52

Claire

THAT NIGHT I LAY in the dark bedroom, Charlotte’s words swirling in my head until the very air seemed to thrum with them. That, and the lingering presence of people who had lived—and died—in this house. In this room. If I held my breath, I could almost hear their voices, echoes of who they were stretching across time to reach deep inside to corners of my heart long cordoned off, places only God and I frequented.

So many questions had been answered in six days of transcribing with Bernice, the process arduous and frustratingly slow. Yet so many questions remained. Like the one she and I had not even voiced aloud, but acknowledged only with a wordless, tearful glance hours earlier: Could she be a descendant of Charlotte Thursmann? Even that possibility kicked my imagination into overdrive. How could someone confirm something like that? Bernice had spent years trying to uncover information about her great-great-great-grandfather, with little success.

Yet I couldn’t stop thinking about the possibility. As Nettie had said, “Sometimes the truth just won’t stay hidden.” I plumped my pillow and turned toward the window, the dark night sky absent even a pinprick of light.

Transcribing those painfully tender pages in which Charlotte described giving her daughter to Nettie left both of us in puddles. We’d finished the last legible page shortly after midnight, falling exhausted into our respective beds—hers in the guest room where she had spent the night for the past six days. She’d arrive after work, and we’d painstakingly decipher Charlotte’s handwriting—and Nettie’s, too, as she’d penned what we assumed were Charlotte’s last words—until the wee hours, like stringing pearls on threads of gossamer.

Charlotte had a way of phrasing that quickly found a home inside me. But one sentence on the last page stood out: “‘I wish I had lived more of my life from where I am right now, looking back from the threshold of eternity,’” I whispered in the darkness.

I had to remind myself that Charlotte had been roughly thirty years old when she penned the journal, sixteen years younger than me. Her very youthfulness deepened my melancholy and made me grieve, pure and simple. Over a woman who had been gone more than 150 years. Over a baby who had never known her mother and who, apparently, never read the journal her mother had left for her. And what had become of Nettie and Jeremiah and their plan to escape with baby Charlotte?

I never could have made sense of the final pages without Bernice. The woman was flat genius, and her passion was contagious.

My phone read 4:36. I donned a light hoodie over my sleep shirt and shorts, and a sound from the backyard drew me to the window. In the dim glow of the landscape lighting, I spotted a plump raccoon rooting around. Directly below the window lay the partially removed gardenia hedge, and I pictured Jeremiah there.

Alex had located the bricked-up opening to the passage but hadn’t yet made a way through to the space beneath. Nettie had said they would seal the opening so the room would be safe. Mission accomplished.

I padded across the landing to what was supposed to be Maggie’s bedroom. I doubted now that she would even see the house before we sold it. She’d texted me a couple of one-liners in the past week, so that was progress at least. Still, we had a long way to go. All three of us.

The door to the second guest room stood slightly open.

“I’m up,” Bernice whispered groggily. “But I need a cup of vim and vigor before I can converse.”

She walked from the bedroom yawning, panda jammies peeking from beneath her robe, and Charlotte’s journal in hand. She didn’t have to explain. Keeping the journal near somehow kept Charlotte and Nettie closer. I silently vowed not to press her on the question that haunted me, tempting as it was.

Near the bottom of the staircase, I noticed the gouge in the baseboard, as I often did, and then the front of the parlor where we figured Achan Crowley had died. So many memories in this house. Few my own, yet no less real to me.

In the kitchen, we settled at the table over steaming mugs and checked email and read the news, slowly waking up to the world.

“Thank you for giving me space on this, Claire.” Bernice peered at me over the rim of her cup. “It’s a lot to take in. After we learned that Nettie couldn’t have children, well . . .” She shrugged. “I figured that either the idea of my ancestor’s being connected to this house had been inaccurate, or Nettie ended up being able to have children after all. I emailed several trusted connections and asked them to check their slave records for a Jeremiah or Nettie Thursmann. And, of course, for Charlotte Thursmann.”

Since she’d raised the issue, I had to ask. “If you do find out you’re related to Charlotte, will you be pleased, or . . . ?”

She fingered the handle of her cup. “I lay awake last night pondering that very thing. I’ve grown extremely fond of Charlotte, as you know. But if I’m related to her, that would mean Achan Crowley was my—”

My chest constricted. “Oh, Bernice! I hadn’t even thought of that. I was so taken with your possibly being related to Charlotte that . . .” I winced. “I’m sorry.”

“No harm done, I promise. But in light of that, I’m trying not to allow myself to go there until I have all the facts. If the facts are even to be found.”

I nodded.

“But I will tell you one thing,” she continued. “This house definitely has a presence.”

“Yes, it does.”

“When I couldn’t sleep last night, Claire, I looked through all that clothing again. As I live and breathe, I could all but see the people who lived here. I could feel them.”

