The View from Prince Street (17 page)

Rachel crossed her fingers. “From your lips to God's ears.” She leaned forward, her eyes dancing with curiosity. “Are you really a matchmaker?”

“No, I'm not. I've made a few introductions that have led to marriages, but it's never intentional.”

“Your phone must have been ringing off the hook since that article.”

“There have been a few inquiries. All are disappointed to find I'm not a matchmaker, but a family counselor.”

Laughing, she shook her head. “Good families begin with good marriages.”

“True.” Since she'd brought the matchmaking up, I said, “Your sister, Margaret, asked me to find a suitor for you.”

Her face turned red as her expression warmed with laughter and annoyance. “You're kidding?” She shook her head. “You don't kid, do you?”

“I do not.”

“Well, don't listen to Margaret. I'm doing fine. My life is full.”

“She never implied it wasn't.”

Nervous laughter bubbled. “I might have to strangle her.”

“Consider yourself lucky to have a meddling sister like Margaret. Thank you again for the cookies, Rachel.”

She weighed my comment against her annoyance. “Sure, Rae.”

Outside the shop, I savored the warmth of the evening air as it chased away a chill from my bones. I moved quickly toward the salvage yard, my heels clipping on the slightly uneven brick sidewalk as I made my way past a collection of restaurants and pubs toward the corner of Union and King Streets, the location of Shire Architectural Salvage Company.

The salvage yard's building, like many of the buildings in this section of town, was originally a warehouse that stored goods transported in and out of the Alexandria harbor via the Potomac River to the Chesapeake Bay. Faint white-and-red lettering across the top floor read
R & C Dry Goods
.

Through the front display window was an odd collection of items rescued from various homes, churches, and schools within a fifty-mile radius. A church pew occupied the bulk of the display space, and on top of a bench sat a pair of old brass lanterns, an old bicycle wheel, and stacked cigar boxes. Three stained glass windows, which depicted scenes from the Bible, leaned against the wall, along with window frames and a scattering of brass doorknobs on the floor. Above it all hung a trio of industrial lamps that cast a warm glow.

As I pushed open the front door, a small bell above me jangled. Inside the warehouse the ceiling supported a collection of light fixtures and industrial pendant lights. The front reception area was packed with mantels, windows, and wrought-iron fence sections. This hodgepodge of random items should have amounted to chaos, but somehow, among the old and discarded was a sense of a new beginning.

I didn't see anyone at the front counter but heard quite a bit of clanging and banging echoing from the back of the warehouse. Following the sound, I moved deeper into the center aisle, which was stacked with old doors.

“Hello,” I said.

Clang. Bang. Clang.

I approached the back of the row slowly. “Hello, Margaret? Addie?”

A shadow shifted and then I saw a woman's figure, silhouetted by the light from a dangling ship captain's lantern. I hesitated and then realized I wasn't looking at Addie or Margaret but Lisa Smyth. Standing beside her was Charlie, wagging his tail.

Seeing her at the gravesite had been jarring. I knew she was back in town, but seeing her hunched close to Jennifer's gravestone, talking, was reminiscent of teenaged Jennifer and Lisa huddled together, whispering and giggling. In those days, I wanted so much to be included, but interruptions were always met with them shooing me away like an annoying fly. They always kept me at arm's distance.

Unlike all their relaxed chatter in high school, I could see this conversation was not easy. Whatever Lisa had been saying was painful, judging from her white-knuckled fist and unshed tears. Only Jennifer and Lisa were in the car at the moment of impact. Only Lisa knew the last words my sister spoke. She saw it all.

The difference between Lisa's life and Jennifer's death was a seat belt. Lisa wore hers. Jennifer hadn't. Mom had cautioned her about this, but Jennifer had clung to her tiny rebellion.

Did it bother Lisa that she had been wearing a seat belt and Jennifer hadn't? Was she forever replaying their last words, wondering if she'd changed one syllable or one phrase, the entire sequence of events could have been changed? I had certainly played that game many times. If only I'd told Mom that the girls were leaving. If only . . .

Too many
if only
s always led to Jennifer's life being spared and the boy never being born. As much as I wanted my sister spared, I could never, would never, wish the boy away. I never rewrote his birth, only the moment I'd laid him in Susan's arms and said good-bye.

