42

I TROMPED THROUGH THE BRUSH AND WEEDS, looking for signs of a footpath, but the tangle of underbrush had won that battle years ago. Had previous owners taken no interest in this acreage? Although up until today, had I?

I wiped the perspiration from my brow and studied the intermingled stands of oak, pine, birch, cedar, maple, dogwood, and ash—as well as other unknown varieties—and felt I was searching for the proverbial needle in a twenty-plus-acre haystack.

Would the graves still have markers after all this time? If they’d ever been marked to begin with? “Massive oak canopy,” I whispered, wishing the trees could talk.

A basic knowledge of landscaping architecture had proved helpful in my career, particularly when estimating the amount of natural light a room would receive or selecting the correct shade of paint or the placement of windows. I knew certain oaks could live more than 150 years. Some 300. But beneath what kind of oak had Charlotte buried her husband and children?

A fallen pine blocked my path, and instead of fighting my way around, I forged straight over—and came away with sap on my jeans and gloves. What was I doing out here? Only wasting time and energy? Yet the sun did feel good on my face, and being in nature had always been healing for me.

Most importantly, I wasn’t navel-gazing.

I continued on, peering through the trees, when I detected an opening to my right. I pushed through low-hanging limbs and thick ground cover. Soon, a clearing awash in waist-high field grass spread out before me. Birds flitted here and there, and butterflies fluttered from one wildflower to the next. I paused to take it in, reminded of hiking fourteeners with Stephen through the years. We’d climbed most of Colorado’s peaks of fourteen thousand feet or more, only to come across pockets of tranquility similar to this. While this trek didn’t begin to compare with scaling a fourteener, all this stooping, ducking, and climbing was no joke either. Or maybe I was just feeling my age.

The field appeared almost too perfect a circle to have occurred naturally, and I started the trek across to see if I could discover—

I went down. Hard. Pain exploded up my right shin as I lay face down in the grass, fighting to catch my breath.

My phone vibrated in my pocket. I slowly rolled over, the pain my sole focus. Even through my jeans, I felt a lump already forming. Wincing, I slowly extended my knee, rotated my ankle. Nothing broken. Frustrated, I took deep breaths and waited as the ache gradually lessened.

My phone rang again. Bernice’s picture filled the screen. “I’m so glad you can’t see me right now,” I said.

“And just why is that, Ms. Colorado? You doing something you oughtn’t, as my Mamie Polk used to say?”

“Not hardly.” I recounted what I was up to and what had happened.

“What put you in a mind to go rambling back through there today?”

I hesitated. I hadn’t yet told her about finding the room. She’d been kind enough to share all she knew about the house, and I didn’t want her learning about the discovery in a press release. But that conversation needed to be in person. Yet I could still answer truthfully. “I was curious where the Thursmanns are buried.”

“Jonathan and Charlotte?” she asked, skepticism in her voice.

“And their children.”

“You think they’re buried on the property? Nothing in the files indicates that. Besides, Jonathan and Charlotte never had children, according to the records I’ve seen.”

I’d walked straight into that one. I couldn’t just blurt out that I knew about the children because I had Charlotte Thursmann’s journal, especially when I hadn’t even told Bernice about the room. “My mistake. Sorry. I guess I just figured that’s what people did back then.”

“Well, people back then usually did have multiple children in the hope that some would reach adulthood. And many did bury their dead on their own estates. But back then, citizens of the Thursmanns’ social class were buried at Oakland Cemetery. We have record of Jonathan dying in 1858, but no cause of death and no place of burial. And no record of Charlotte’s death at all. Believe me, I’ve researched both of them for years.”

Handwriting on the wall could not have made my decision clearer. “Bernice, are you free for lunch today?”

“Uh-oh.” She laughed. “Am I in trouble?”

“Not at all. But I do need to talk with you.”

“I’m free. In fact, I was calling to ask if you’d drop by here sometime soon. How does eleven o’clock at the Swan Coach House sound? It’s right by the history center, and I’m craving their chicken pot pie.”

“How about twelve? I’m pretty sure I have pine sap in my hair.”

Her laughter was infectious. “I hope you have a killer story for how it got there.”

“I don’t know about a killer story, but I may well be limping when you see me.”

She laughed.

I cautiously tested my weight on my sore leg, then searched the tall grass. I’d tripped over a long, flat rock that lay side by side with another. And another. I followed the line of stone, again not there by nature’s design. It looked like the outline of a small outbuilding or shed. Or maybe a slave cabin, viewing it through the lens of time. I hobbled around the field, finding similar stones arranged in like manner. Yet something else to discuss with Bernice.

Back at the house, I half expected to see Alex cutting shrubbery, searching for the passage. But no sign of him. He hadn’t said he would definitely come back today. Only this weekend. Recalling Stephen’s behavior last night and his clear insinuation, I dreaded facing Alex again. Especially when he and I had done nothing wrong.

