Traces (10 page)

Her eyes sparked with resolve even as her expression closed. “I don’t know what you’re planning, sweetheart…but I’m going to make sure you comply with your grandmother’s wishes.”

“You’ve done your job, Max.” Meredith started closing the door, narrowing his view of her lithe body. “She’d be proud of you. Take care.”

“I’m sure we’ll run into each other again. Roseville isn’t that big.”

The smile on her lips suggested she was keeping secrets from him.

“Bye.”

Once back in his pickup, he considered the woman watching him through the screened door as he turned the key in the ignition. He needed to find out exactly what she hid from him. If that meant dogging her very footsteps, day after day, month after month, until he found the answer to that question, well, then he was the man for the job. He grinned to himself as he pulled out of the driveway. He owed that much to Mrs. O’Connell, whether Meredith liked it or not.

* * * *

Sunshine angled through the small windows of the attic, appearing almost smoky through the dust motes. Grizabella flinched each time Meredith swung the hammer and struck the screwdriver handle, its flat blade jolting the padlock hinge. She’d tried locating the key, with no success. How did that happen anyway? Were small keys like socks in the dryer, disappearing along with the hot air? She continued hammering with precision until the padlock finally sprang open. Dropping the tool beside the useless monkey wrench and crowbar, she grinned at the cat. She gripped the front corners of the trunk lid and paused, contemplating what might jump out at her.

“Finally I find out what the great secret is.” She considered the calico positioned to one side of where Meredith kneeled before the trunk. “Ready?”

Grizabella flicked her tail and hunkered down to watch Meredith lift the heavy metal lid.

As sunlight fell across the open trunk, Meredith froze. The box was crammed full of yellowed, handwritten letters, a set of matching leather-bound books, and a three-inch vinyl binder labeled in elaborate typeface, O'CONNELL FAMILY TREE, brimming with sheets of paper. Curious, she picked up a packet of letters secured by a length of lace. Flipping through them, the dates reached as far back as the 1850s. She counted ten groups of letters, each measuring about three inches thick, spanning through the 1860s. Reading all of them would take ages, but her curiosity piqued when she noticed the set written between three O’Connells—two women and a man—shortly before and during the Civil War. Perhaps they were relatives sharing news of family. Her family, in fact.

Setting the letters aside, she lifted the binder out and carefully opened it so no pages escaped. Grandma O’Connell had apparently spent a great deal of time over the years pulling together genealogical research on the family. She’d identified their family back to when they immigrated to America prior to the Revolution. The concept of delving into the family tree, tracing the ancestral line, made Meredith’s skin crawl. Historical research was more Paulette’s gig, not hers. At least when her sister decided to focus and buckle down to work at anything. But no way would Meredith even think to ask Paulette to apply her skills to the search. Not after their abortive dinner the night before.

Meredith looked at her grandmother’s beautiful script handwriting, which flowed across the page, prompting Meredith’s throat to close. Call her sentimental and perhaps a touch foolish. She held the very paper her grandmother had held years before. The sense of connection between them, their fingerprints layering upon the page, warmed her like a blanket. As she focused on the words, though, she grew more and more intrigued.

From her notes, Grandma had tirelessly searched for some reference to her husband’s grandfather’s sister. Grace Abigail had disappeared from the family records in 1862, though Grandma had hunted for decades to find some hint of her whereabouts. Grace’s sister, Edith, married a Confederate officer in late 1863 in Lexington, Kentucky. Interestingly, Grandpa’s great-grandfather, David Joseph, known as Joe, had also served in the Confederate Army as a soldier. According to Grandma’s notes, she’d discovered from the letters that when he came home after the war, he found Twin Oaks abandoned, though with every indication it had been the Union Army’s campsite during the fighting. The specific reference provided the evidence needed for Grandma’s application to list the plantation on the National Register.

Grandma O’Connell had documented the timeline of the fighting and troop movements from 1861 until the war’s end. The Union troops had moved south from Roseville, Tennessee, to Huntsville, Alabama, in early 1862. Grandma had surmised that was the time frame during which the Union Army encamped at Twin Oaks en route. Grandma detailed the timeline of the many letters Grandpa Joe wrote to distant family members trying to ascertain where Grace, his favorite little sister, had gone, but he failed to locate her. He never gave up hope and even bequeathed her an interest in Twin Oaks in his will should she return.