“I know,” I said, recalling similar moments. “It’s really something, what we’ve been allowed to experience.”

“I gave those quilt tops a good study too. Talk about works of art. Beautiful. If it’s all right with you, I’d like to ask the photographer I mentioned—the one coming to photograph the journal—if he’ll take pictures of everything, including the clothing. So many people are going to want to see this.”

“Absolutely. I love that idea. The photographer for the press release wasn’t nearly so detailed.” My phone vibrated, and the text message set me on edge.

“Uh-oh.” Bernice raised a brow. “I hope it’s not bad news.”

“It’s one of the interior design firms. I’m ignoring it.”

Her jaw dropped. “This early? It’s not even six yet. They’re being persistent. Is it one of the three offers you’re considering?”

“Yes. And this one just slipped down a notch.”

She raised her empty cup in salute. “Must be tough being wanted.”

I tossed her a bland look, and she just laughed. It was nice having her around, enjoying routine with someone. Being comfortably alone together, talking when we wanted while not having to. That would end today, our task complete. But the thought made me miss living with someone.

Light from the chandelier overhead accentuated the grain in the mahogany table, and I traced a line with my forefinger, marveling at how much could change in so short a time.

“Krispy Kreme for your thoughts?” She held out the box of glazed doughnuts she’d brought last night. “Better than a penny.”

“Thanks, but I’m sugared out. I was just thinking of how quickly life can change. Just days ago, I couldn’t even get an interview with one of the firms seeking to hire me now.”

“And now you’re interviewing them!”

“Don’t get me wrong, Bernice—I’m grateful. And excited. But through the lens of Charlotte’s and Nettie’s lives, my problems, while certainly not frivolous, almost seem like minor inconveniences compared to their struggles.”

She nodded. “I’ve thought the very same about my life. Why them and not me?”

“And what gets me most is that their gratitude and contentedness, their faith in God, seem to surpass mine as well.”

“Oh, girl . . . now you’re diving off into the deep end of theology. I trust God, Claire, yet I still struggle with why he allows so much suffering. I have to remind myself that even though Jesus was God’s Son, he learned obedience through what he suffered.”

I eyed her. “That’s from the Bible, I take it.”

“Hebrews chapter five, verse eight. One of my dear Asa’s favorite verses. He wrote it on a sticky note and stuck it to the bathroom mirror.” Her eyes glistened. “It’s still there.”

I smiled, appreciating her sharing the verse, though I didn’t find much comfort in it. We whipped up a quick breakfast, and as we sat eating, I mentioned that Alex and his crew would arrive in a little while.

“Heard from Stephen lately?” she asked.

“Not for a few days. He got back from LA, then Bill sent him to New York.”

She shuddered. “What a schedule.”

“Oh no, Stephen eats it up. He enjoys working a room, being in the spotlight. He’s good at it too. He’s in his element when he’s pitching to a client, and he’s never met a challenge he didn’t love.”

She said nothing for a moment, then set down her fork. “This has been such a joy for me, Claire. The hidden room, the journal, the artifacts. And the time with you.”

“We do make a good team.”

“You wouldn’t want a job in historical archives, would you? We have an opening.”

I laughed. “I’d better stick with what I know.”

“You are a gifted decorator. I like your style. It’s clean and crisp. Welcoming, too.”

“Thank you. That means a lot coming from you.” My phone vibrated again. Another text. “Stephen says he’s stopping by.”

“Now?”

I nodded. “Says he’s about five minutes away.”

She pulled her robe together at the top as if something were showing that shouldn’t. “Should I run up and change?”

“No, you’re fine.” I held back a smile. “It’s only your pandas that are showing, and he’s seen pandas before.”

“Not like these, he hasn’t!”

We giggled until a knock sounded at the back door and Alex waved at us. I quickly zipped up my hoodie, then stood and tugged my sleep shorts down.

“I don’t think they go much lower than that, Claire,” Bernice whispered. “At least not without creating other problems.”

I shushed her with a look.

“I’m kidding,” she said. “You’re fine. Women show more thigh than that just walking down the street.”

“Women who wear pandas maybe!” I shot back as I unlocked the door. “Morning, Alex. You’re getting an early start.”

“Yes, ma’am. I got Jimmy and a couple of the others with me. We’ll be doing some final touch-up work on the master bathroom cabinets before installing them.” He glanced past me. “Hey, when are you two going to tell me what you’re working on? Has to be something about the house.”

“We’ll tell you soon, I promise,” I said, hearing Stephen at the front door.

“C’mon, give a guy a break. Whatever it is, it’s keeping you both preoccupied. Right, Bernice?”

“I know nothing,” she called from behind me.

“You two,” Alex said, smiling. “Quite the pair.”

“I really have to go. I—”

“Claire?” Bernice said.

I turned to find Stephen watching from the doorway, a gift box in his hand.