look what I found, ladies.”

Distracted, Olympia looked up as Caleb entered the room, a plate of brownies in one hand and a leather-covered album in the other.

“I was cleaning out a chest upstairs the other day and came across this. Since you two gals have nothing pressing to do tonight, I thought you might enjoy a trip down memory lane.”

Olympia drew in a breath as he placed the heavy album on her lap. His timing was impeccable, as always, for she'd been about to tell Annie that her dreams were too big. Things never went well when she was honest with the girl. That was the trouble with young folk these days: you had to pussyfoot around them and use nothing but gentle words. In her youth, people said what they meant and meant what they said, and things were a lot simpler.

Annie's hurt expression softened when Caleb gave her a smile. “Thanks, Caleb,” she whispered.

As Annie took a brownie, Olympia opened the first page. On a sheet of heavy black paper someone had mounted a sepiatoned photograph of her mother and father standing tall and proud on the front steps of Frenchman's Fairest. Her mother carried a baby dressed in ribbons and ruffles.

“Look at that!” Annie leaned closer, her face hidden by her swinging hair. “Are you the baby, Auntie?”

“That's my little brother Ferrell—your father.” Even after all these years, a lump rose in Olympia's throat at the mention of his name. She and Ferrell had been close as children and even as adults until Ferrell's wife, Ruth Ann, had come between them. Ruth Ann was soft like Annie, preferring insincere nonsense to plain-spoken truth.

“I can't get used to seeing little boys in ruffles.” Annie ran her fingertip over the old photograph. “When I have a little boy—I mean,
if
I have a little boy—I'm going to dress him in blue jeans and overalls. No kid of mine is going to be confused about his sexual identity.”

Olympia blanched at the word
sexual,
but Annie didn't seem to notice. That was the trouble with young people these days: They shamelessly tossed around all kinds of private words without regard to who might be listening. Olympia couldn't say the word
womb
without feeling faint.

Quickly, she turned the page. “This one is me.” She tapped the photo of a somber-faced girl holding a kitten. “I still remember that cat. I called him Mr. Jingles.”

Annie laughed softly but offered no comment, so Olympia continued through the pages, pointing out landmarks on the island and people related to some of the island's current residents.

“Heavenly Daze has changed.” Annie nodded at one of the pictures. “I can't imagine the Gallery without the Lobster Pot standing next to it.”

“That restaurant is a positive fright.” Olympia pointed to a black and white photo of the church and parsonage. “And so is the municipal building they put up next to the minister's house. My parents protested loud and long, but even they couldn't stand against progress.” She sniffed. “At least, progress is what they called it. I call it plain ugly.”

Sensing a lag in Annie's interest, she turned a few more pages, wondering when Caleb had taken the time to assemble this book. The last time she'd seen these photos, they'd been cluttering up an empty shoe box at the back of her closet.

“Here.” She pointed at a picture of another little girl, this one thin and somber, with dark curls trailing down the sides of her face like tangled ivy. “That's you, Annie. Taken during your first week with us on Heavenly Daze.”

Annie bent closer, almost low enough for her nose to touch the paper. “That's me? Good grief, what a mess I was!”

Olympia pressed her hand to her heart as a well of pain bubbled up from memories long suppressed. She'd been a mess, too, in those days, grieving over Ferrell and frightened to death at the thought of raising another child—especially one as odd and fanciful as Annie. She'd passed several nights on her knees, begging God for answers, pleading for strength and wisdom.

Somehow, he had supplied both.

Olympia drew a deep breath, then made an effort to lighten her voice. “Don't be too hard on yourself, Annie. You were a mite upset and confused in those days. Wouldn't have been natural if you'd been a sunny little thing.”

Silence stretched between them for a moment, then Annie looked up and met Olympia's gaze. “I don't know if I've ever thanked you properly, Auntie, but I'm grateful you took me in back then.” Her brown eyes gentled. “I'm sure it wasn't easy.”

Olympia swallowed hard. “Worthwhile things generally aren't.”