“Lisa,” I said. “I didn't realize you were here tonight.”

She flinched, not expecting the sound of my voice, and rose from a
bin filled with random junk. Charlie barked as she slid her hands into the front pockets of her jeans, and a tentative, if not apologetic smile tweaked the edges of her lips. “Margaret called me.”

“Stands to reason we'd both be summoned. Our families have crossed paths for centuries. What're you doing back here rooting in the junk bin?”

“I was milling around when I found this box.” She shoved aside a few more odd items and removed a midsized wooden box. Charlie yawned. “There are glass negatives in here.”

“Glass?”

“Taken by me when I was in high school. Addie and Margaret must have taken them when they cleaned out Amelia's basement.” She set the box on the floor and pulled out one sheet of five-by-five glass. Holding it up to the lantern light, she inspected it. “I think I took these the summer between my junior and senior years.”

“Perhaps you could develop them.”

“I might.” Lisa replaced the negative. Hefting the box in her arms, she blew a stray curl from her eyes. “Can't wait to hear what Margaret has to say.”

“I'm fascinated as well. There was a time when history bored me.”

“And now?”

“I don't know,” I said. “It may have relevance.”

“I'm not fond of the past. Half the time it's an albatross around my neck.”

“We're not talking about witch bottles, are we?” I asked.

“No.” She dropped her voice a notch and pulled in a breath. “Rae, you and I have never talked about Jennifer. And we need to.”

I tightened my hold on the cookie box. “Now is not really the time.”

Lisa struggled with the box of negatives as if juggling the weight of the past. “There will never be a good time.”

Lisa wanted to share her burden with me. “I don't know what there is to say.”

She swallowed. “You never asked me about the accident.”

“Jennifer's dead, Lisa. She's gone. What is there to discuss?”

“Are you crazy? There's so much that has never been said.” Realizing her voice rose, she drew in a breath. “Don't you want to know about that last day? What we were talking about in the car? Why we wrecked?”

Ice around my heart cracked under her heated words, driving me deeper within so that I could shore up my defenses. “I came here to talk about Margaret's discovery, Lisa. That's the only history lesson I care to learn right now.”

Tears glistened before she blinked. “I owe you a confession.”

Holding up a hand, I stiffened. “Don't do this. It's not productive.”

“I think it could be healing.”

“Maybe for you. Not for me. I'm fine.”

“You're wrong,” Lisa said.

“I heard along the way that you joined AA and I'm glad for you. I know facing the past is part of your process, but I'll not be a part of your atonement.” The heat scalding the edges of each word surprised me.

“That's bullshit and we both know it.” Charlie's ears flattened.

“I'm not doing this now.”

She readied to fire back when we heard voices mingling with footsteps. Seconds later, Margaret and Addie appeared and I was truly grateful.

“Margaret,” I said, clearing my throat. “I understand you have news for us.”

“You bet I do!” Margaret rubbed her palms together.

Addie rolled her eyes. “She's about to burst. I've never seen her so excited.”

Lisa set her crate on the counter. “Addie, I want to buy these negatives.”

“Those came from your basement. I can't charge you for those.”

Lisa fished in her front pocket and pulled out two rumpled twenties. “I gave it all away, fair and square.”

“No, keep the negatives,” Addie said. “I really do insist.”

“I pay my debts,” Lisa said.

“Fine. Take a picture of Margaret and me some time. We'll hang it out front. That would be fun.”

“Done.”

“Now that that's settled, let me tell you about tonight's main attraction.” Margaret's grin was electric and held a satisfaction that came with solving a difficult puzzle. “I have pieced together the story of three women who arrived in Alexandria in about 1749. Why don't we go upstairs? Addie has coffee.”

I held up the box of cookies. “I stopped at the bakery. Your sister had the doors open because she's selling some of her test-kitchen creations.”

Margaret's eyes widened with excitement. “Tell me you bought the lemon polenta. OMG. So good. She's been tweaking that recipe for days. It's perfect, but she keeps playing with it and somehow making it better. My ass is going to be the size of a barn if her baking skills get any better.”

Addie laughed. “Inside thought, Margaret.”