How sad. Meredith closed the binder and pressed it to her chest for a long moment. Why would Grace have left without a word? Maybe she tried to defend Twin Oaks and the Yanks killed her? Or maybe she died of cholera and nobody knew who she was, a nameless victim in an overcrowded hospital? Most likely she died in one way or another, since she never came home. Meredith sighed, laying the book back in the trunk. She’d never know now. Not if her grandmother had been unsuccessful in her search.

Meredith had never delved into genealogical research so had no clue where to even begin. She fingered the tobacco-leaf-colored letters, gently lifting another packet out of the trunk. Her family’s history lay captured within the leaves of these pages. She trailed a fingertip along the short end of the folded letters, thinking about how much time and effort her grandmother must have devoted to digging into the O’Connell family past. No wonder she didn’t want little girl hands digging through the trunk. She peered at the packet, contemplating the secrets hidden within the handwritten letters. Secrets she’d like to one day expose to light.

Griz rose up to a sitting position beside Meredith, her tail twitching, ears alert. Meredith glanced over her shoulder, listening. She heard footsteps on the floorboards below and tensed.

The steps stopped. “Hello?”

Meg
. “Up here!” Meredith quickly replaced the letters and lowered the lid.

“Gracious, what are you doing up here among these old things?” Meg ambled into the room and let her gaze skim the contents of the dusty attic. Sean came up behind her, peering over her shoulder. “Wow, I need to get in here and clean this place up.”

“Hey, Meg. Sean.” Meredith stood and swept an arm through the air to indicate the attic at large. “My curiosity got the better of me. I’ve wanted to know what these old trunks hid ever since I was a little girl.”

“It’s all yours now, so have fun exploring to your heart’s content.” Meg’s eyes widened when she spotted the replica of Twin Oaks. “Goodness, there’s your old dollhouse. I remember the summer you and your dad put it together.”

Not wanting to explore her personal family history and that particular sore point, Meredith diverted the conversation. She brushed off the knees of her blue jeans. Griz chose to strut out of the room, careful to avoid contact with their guests. “Did you need something?”

“Where did you want us to focus today?” Sean asked. “Inside or out?”

“Inside, definitely.” No point changing anything outside. She glanced at the trunk. “Can you take the trunk down to the sewing room for me?”

“Where did you want it?” Sean asked, moving to do as she asked.

“Beside the rocking chair, I think.” Meredith moved back while Sean hefted the trunk. “I want to read these letters my Grandma studied, as well as the thick binder of genealogy research she did, to learn more about my family’s history.”

“Is that what’s in there?” Meg asked. “Your grandmother spent a lot of time on some online genealogy site, but I didn’t realize she’d documented it all. Of course, I’m not surprised, given how much she loved this place.”

Sean lugged the trunk down the stairs, his steps heavy on the treads, though he didn’t seem to have any difficulty with the bulk. The two women followed him. As Meredith placed her foot on the floor in the foyer, a light breeze chilled her arms. This drafty old house would be the death of her yet. She considered the front door, its solid wood firmly closed against any intrusion. She’d always been drawn to the front porch of the house. No matter the season or weather, the entrance lured her to it. She and Paulette used to play with their dolls on the front steps and beneath the immense columns. Before they’d started arguing over every little thing between them. Still, the porch held many happy memories from her summer visits. She took a step toward the locked door.

“Where you going?” Meg asked, pausing in her progress down the hall. “Did you hear somebody at the door?”

Meredith shook her head as she turned toward the housekeeper. “No, but I thought I’d like to go out onto the porch.”

“Come on, we’ve other tasks to tend.” Meg motioned for Meredith to join her. “Sean needs you in the sewing room. Right, Sean?”

His grunt sounded from within the old parlor.

“Okay, I’m coming.” With a last glance at the door, Meredith strode toward Meg. She took a breath to clear the sigh forming inside, only to inhale the familiar sweet scent once more. She reached Meg in several strides. “Do you smell honeysuckle?”

“No.” Meg regarded her silently for a long moment, brows furrowed. “Why?”

