Hidden Places (50 page)

Around Thanksgiving time, the strangest letter came in the mail one day from the United States Army in Washington, D.C. It was addressed to Frank Wyatt, but I tore it open and quickly scanned it to get the gist of it.

It said the government was very sorry to inform Frank, but his son Matthew Wyatt had died in the war after all, in the Battle of St. Mihiel. Some new information had come to light after all this time, which revealed that a mistake had been made. The army now had evidence to prove that Matthew Wyatt’s remains had been erroneously identified as another man’s and were laid to rest in a cemetery in France under the wrong name. The army regretted the mistake and any unnecessary grief this news might cause.

I said a little prayer before I showed the letter to Aunt Batty, knowing how much she had loved Matthew, and knowing she might take this news kind of hard. She looked up at me with tears in her eyes after she’d read it and said, ‘‘I think you’d better show this to John Wakefield right away, Toots. I think this is the answer to your prayers.’’

As I drove into town, I couldn’t help but wonder if Gabe had something to do with this strange turn of events. I quickly pushed the thought from my mind, though. I’d learned over the past few months to push all thoughts of Gabe aside as quickly as they came. The less I thought about him, the better off I was.

I found Mr. Wakefield working behind his desk in his cluttered office. ‘‘You look happier than I’ve seen you looking in a long time, Mrs. Wyatt,’’ he said as he welcomed me in. ‘‘Are you bringing good news?’’

‘‘Well, I think so...In a way.’’ I handed him the letter, then sat down to wait while he read it. He removed his spectacles when he finished and shook his head.

‘‘What a pity. So often in my line of work I find that good news comes all wrapped up in the same package with tragic news...and that’s true in this case, too, isn’t it? Poor Matthew.’’

‘‘I know. Aunt Batty told me so much about him that I almost feel as if I knew him...even though I never met him.’’

‘‘Your husband’s family has seen a great deal of tragedy, Mrs. Wyatt. Let’s hope that it’s all behind you now.’’ His mournful, hound-dog face brightened a bit. ‘‘Because now that we have this letter, I’ll finally be able to settle Frank’s estate. The orchard is all yours, Eliza. Free and clear.’’

I jumped out of my chair and gave John Wakefield a big old hug.

‘‘I’ve found our Christmas tree,’’ Aunt Batty announced a few days before Christmas. She’d been out tramping around in the snow-covered woods near Walter’s Pond for the past couple of days, searching for one. ‘‘It’s going to take all five of us to haul it home, though,’’ she said, ‘‘so everybody dress warm. And Luke, we’ll need to borrow your sled.’’

‘‘Maybe Winky could pull it for us,’’ Becky said, ‘‘like a reindeer!’’ Everyone laughed—except Winky.

There were six inches of snow on the ground, so the kids piled onto Luke’s sled and rode it to the bottom of the hill, whooping and squealing all the way down. They waited beside the frozen pond for Aunt Batty and me to catch up with them.

‘‘Oh, aren’t the woods beautiful?’’ I said as we followed her into the grove of trees. The snow looked fresh and clean and white, and it sparkled in the sunlight like sequins on a circus costume. Winky picked up a trail of some kind and wandered into the bushes with his nose to the ground.

‘‘I hope he’s not going to rouse another skunk,’’ Aunt Batty said. Against my will, I thought of Gabe and felt a wave of sadness.

‘‘Hey, look! What kind of animal tracks are these?’’ Luke asked as he crouched beside the path.

‘‘I have a book at home with pictures of all kinds of animal prints,’’ Aunt Batty told him. ‘‘You boys study those carefully and remember what they look like so you can look them up when we get home.’’

‘‘You sound just like a schoolmarm,’’ I teased. ‘‘And you thought you’d never be one.’’

‘‘Well, who would have ever thought!’’ She laughed, shaking her head.

We had walked a little further when Jimmy suddenly stopped. ‘‘Whoa, these are man-size footprints!’’ he said. We all huddled around to see. Jimmy was right—the trail of prints that led off into the bushes where Winky had disappeared were much too large to have been made by Aunt Batty’s feet. I heard Winky barking in the distance.