From the foyer, Caleb leaned forward, unabashedly eavesdropping on his charges. He'd been alarmed earlier when Olympia's tone had gone frosty, and he could almost see Annie's temper rising. But the photograph album had done the trick and reminded them of how far they'd come together . . . and how much they needed each other.

His preparations were nearly complete. Earlier that day Gavriel had appeared in the kitchen to relay a special assignment from on high. The mission had been years in the making, but tonight it would finally be fulfilled.

The butler glanced at the clock. The women still had time to reminisce. And gentle words shared in the next few hours would last, like apples of gold, throughout eternity.

As the mantle clock struck eleven, Olympia closed the album, the image of the last picture still floating upon her retinas. The photo had been of her and Annie, locked in an embrace at the dock. That frozen moment had taken place during Annie's parting after Christmas, when their hearts had never been fonder or more united.

She didn't want to lose that closeness, yet time and distance would inevitably take its toll. But if she'd learned one thing from watching Annie nurse those spindly tomato plants, it was that growing things needed frequent doses of water and sunlight.

Relationships needed affirmation.

“I love you, girl.” Tears stung Olympia's eyes as the words tumbled over her lips, and for an instant she couldn't look at her niece. Annie would never understand how difficult it was to say such things. Such endearments were against Olympia's nature and everything she'd been taught as a child. Properly brought up women did not emote in public, wear their feelings upon their faces, or wallow in sentimentality. But young people today were more open about their feelings, and if Annie could only meet her halfway . . .

“Oh, Olympia!” Annie reached out and drew her into an embrace. Olympia stiffened at first, from surprise and the use of her name without a title. So she was no longer “Aunt,” but merely “Olympia,” as if they were no longer guardian and child, but two women bound by affection and friendship.

Slowly she relaxed, then rubbed the younger woman's back. “Shh,” she whispered, though Annie hadn't said another word. “I'm glad you're home. Tomorrow after church we'll plan the menu for my party and Caleb will make us a nice brunch. You can say hello to all the townsfolk, and I'm sure some of them will come down to the dock when it's time to see you off—”

Annie pulled back, but kept her hands on Olympia's shoulders. “I don't need hellos from the entire town to feel welcome. I only need you.”

“Well, now.” Olympia forced a smile, then pulled out of Annie's grip and stood. She took a step forward, then hesitated as the room spun slightly before her eyes. If she'd known hugging could make her feel lightheaded . . . she'd have done it more often.

She glanced back at her niece. “I'm going to bed. You coming up now?”

Annie shook her head, then pointed to the flickering flames in the fireplace. “It's so cozy here, I think I'll stay awake and read a while. I'm not sleepy, anyway. Too much caffeine on the drive down.”

“Tallulah?” Olympia spoke to the dog drowsing on a pillow near the fire. “You coming up?”

The sly old dog opened one eye, then shut it again, pretending to sleep.

“She can stay down here a while,” Annie said, turning to rest her legs on the sofa. “I'll let her into your room when I come up.”

“That'd be nice. Thank you, dear.” Olympia nodded, then made her way to the stairs, noticing how much brighter the house seemed with Annie in it.

Annie had read only two pages of her book when Caleb tiptoed into the parlor, a serving tray in his hand. “Don't let me bother you,” he said, reaching for her empty mug. “I just want to put these things away before I go to bed.”

“Let me help you.” She picked up Olympia's teacup and saucer and set them on the tray, then caught the older man's eye. “The album was a great idea. Thanks.”

Smiling, he dropped his hand to the top of her head. “I thought so.”

“Sometimes it's a little hard to talk to Aunt Olympia, you know. She's so opinionated.”

“Missy is strong in many things, including her beliefs.”

He hesitated, closing his eyes, and Annie saw his lips move. Caleb had always been given to moments of spontaneous prayer, sometimes audible, sometimes not, and she suspected he was praying now . . . for her. But though she strained to listen, she couldn't understand a word he said.

After a moment, he opened his eyes, looked down at her, and smiled. “You'll be fine, Annie.”

She watched him shuffle away, his slippers slapping the polished wooden floors, and wondered what he meant.