I savored every bite of the Swan Coach House’s famous chicken salad, timbales, and frozen fruit salad, relishing the tastes. And the company. “This is divine!”

“I know. Their chicken salad is one of my favorites.” Bernice scooped up a bite of chicken pot pie. “So is this savory little dish of flaky baked goodness.”

I spooned strawberry jam onto my second warm buttermilk biscuit, only to find Bernice watching me.

“Somebody’s hungry.”

I smiled. “My less-than-graceful trek through the woods worked up an appetite.”

“I’m surprised you didn’t break your leg. Traipsing out there all by yourself and tripping over that rock.”

“So, what do you make of what I found? Slave cabins?”

“Could be. Or a blacksmith, or a springhouse. Even an icehouse, given how wealthy they were. I’d love to take a look sometime soon.”

I had yet to broach why I asked her to lunch, and I could hardly wait to get her reaction to the secret room and to Charlotte’s journal. But I was also enjoying getting to know her better. She wore no wedding ring. Divorced maybe? Widowed? She hadn’t said.

“So tell me.” She aimed her fork in my direction. “You mentioned wanting to find a job. Any open doors?”

“Not yet. I may have some leads soon, but first, finish the story about your little granddaughter. What happened after she jumped out of the tub?”

Bernice plunked down her fork. “She took off running out of the house and down the street. Not a stitch on. When I finally grabbed her, that little toot says, ‘But, Nana, God made me this way. Necked I came from my mama’s womb, and necked I will leave this world!’”

I laughed. “Where on earth does a four-year-old get such a thought?”

“Oh, she’s all the time quoting Scripture, only not quite in the way the Holy Spirit intended, I’m sure. My son Douglas and his wife, Isabella, are ministers at our church, so Sophia gets it coming and going—at church and at home!”

“I have a feeling she gets it from her Nana, too.”

Bernice smiled. “I do love eating the Word of God.”

“There you go again, speaking in ways I’ve never heard before.”

Her brow furrowed.

“Lord of Heaven’s Armies? And now eating the Word of God? Granted, I’m not the most regular churchgoer or Bible reader.” I blinked back unexpected emotion. “But I do like the way you talk about God, even if I don’t understand it like I wish I did.”

“Well, it’s not me. It’s all him. It’s in his Word, there for the taking. He says, ‘Open your mouth wide, and I will fill it.’ That’s Psalm 81 something.” She winked. “I’m doing good to remember the book and chapter these days. My son illuminated my heart to that verse sometime back. He says we don’t have to go digging like paupers into God’s Word. If we live postured to hear and to accept, God himself will feed us. I love that.”

“I do too.” Her humility and transparency drew me like a moth to flame. “Where do your son and daughter-in-law preach?”

“Hope Church in Buckhead. If you and your husband haven’t found a place yet, you should come with me sometime.”

I hesitated, touched by her openness and kind invitation. “Yes,” I finally managed, focusing on my plate. “Maybe we will.”

I debated whether to tell her about Stephen and me. What if it ruined our budding friendship? My Colorado pastor often stated that divorce was not the unforgivable sin—that divorced believers need not walk around feeling as though they had a D tattooed on their foreheads. But I wasn’t sure the average parishioner shared that belief. I’d heard whispers of shame attached to divorce. And my own shame ran deep.

Bernice didn’t strike me as the kind of person who would hold that against me. Far from it. She seemed a woman of integrity. Talking with Paige on the phone every few days was great, but that didn’t take the place of a face-to-face friend.

“Claire, you all right?”

“No,” I finally said, looking up. “I’m not. Stephen and I are—” For a moment, the words wouldn’t come. “We’re getting a divorce.”

“Oh, Claire, I’m so sorry.”

“So am I. But I just can’t trust him anymore. Not after what he did.” I briefly filled her in. “He said it was just a friendship at first, until—well, until it wasn’t.”

She shook her head, her own eyes watering. “I know how painful that can be. And again, I’m so sorry for your loss. Because it is a loss when trust is shattered like that in a marriage.”

I sensed she understood on a deeper level. “I take it you’re divorced as well?”

She briefly looked away. But she didn’t have to say anything. Heartache was clearly written on her face.

“I’m sorry for you, too,” I whispered. “Stephen lied to me so many times. Over and over. Said he didn’t have feelings for her when he did. Said she meant nothing to him even as—” I stopped myself, sick of reliving it all and not wanting to dredge up painful memories for her. “You know, I’m no theologian, but if adultery isn’t the unforgivable sin, it should be!”

She flinched, and only then did I hear my own bitterness and how judgmental I sounded.

“Bernice, I’m so sorry. That was uncalled for—and wrong. I apologize. I’m dealing with a lot of anger, as you can tell.” My laughter came out flat. “But I’ll get there. I just need to push through this. But I am sorry your husband did this to you too. I’m sorry for your loss.”

Misty-eyed, she stared across the table, her gaze unwavering. “Thank you, my dear new friend. But my husband wasn’t to blame for the adultery in our marriage. I was.”