‘‘Probably another hobo,’’ I said, ‘‘looking for firewood and a warm place to camp.’’ Then I quickly changed the subject before someone mentioned Gabe. ‘‘This is a pretty little clearing, isn’t it?’’ I asked. ‘‘We should come down here for a picnic next summer. So how much farther to this tree of yours, Aunt Batty?’’ The path was growing narrower, making it hard for Luke to pull his sled.

‘‘That’s our Christmas tree right there,’’ she said, pointing. ‘‘Think you boys can chop it down for us?’’

She let Jimmy and Luke take turns chopping, and by the time we’d all heaved and shoved that snow-covered pine tree onto the sled and up the hill to the house, we were all sticky with pitch and soaking wet from the snow that coated the branches. Aunt Batty made hot apple cider to warm us up. We set up the tree in the parlor and decorated it that night after supper using a box of ornaments I’d found in the attic.

‘‘These decorations belonged to Lydia—your grandmother,’’ Aunt Batty explained to the kids as they unwrapped the shining glass balls from their tissue paper wrappings. ‘‘Your grandma was a beautiful woman and she loved beautiful things.’’ Aunt Batty sat on the sofa, stringing popcorn. Every time she dropped a piece, Winky gobbled it up.

‘‘Oh, look, an angel,’’ I said, pulling it from the carton. ‘‘This should go on the very top, don’t you think? Come here, Becky, and I’ll boost you up.’’

‘‘We had a real angel come and stay with us and help us once, didn’t we?’’ she said as I lifted her in my arms. I thought about the night she’d poked Gabe in the hand with her fork to see if he was real and I smiled, even though my eyes filled with tears.

‘‘Yes, we sure did. Like Aunt Batty said, God sends us His messengers to let us know that He cares about us.’’

When we’d finished decorating the tree, the kids gathered around Aunt Batty as she read the Christmas story from the Bible. I sat in my rocking chair with fat old Queen Esther purring away on my lap and looked at my beautiful, crazy family. I’d had the idea that a family should be perfect, with a pretty mama and a handsome daddy and kids that were all sugary-sweet and dressed up real nice. A family couldn’t possibly have a chain-smoking chimpanzee, a clown for a daddy, and a midget for a mama. But as I looked at my three ragamuffin kids in their hand-me-downs, at funny old Aunt Batty with her nutty ways, at our one-eyed hunting dog and two overweight cats with mittens for kittens, I was sure of two things—what I had with Daddy and Aunt Peanut was a family, and so was this. I loved every one of them. Wyatt Orchards wasn’t my home, this house wasn’t even my home. Home is where your family is—the people you love and who love you. And even if I lost everything I owned tomorrow, I’d still have riches beyond measure.

My thoughts made me so teary-eyed that I decided to take the scuttle full of cinders outside to empty it before someone noticed that I was crying. I needed to fetch one last pail of coal before heading up to bed, anyway.

My mind was a hundred miles away as I walked out onto the back porch, so when the large shape of a man suddenly emerged from the shadows it scared me half to death! I dropped the coal scuttle down the steps as I cried out.

‘‘I’m sorry, Eliza!’’ a soft, familiar voice said. ‘‘I didn’t mean to startle you.’’

‘‘Gabe?’’

It was him! The next moment I was in his arms, kissing him like I had on that frosty spring morning in the orchard more than six months ago. I thought I must be dreaming, but I felt the grip of his strong arms around me, felt the passion and warmth of his kiss, and I knew that Gabe was real. I also knew that my heart hadn’t changed in the months he had been gone. I still loved him, plain and simple.

Gabe pulled away first and looked into my eyes. ‘‘I need to explain why I left, Eliza. I want to tell you everything this time. No more lies. My real name isn’t Gabriel Harper. It’s Matthew—’’

‘‘No!
Stop right there!’’

I freed myself from his arms. The joy I’d felt only seconds before turned to anger. I wouldn’t let him deceive me a second time.

‘‘I know very well you’re not Matthew Wyatt,’’ I said, seizing his right hand. ‘‘The real Matthew had part of his finger missing! The real Matthew Wyatt is dead!’’

‘‘I know he’s dead,’’ Gabe said softly. ‘‘He was my best friend...and he died saving my life. My name is Matthew Willis. My father is Edmund Willis, an attorney and political boss in Albany, New York. That’s where I grew up.’’