“I know.” Margaret shrugged. “Please, you all know if it hits my brain I speak it seconds later.”

Lisa accepted Margaret's buoyance as a moment to regroup and find an easy smile short of genuine. “I like the honesty. It's refreshing.”

Margaret crossed her arms and glanced at Addie. “See. Refreshing. I'm refreshing.”

“So is a bucket of ice water, Margaret,” Addie countered.

As Margaret laughed, I found her openness as endearing as it was frightening. What would it be like to embrace such honesty? “I'm anxious to hear your story, Margaret.”

“Good. Let's get started.”

“We made our way up a side staircase that led to a second-floor apartment where Addie, her aunt Grace, and baby Carrie lived. The
living room space was large, with a large hearth capped with an ornate marble mantel that sported a collection of pictures ranging from the very recent digital to grainy black-and-whites that spanned over a hundred years. The room was furnished with an assortment of furniture that, like all the other pieces in this space, was enjoying a second chance. There was an overstuffed club chair covered with a dark quilt, a Victorian sofa, a stone coffee table that had once been a miller's stone, and a well-worn oriental carpet with wear patterns that left it faded and thinned in spots.

“I've got coffee and beer,” Addie said.

“Both pair really nicely with the cookies,” Margaret said. “Beer for me.”

“Coffee works for me,” Lisa said.

I handed the box of cookies to Addie and she led us to the kitchen. More vintage: an oval table trimmed in chrome and surrounded by four chairs with red seat covers; a refrigerator with rounded edges and a long silver latch; dented, well-used pots and pans hanging from a rack next to cabinets from different homes and decades, but pieced together in a way that was charming.

The silver coffeepot didn't drip but perked coffee into a clear dome, signaling that the coffee was ready. Circled around the pot were four mismatched mugs.

Margaret scooped up a cookie. “Is it rude for us to serve beer with you here? And should we keep it on the down low that you attended AA with Janet?”

Lisa sipped her coffee. “Beer's fine, and some folks don't want others to know about the meetings.”

“You're okay talking about this,” Addie said. “I'm always thrilled to hear when Janet attends.”

“Good. Encourage her to talk,” Lisa said. “I talk about my experiences at the meetings to anyone who appears interested. You never know who's listening and might benefit from my experiences.”

“That's good.” Addie fished a platter from the cabinet and arranged
the cookies in a neat circle. “Better get started. Carrie is down for the night. That gives us plenty of time.”

I accepted a Nationals Baseball Team cup and declined cream and sugar. “I understand she's your sister's child.”

“We're working with a lawyer now. I'm formally adopting her.” She handed Lisa a cup of coffee that sported an American flag with thirteen stars and
1976 Bicentennial
written on the side.

“Does she have much contact with the baby?” I asked.

“She comes by about once a week and holds her for a short visit. She loves Carrie, but the day-to-day stuff is too much. She struggles with mental illness and is working to keep herself balanced.”

I couldn't help but sympathize with Janet. She couldn't care for her child, but she had given Carrie a promising life and laid her in the arms of a caring mother. I hoped Michael would understand my decision one day.

Margaret reached beside her seat to a backpack from which she pulled out a tattered notebook covered with flower stickers, endless notes, and scribbles in all colors of ink. She flipped through the pages until she was almost to the end. “Thanks to Rae, I was able to piece together the connected lives of our three ancestors. Lisa is descended through Imogen Smyth. Rae is a direct descendant of Patience McDonald, and Addie is descended from Sarah Shire Goodwin on her mother's side and on her father's side through Faith Shire.”

Addie paused as she raised the cookie to her lips and grinned. “My descendants are related? That can't be good.”

“Your mother and father were third cousins. Perfectly acceptable in the world of healthy genetics, but each did come from the same line of mad Shires that hailed from Aberdeen. Sarah and Faith were half sisters.” Margaret peered over her glasses. “Seems Daddy Shire had a liaison with a local widow, who birthed Faith. Faith, born out of wedlock, lived on the fringes in Aberdeen until she was in her late twenties. She was described as a beautiful woman with red hair, and from what
I can gather, was very outspoken. Around 1747, she was put on trial and convicted of witchcraft in Aberdeen. She was sentenced to indentureship in Virginia.”