The Memory House

“We can work something out. I’m flexible.” Eli tried to keep his voice calm as if he wasn’t desperate, but his chest was tight with hope. He’d not hoped for anything in so long he hurt with the wanting. “Hire me on a temporary basis. For the summer. If things work out, we can continue. If not…” He shrugged. He’d make this work. He had to.

Julia stared in the direction of the weary old building. He could see the wheels turning and hoped they were turning in his favor. “I’d sure love to get the carriage house remodeled. It’s a distraction from the rest of the grounds.”

“The added revenue from renting out the carriage house will offset the cost of remodeling and pay my salary.”

Her focus returned to him. “In the long run.”

“That’s the way business works. Spend some to make more.” He knew about business. Once he’d even had dreams, fueled by his father, and he’d shattered them as he’d shattered everything in his path.

“A healthier orchard will produce more fruit,” Valery said. “And more fruit means more sales at harvest.”

Julia pressed her lips together and looked off into the distance, thinking. Absently, she stroked slender fingers up and down the moist tea glass. The action sent shivers through Eli. He imagined those fingers touching him.

He jerked his gaze away and stood. “Maybe this isn’t such a great idea.”

“No, wait.” Julia turned her attention back to him. “I’ll have to look at the books and play with the numbers, but I think you may be on to something.”

“I am,” he said with more confidence than he felt.

“Are you honest?”

“Yes.”

Valery laughed. “What did you think he’d say, Julia? Admit he’s a burglar on a cross-country crime spree?”

Eli remained rigid as rock, unblinking. Julia held him by the eyes, studying him as if she could see inside. He wanted to squirm and look away but understood this was his chance. Maybe the only one he’d have.

“You can trust me.”

“Drugs? Alcohol?”

The dark days circled in like buzzards. “Neither.”

“I won’t allow wild parties or drunks or drugs or anything that could harm this inn’s reputation. Screw up and you’re history.”

“You have my word.” It’s all he had.

“Do you have anything planned this afternoon?”

Oh, sure. An appointment for tea with the queen. “No, ma’am.”

“Good. Stick around and we’ll talk this out, walk through the carriage house, discuss the particulars and see if you still think this is something you want to tackle.”

He didn’t tell her he was down to few choices. He’d take what he could get at this point. Even though the thought scared him more than a shank in the shower, he was staying in Honey Ridge near his son. “And if it is?”

“Then you’re hired.”

10 (#ulink_3459f2bd-1db1-5fda-a504-376928c32789)

Peach Orchard Farm

1864

Will paced the foyer at the bottom of the stairs next to the outer doorway, ready to be about the day’s work. At the first sound of voices, he stopped to look up the staircase. Charlotte Portland, tidy and serene, came down the curving steps, brown boots tapping softly against the hard wood with two boys following along like puppies. She was lovely, kind and wise, and seeing her each morning had become a highlight of his long, often discouraging day.

Young Benjamin’s excited voice carried to his ears. “Captain Will makes marbles back in Ohio, Mama. And he’s the only son like me. And he has two sisters and a best friend named Gilbert who works in the factory. And Captain Will—”

“Benjamin, hush.” Mrs. Portland’s words were soft admonishment.

A smile stirred in Will’s middle. He’d taken a shine to the youngsters. Benjamin, fair like his mother, and Tandy, the light-skinned slave with the persistent grin and keen mind reminded him of his oldest sister’s boys, not in looks but in manner. They amused him, took his mind away from the worries of war and reminded him that there was some kind of normalcy still to be found in this state of divided loyalties called Tennessee. He prayed neither boy should ever see any more of the war than he’d brought with him. That was horror enough.

His chest tightened when the mistress of the house turned her gentle eyes on him. In the days of watching her in the sick rooms and observing her quiet, efficient running of the household, he’d come to admire her. She was a fine woman. A disturbing hum of pleasure tingled the back of his neck.

Will straightened his shoulders to attention, and the sword bumped his thigh in a reminder of who he was and why he’d come to Charlotte Portland’s farm.

She was another man’s wife. A Confederate sympathizer. He’d do well to remember both.

“Captain Will, Captain Will!” Benjamin thundered ahead of his mother down the stairs. The young slave boy was not far behind. They came to a breathless, grinning halt in front of him. Ben executed a clumsy, endearing salute. “Sir, your message has been delivered!”

“Well done, boys. Well done.” Will returned the salute but his attention drifted to the woman gliding toward him, neither breathless nor grinning.

“Captain,” she said simply, coming to stand before him, those small, usually busy hands resting serenely at her waist. “Good morning.”

He doffed his cap and held it in his hands, though his shoulders remained tight. “Ma’am, I’m sorry to trouble you again. If your husband was in residence I would take up my concerns with him.”

Indeed, Edgar Portland had shown his bloated, furious face but twice since the company’s arrival. Once to express his indignation at the outrage of being invaded before storming away on his horse, and the other to chastise his wife for aiding the enemy. A man who didn’t defend his women held no esteem in Will’s opinion.

“My apologies.” Charlotte’s mouth tightened and those tender hands began to work the cloth of her skirt. “Boys, please ask Lizzy to bring coffee for the captain while the pair of you remain in the kitchen for breakfast.”

“Aw, Mama, I want to talk to Captain Will.”

Will touched the boy’s shoulder. “A soldier obeys orders, son.” He winked. “I think I smell ham.”

Tandy cut a glance toward the kitchen. “I sure am hungry, Ben.”

“Me, too.”

As the pair galloped into the kitchen like young ponies released to new pasture, Lizzy appeared in the opening of the double doors. “I’ll bring the coffee, Miss Charlotte, and look after the boys. You’ll be wanting breakfast, too. There’s ham and biscuits.”

“Have the patients been fed?”

Mrs. Portland’s question deepened the affection he felt and didn’t want. For indeed, patients lined her parlor and dining room on rows of pallets, makeshift beds of little more than a blanket or quilt or a bundle of rags. All of them provided by Charlotte Portland.

“No, Miss Charlotte. Cook is working on that now.”

“I’ll eat later.”

Lizzy’s proud chin jutted stubbornly and doe eyes glittered with fierce affection. “You can’t go working all day again without food.”