He sounded sincere, but I was still wary of trusting him. I studied him as my eyes adjusted to the darkness. His hair needed to be trimmed again, and his chin had a day’s growth of beard on it. He looked tired—and worried.

‘‘The sheriff said you tried to steal my brother-in-law’s name and his identity,’’ I said. ‘‘Is that true?’’

‘‘Yes, it’s true. I did ‘steal’ it, as you say. And I’d like to explain to you how and why that happened....But can we go inside first, where it’s warm? I’ve been standing out here for a couple of hours now, trying to get up the courage to knock on your door.’’ Gabe stood with his shoulders all hunched up and I could see him shivering, but I still hesitated.

‘‘No. I don’t want you to come inside yet, Gabe. I don’t want my kids to know you’re here. You hurt them awfully bad when you left us like you did, without a word of apology or explanation.’’

‘‘But I want to explain it to them now—’’

‘‘No. You’ll have to explain it to me, first. Go build a fire in the workshop, and I’ll come out and hear your story after they’re in bed.’’

It was hard not to let my excitement—or my fear—show as I went through the nightly routine of tucking my kids into bed. I could still feel Gabe’s lips on mine, his arms holding me tightly, and my heart wanted to soar like the Flying Falangas on their trapezes. But I warned my heart not to even shinny up that rope again until I’d heard Gabe’s story.

I tried to be real quiet as I put on my coat and boots to go back outside, but Winky waddled out to the kitchen and gave me away when he started barking. A moment later, Aunt Batty stuck her fluffy head out of her bedroom door. She looked at me curiously, and before I even had a chance to come up with an excuse for why I was going outside, she broke into a huge grin.

‘‘Gabe’s back, isn’t he!’’ she said. I nodded sheepishly. ‘‘Oh, I just knew it! I could tell by the way Winky was barking this afternoon that those footprints belonged to someone he knew!’’ She gave me a quick hug, then said, ‘‘Well, don’t just stand there—go to him!’’

I brought Winky with me. It wasn’t so much my choice as his. As soon as Winky saw Gabe sitting on the cot in the workshop he jumped into his arms and started licking him all over, his stubby tail whirling in happy circles. Gabe laughed—that deep, rumbling laugh that I loved so much—and at that moment he could have told me he was Al Capone or ‘‘Baby Face’’ Nelson and I wouldn’t have cared. But I had a feeling that I would hear the truth this time. I sat down on the chair across from him.

‘‘I found your notebook in the stove,’’ I told him. ‘‘It didn’t burn up. Was that the true story of why you left home?’’

‘‘Yes. I enlisted in the army because I was ashamed of what I’d done to my father’s political opponent. I met Matthew Wyatt in basic training—we were bunkmates. People mixed us up all the time because we were about the same age and height, we both had dark hair and eyes, and we were both named Matthew. Even our last names, Wyatt and Willis, were similar. Of course, your brother-in-law was a lot stronger and more muscular than I was, since I was a city boy and he’d grown up on a farm. And he had lost part of his index finger.

‘‘We spent a lot of time together,’’ Gabe continued, scratching Winky’s ears, ‘‘and we found out we had a lot more in common than our first names. Our fathers may have lived in different places and worked in different professions, but in many ways they were the same man. And your brother-in-law and I had both enlisted to escape from our fathers—and to try to figure out who we really were.

‘‘Matthew and I spent nearly two years together. We sailed to France on the same ship, spent several months in the same training camp, fought in the same battalion. The war changed both of us. I don’t think anybody can ever be the same after an experience like that. Matthew found out how homesick he was. He’d seen the world and he didn’t care for it. All he wanted in life was to go home and live on a farm again. He used to stop and gaze at the cows and horses as we marched past them, and he didn’t care if he got into trouble for it or not.

‘‘I was glad that he’d figured out what he wanted to do after the war. I still had no idea what I would do. But then one day Matthew confided in me that he was illegitimate and that his father had disinherited him when he’d found out. Matthew knew that Wyatt Orchards would never be his. I was with him when he got Aunt Batty’s letter, telling him that his mother had died. I was with him in Paris when he typed the letter back to her. He wasn’t the same after that. He kept saying he had no reason to go back to Deer Springs, no mother or father and no home to return to. His mother’s death made him very depressed.