“Never mind.” Meredith rubbed her nose with the backs of her fingers, trying to obliterate the scent. “It must be my imagination.”

“Or your nose is better than mine.” Meg entered the parlor and headed toward a mussed, crocheted afghan on the settee’s seat. She refolded the afghan and smoothed it into place. “Honeysuckle is really out of season, though.”

“Exactly.” Meredith stopped inside the doorway and surveyed the room.

Sean placed the trunk beside her grandmother’s rocker. Meg had brightened the room, no cobwebs or dust visible anywhere. Fresh-cut daffodils and tulips in the crystal vase perfumed the spring air. The floorboards gleamed in the sunlight. Despite the faded and peeling wallpaper, a cheery atmosphere prevailed. Beyond the partially open window, the songs of birds blended into a symphony. She rested a hand on the back of the settee, the soft wool of the afghan recalling the image of her grandmother’s hands working the crochet hook. No wonder this was her favorite room in the house.

“Maybe the scent comes from the potpourri I threw out this morning.” Meg fluffed a pillow and replaced it on the chair. “I didn’t notice it, but then I wasn’t paying attention.”

“The smell must be coming from somewhere,” Meredith said, frowning. “And I’m going to find it.”

“I can’t locate the source,” Meredith said hours later. “I’ve looked everywhere.”

“Don’t fret. I’m sure there’s a logical explanation.” Meg finished polishing the kitchen countertop, all traces of mold removed from its gleaming surface. “Maybe in the basement? Or some little secret compartment beneath the floorboards. Folks used to hide things around the house, especially during the Civil War, to protect their valuables.”

“Right, I’m sure somebody hid a supply of dried honeysuckle vines so they wouldn’t be without after the fighting stopped.” Meredith laughed and shook her head at her own sarcasm. “I doubt that.”

She crossed to the table and flopped down where she could gaze out to the rear of the property. God, she was tired. She’d been all over the house, into closets and cabinets, poking behind drapes and doors. She’d opened stubborn drawers on dressers in several bedrooms. Nothing accounted for the sweet scent she’d pursued.

The family cemetery drew her attention, the magnolia trees showing the first signs of buds forming among the large waxy leaves. Azaleas huddled nearby, tightly furled petals hinting at the deep pinks and reds soon to be in full color. Such a beautiful property, lovingly tended for generations, only to be handed down to her ungrateful care. She looked closer at the plants in the yard. What she didn’t spot was honeysuckle.

Her grandmother had wanted her to inherit the family property, but Meredith had not been in touch with her for years. Why? She hadn’t expressed interest in Twin Oaks since she was a little girl, building the dollhouse. Then she’d wanted to live here and raise a huge family. Her childhood dreams included her version of Mr. Right: tall, handsome, creative, fun-loving, and intelligent. Together they’d make beautiful babies—at least three and hopefully many more—to fill the multitude of bedrooms with laughter and love. Maybe her grandmother remembered how she’d adored visiting the plantation and her little-girl dreams. Obviously she’d kept the dollhouse all this time. Now Meredith had the real house, but no hope of the family. Rubbing her arms, she glanced at Meg.

“What would you do?” Meredith asked Meg as she contemplated the panorama before her.

“About what, dear?” Meg came and stood beside her, resting one hand on the back of Meredith’s chair.

“Would you live here, take on all this obligation, if you were me?” Meredith stared out the window, not wanting to detect censure in Meg’s eyes. “Even if you knew in your heart you didn’t want it and never could?”

Meg gasped and sat down. “Why would you say such a thing?”

Meredith shifted to regard the older woman. “Because it’s true.”

“I can’t believe after all the time you’ve spent here, the joy you felt staying here, that you’d turn your back on your heritage.”

“I’m a city girl now.” As good an excuse as any other. Meredith ran a hand through her hair, slipping the ponytail holder off with a sigh of relief.

“That’s by location, not heritage.” Meg gripped her shoulder and squeezed until Meredith met her eyes. “Your Irish blood will speak to you, remind you of the legacy the land represents. Both past and future for the O’Connell family.”

“I haven’t heard an Irish brogue in my head yet.” Meredith grimaced. “Don’t know that I want to, come to think of it.”