“That's the problem with older people these days,” she told Tallulah, who had lifted her head at Caleb's departure. She grinned as she picked up her book. “Sometimes they speak a language I just can't comprehend.”

Seated at her dressing table, Olympia pulled the last hairpin from her bun, then ran her fingers through the hank of her hair, setting the strands free. Birdie and Bea and Vernie had taken to wearing their hair short, but she never could stand the thought of having hair as short as a man's.

Her hair was still dark at the ends, followed by inches of steel gray. Around her forehead the hair had gone snowy white, and she liked to think the effect becoming. Edmund had always said lighter colors brightened a woman's face.

Her husband had loved this part of the day. Even when his snoring necessitated that they sleep in separate bedrooms, he had often entered her room to share the last few moments of the evening. He would stretch out on her bed, propping his head on his hand, and watch her reflection in the mirror as she picked up her tortoiseshell brush and began to pull it through her hair.

“My, my,” he'd say, a smile tugging at the corners of his lips. “Miracles do happen. Despite my contrariness, somehow I managed to marry the town beauty.”

Olympia had always ignored his silly remarks, for no woman of good breeding went around thinking of herself as beautiful. Such an attitude led to pompousness and conceit, while a lady kept herself above those things. As a young woman she had wanted to spend her life giving to the poor, helping orphans, being an example of all a Christian woman should be . . . then she had fallen in love with Edmund Shots, a man twenty years her senior whose ancestors didn't rate even a footnote in the social register. The situation had rocked her family and scandalized the townsfolk, but her sterling reputation had saved her from total disrepute.

Lowering the hairbrush, she looked at the bed reflected in the mirror. “Oh, Edmund, how I miss you.”

She had not lived the life of her dreams, but she had lived. And in the living she had hurt some people and helped some others; she had been loved and feared, admired and criticized. As mistress of the largest and most imposing home on the island, she had taken pains to maintain a certain standard of propriety—employing a butler, making a regular habit of afternoon tea, and keeping the horse and buggy long after everyone else had bought golf carts to traverse the island. She had worked hard to maintain the grand and historic legacy of Heavenly Daze, but all the while she knew the other townsfolk were laughing behind her back.

They loved her, she knew that—she'd seen evidence of their affection immediately after Edmund's death and she felt the warm support of her neighbors every time she attended church or the ladies' quilting circle. The gulf between her and the others was of her own making, she knew that as well. But as the only direct descendant of Captain Jacques de Cuvier, the responsibility of maintaining both his legacy and his town fell upon her shoulders. If not for her vigilance, Vernie would have everyone riding noisy motor scooters, Birdie would be trying to open a bakery franchise up at the point, and Charles Graham would be selling Heavenly Daze landscapes down on the dock. . . .

She caught her breath as a sudden spasm gripped her chest. Nerves, probably. She'd been a little squamish about Annie's visit, nearly sick with worry that a gale would blow up and prevent the ferry from running. With Captain Stroble due for his vacation, transportation to and from the mainland was iffy, and Olympia shuddered at the thought of Annie riding with Crazy Odell Butcher.

Rubbing the painful spot within her chest, she stared into her mirror, studying the image of an aging woman, eyes red-rimmed with weariness and pain. The mirror was lying again, for Olympia felt no kinship with the woman in the looking glass. In her inmost heart she was a mature woman of about Annie's age, with nearly as many dreams and hopes as she'd nurtured in her younger years.

She made a face at the mirror, then moved her hand to her temple. The headache that had come and gone for weeks had welcomed itself back to her brain, and this time it brought chest spasms for company. Fine, then. She'd ask Caleb to brew a pot of chamomile tea . . .

As if he'd read her mind, she heard Caleb's voice. “Missy?”

Adjusting her gaze in the mirror, she saw Caleb standing behind her—odd, since she had not heard the click of the door—but this was a Caleb she hadn't seen in years. His face was full and unlined, his head framed by thick auburn hair, his eyes bright and energetic. Vigor had erased the stoop from his posture, his skin glowed with health and light, and behind his back two amazing wings flexed with power and strength—