The Scarlet Thread (4 page)

tween us and didn’t understand. You didn’t see that much of

your father when he was home because he had to sleep during

the day. I spent most of my time telling you two to be quiet and

trying to keep you busy with games and puzzles and long walks.

The hours and stress were bad enough for Daddy, but I think it

was missing you and Mike that finally made him quit. Before he

did, he studied for his real estate license. He gave it a try and

loved it. As God would have it, he started at the time when real

estate was booming. It was a seller’s market. Within two years of

getting his license, your dad was one of the top Realtors in

Sonoma County. He became so busy, he dropped residential and

specialized in commercial properties.”

She squeezed Sierra’s hand. “The point I’m trying to make

is this, honey: It took your father sixteen years to settle into a

career he enjoyed.” She smiled. “Alex knew what he wanted to

do when he went to college. The trouble is he’s never had the

opportunity to accomplish it. The greatest gift you can give him

is the freedom to spread his wings.”

Again, this wasn’t what Sierra wanted to hear. “You talk as

though I’ve put a ball and chain around his neck.” She stood and

began pacing again. “I’d like to have been consulted, Mom. Is that

so hard to understand? Alex didn’t even discuss the offer with me.

He accepted it and then informed me of his decision. It’s not fair.”

“Who ever said life was fair?” her mother responded, hands

folded.

Sierra felt defensive and angry. “Daddy didn’t make you move.”

“No, he didn’t. I would have been delighted if he had.”

Sierra turned and stared at her. “I thought you loved

Healdsburg.”

“Now I do. When I was younger, all I could think about was

getting away from here. I thought how wonderful it would be to

live in a big city like San Francisco where lots of things were

going on. You know I grew up on Grandma’s farm in the central

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wanted to go to the theater and attend concerts. I wanted to immerse myself in museums and culture. I wanted to walk through

Golden Gate Park. And, despite warnings and pleadings from

my parents, I did just that.”

“And met Daddy.”

“Yes. He rescued me from a mugging on the Pan Handle.”

Sierra thought of the wedding photo on the mantel downstairs.

Her father’s hair had been long then, and his “tuxedo” consisted

of worn Levi’s and heavy boots; her mother, dressed in a black

turtleneck and Capri pants, had woven flowers in her waist-length

auburn hair. The photo had always jarred with the image she had

of her parents. They had been
young
once—and rebellious, too.

Her mother smiled, remembering. “If I’d had my way, we

would have settled in San Francisco.”

“You never told me that before.”

“By the time you and your brother came along, my ideas about

what I wanted had changed drastically. Just as your ideas will

change. Life isn’t static, Sierra. Thank God. It’s constantly in

motion. Sometimes we find ourselves caught up in currents and

carried along where we don’t want to go. Then we find out later

that God’s hand was in it all along.”

“God didn’t make the decision to move to Los Angeles. Alex

made it. But then, I suppose he thinks he’s God.” Sierra could

hear the resentment in her voice, but she hardened herself

against any regret or guilt. Emotions raged and warred within

her: resentment that Alex had made such a decision without talking to her beforehand; fear that if she fought him, she’d lose anyway; terror of leaving a life she loved and found so comfortable.

“What am I going to do, Mom?”

“That’s up to you, honey,” her mother said gently, tears of

compassion in her eyes.

“I need your advice.”

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“The second greatest commandment is that we love one

another as we love ourselves, Sierra. Forget yourself and think

about what Alex needs. Love him accordingly.”

“If I do that, he’ll walk all over me. Next time, he’ll jump at a job

in New York City!” She knew she was being unfair even as she

said it. Alex had given her two beautiful children, a nice threebedroom home in Windsor, and a secure, happy life. Life had been

so smooth, in fact, she had never once suspected the turmoil

within him. Realizing that frightened her. It made her feel she

didn’t know Alex’s heart or mind as well as she thought she did.

She couldn’t see a way out. Part of her wanted to pick up the

children from school and come back here to the Mathesen Street

home and let Alex face the real estate woman alone; he couldn’t

sell the house if she didn’t sign. But she knew if she did that, he’d

be furious. The few times she had unintentionally hurt him, he

had retreated into anger, putting up a cold front and withdrawing into silence. He didn’t come from a family of yellers. She

didn’t even want to think about how he would respond if she

hurt and angered him deliberately.

“It might help to take your mind off the matter for a few hours

and then try to think about it later,” her mother said.

Heart aching, Sierra sat down on the sofa again. She looked at

the open trunk and piles of boxes. “Why are you doing all this

now, Mom?”

Something flickered in her mother’s eyes. “It’s a good winter

activity, don’t you think?” She glanced around. “It’s such a mess.

Your father and I meant to go through all this stuff years ago, but

then . . .” She looked sad. “Time has a way of getting away from

us.” She looked around the room at the odd assortment of treasures, some ratty and from long-forgotten sources. “I don’t want

to leave all this chaos for you and Mike to have to figure out.”

