Chapter Nineteen

On Friday Nate rose early enough to pack the Greens’ picnic basket, then went back to bed. He didn’t sleep but took advantage of the quiet to plan his day. Luckily, the Greens hadn’t heard the disturbance. When he heard Emily taking a shower he dressed in neat trousers, a green shirt, and comfortable shoes. He’d be on his feet all day.

The sling felt awkward, but he kept it on. This morning the kitchen sparkled in the sunlight. The faint hint of cinnamon and apples made his stomach rumble.

He quickly cooked eggs and bacon. When they joined him, Vicki manned the toaster and Emily buttered the slices as they popped out. Everyone turned to Liz when she walked inside followed by a tired-looking Jack.

“How’s everything?” Vicki asked.

“The kids are asleep. Cleo is doing fine. The bullet passed through the fleshy part of her abdomen and did no serious damage. Despite my volunteering to help, Jack watched her all night. He’ll be taking a nap shortly,” she added with a stern frown.

Jack patted her hand and ate what Nate put in front of him without comment, then left.

With a wide smile, Jared poked his head around the corner. His blue shirt matched his eyes exactly, and his pressed gray trousers gave a formal touch to his attire. A diamond stud gleamed in his ear lobe. “I have a suggestion. Give me a list of what you plan for breakfast and I’ll do a menu like the ones for dinner. With requests for items given ahead of time, you’ll have them ready when they rise.”

“I’ll get right on it,” Nate said.

The hours crawled and hitched toward the arrival of the inn guests. Jared had printed a sign for the front desk, “By Reservation Only,” for anyone who might drop by looking for space. “Makes it formal,” he remarked, and added a cute Red Clover to the bottom of the sign.

At the stroke of three, Liz and Vicki joined Nate at the front and portcullis doors. They directed people where to park and register. Nate couldn’t carry luggage, but he manned the desk while Jared helped. Liz escorted couples to their rooms, explained the amenities and how to use the brass keys. Not everyone arrived early. They straggled in after stopping at the fair or for an early supper. Jared handed out the breakfast menus and took their orders.

“Thank goodness you talked me out of opening both the inn and the restaurant on the same day.” Nate nodded at Liz and leaned on the parlor doorframe rubbing his sore shoulder. “This hubbub was enough for one afternoon.”

“It will get easier. We need to have a routine and be ready for glitches. So far, the worst one is your broken arm,” Liz replied, and gave him a hug. “And that will heal quickly enough.”

****

After grabbing drinks and a sandwich, Emily stayed in the attic. Working with customers wasn’t her job. She’d only be in the way of the people who would be here week after week. Even with the door closed, she heard the guests arriving, climbing the stairs, and settling into their rooms.

Dressed in her jeans and Vermont T-shirt, she was ready to tackle moving furniture. The items too heavy to move she’d leave in place, but the desks, dressers, tables, chairs, and sofas she’d divide along the wall. After opening the skylights, she could hear the concert music from the town green. The temperature rose and a slight breeze lifted dust from the sheets.

The trunks she’d already checked she put closest to the stairs. They all needed to be inspected in more detail even though they weren’t directly connected to Bertha. Next would come the other trunks. She puffed out a breath. Her idea was valid, but the items were totally mixed. There was no easy way to be organized.

Starting at the edge of the pile, she placed things in the designated areas. By noon she had a stack of folded sheets and dozens of furniture items moved. The stack of trunks grew faster than mushrooms in horse manure. She resisted opening any, knowing she’s be distracted.

She wiped sweat from her face and sat down to eat lunch. Barely a third of the things were moved. She leaned her elbows on her knees and studied the various items. What was she doing? This wasn’t her job. Her goal was to find information about Bertha Deerbourne. She should be downstairs with those albums they’d discovered yesterday. The few photos she’d studied had her salivating to know more.

Stubbornness was part of her nature and she’d started this project. Doing what she could in one day would salve her conscience about deceiving Nate. The pile seemed to get more jumbled as the hours passed. Several dozen trunks waited for her attention when she spotted a small leather trunk squeezed in the corner.

Making up her mind, she tugged it toward the stairs. This was the last one. The contents didn’t weigh much and it moved easily. One lock popped open. She hunkered over the lid. So she’d look in one. She was leaving in the morning and this would be her last chance.

The other lock resisted her efforts until she poked it repeatedly. The hinges squeaked a protest at being opened. A musty smell of old wool filled her nostrils when she lifted the lid. She hesitated instead of reaching for the folded uniform jacket on the top. The various metals and rank would have to be checked, but she was sure this was a Marine’s uniform from the Viet Nam War.

Emily shivered. Family stories said her grandfather had been a veteran of that conflict. She swallowed to moisten her throat. This couldn’t be what she had been hunting. Her knees went weak and she awkwardly sat on the dusty floor. Lifting the contents one by one onto her lap, she felt tears wet her cheeks. This was one man’s possessions. And not very many.

Whoever had packed this trunk had cared about the owner. Under the two washed, ironed, and folded shirts was a slim box about eleven inches by twelve. She clutched it to her breasts, afraid to open it.

Her fingers trembled when she pried it open. Her breath caught in her throat.

A small photograph of Bertha snuggling a dark-haired infant in her arms fell out. Her pulse hammered in her veins. Despite her protests, Bertha had returned to the inn. No one else could have left this.

A letter fluttered in her hand. Wiping her eyes, she read:

Dear Matthew,

I know this is crazy but sometimes I think I am not completely sane these days anyway. I know you’re gone. I know you aren’t here but this is the last place you were. Maybe somehow I think you’ll know about this if I leave this here. We have a son, Matthew. A beautiful, healthy baby boy. Obviously, with you gone there was no way I could keep him. I did what was best and I gave him up for adoption. He will have a better life in a loving home with two parents. I’m in no place right now to even try to raise a child alone.

I’m heartbroken, Matthew. You wouldn’t even recognize me. It’s been a rough few months, wondering what happened, looking for you, finally giving up. I may never know if you did what everyone suspects you did, or if something else happened.

What I do know is I can’t handle being here at the inn. I can’t handle the grief and the sadness and the memories. I’m going to bury this chapter in my life the way I’d love to lay you to rest properly if we had only found you. This photo is the only one I have of our son and I’m leaving it here for you. Who knows, maybe someday a hundred years from now, someone will find it and know that we had a wonderful love together that created this beautiful baby.

I know I’m being kind of silly and dramatic, but then you always said I had a flair for drama. I’m trying to remember the good times and put the pain in the past. I hope I can move on with my life.

You were my one true love, Matthew, and I know in my heart I will never love like that again. Goodbye, my darling. I will treasure the times we had in my heart forever.

Yours always,

Bertha

Emily wiped her damp eyes. There was a ribbon-tied stack of letters and a lock of dark hair. Another stack of letters was tied with a red ribbon; the return address revealed they were letters to Bertha from Matthew. She wiped at her cheeks. Alone, broken-hearted, grief-stricken, she had sat here in the attic and carefully packed away the love of her life and the evidence of what that love had created.

Gratitude that the young Bertha had buried this chapter of her life in the attic of the inn and not in the ground wrapped around her.

She carefully returned everything to the box. After debating for a time, she closed the lid and pressed the locks. The trunk went into the pile with the others, but she put the box with her folders.

Maybe she was being dishonest with Nate, but her father had the right to see this photo first. He’d asked her to find the truth and she had.

It looked like Bertha Deerbourne was her grandmother.