She rose and walked around the attic, brushing her hand

lightly over an old rocking chair, a bookshelf, a baby’s pram.

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in the north corner. You two can decide what you want to keep and

what you want to throw away. Special things from your father’s

family and mine, I’ll repack. Most of your father’s papers from the

business can be burned. There’s no point in keeping them. And

Grandpa’s paintings . . . some of them are disintegrating.”

“Some of them are really bad,” Sierra said, grinning.

“That, too,” her mother agreed with a laugh. “It kept him occupied.” She stopped near the window, glancing out at the front

lawn, her expression pensive. “There are a lot of family papers.

I’ll have all winter to go through and organize them for you and

Mike.” She glanced back at Sierra and smiled. “It’s a big job, but

I think it’ll be fun and interesting.”

She came back and sat down on the old flowered sofa. “This

trunk belonged to Mary Kathryn McMurray. She was one of

your ancestors. She came across the plains in a wagon in 1847. I

was just glancing through her journal when you came,” she said,

taking up a leather-bound volume from the trunk and brushing

her hand over it. “I hadn’t gotten very far. Apparently, this was

an assignment book and then it became her diary.”

She set the volume between them on the couch. Sierra picked

it up and opened it, reading the childish scrawl on the first page.

Mama says livin in the wildurnes aint no resun

to bee ignurant. Her papa wuz a larnud man and

wud not want fuls in his famlee.

“The trunk was part of Grandpa Clanton’s estate,” her mother

said. “I haven’t gone through these things in years.” She lifted

out a small carved wooden box. “Oh, I remember this,” she said,

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smiling. Inside was an embroidered silk handkerchief. She unfolded it carefully and showed Sierra the antique gold chain and

amethyst cross.

“Oh, it’s beautiful,” Sierra said, taking it and admiring it.

“You may have it, if you’d like.”

“I’d love it,” Sierra said, opening the small clasp and putting it

on.

Her mother took out an old tintype in an oval frame. The couple were dressed in wedding clothes, their expressions solemn

rather than joyful. The groom was handsome in his dark suit and

starched shirt, his dark hair brushed back cleanly from chiseled

features and intense pale eyes. Blue, Sierra decided. They would

have had to be blue to be so pale in the picture. The bride was

very young and lovely. She was wearing a gorgeous white lace

Victorian wedding dress. She sat while her husband stood, his

hand firmly planted upon her shoulder.

Sierra took out another box. Inside, wrapped in tissue paper,

was a small woven Indian basket with designs. Around the top

edge were quail plumes and beads. “I think this is a gift basket,

Mom. It’s worth a lot of money. They have them in the Indian

Museum at Sutter’s Fort.”

“Is there anything inside the box to tell about it?”

Sierra removed everything and shook her head. “Nothing.”

“Look at this old Bible,” her mother said, distracted. As she

opened it, a section slipped free and fell onto the floor. Her

mother picked it up and placed it on the sofa beside her.

Sierra picked up the paper yellowed with age and read the

pretty script.

Dearest Mary Kathryn,

I hope you have changed your mind about God. He

loves you very much and He is watching over you. I do

not know what hardships and losses you will face on the

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end of the trail. What I do know is God will never leave

you nor forsake you.

You have my love and are in my morning and evening

prayers. The ladies from the quilting club send their love

as well, as do Betsy and Clovis. May the Lord bless your

new home.

Aunt Martha

Sierra’s mother thumbed through the black, cracked leather

Bible and then picked up the portion that had fallen. “Look at

how worn the pages are.” She smiled. “Mary Kathryn favored

the Gospels.” She took the note from Sierra and read it. Folding

it, she tucked it in the loosened pages and set the Bible carefully

beside Mary Kathryn McMurray’s journal.

Sierra took out a decaying flowered hat box. She found a note

on top saying simply, in beautiful black calligraphy, “Save for

Joshua McMurray.” The box was full of animals, carved of

wood, each wrapped carefully in a scrap of flowered calico or

checked gingham. She unwrapped a fierce-looking wolf, a majestic buffalo, a coiled rattlesnake, a prairie dog standing on its

hind legs, a comical jackrabbit, a beautiful antelope, two mountain goats locked together in fierce battle, and a grizzly bear

standing on its hind legs, ready to attack.

At the bottom of the trunk was a large package wrapped in

butcher paper and tied with string.

“I don’t remember this,” her mother said and slipped the string

off so she could remove the wrapping.
“Oh,”
she said in wonder

and excitement. “I think it’s a crazy quilt.” She unfolded it

enough so that Sierra could take one end of it and then stood,

spreading the folds to reveal the full pattern.

It wasn’t a crazy quilt, but a picture quilt with squares made

of hundreds of different scraps of cloth, each with a different

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