The Memory House

“I don’t have any more guests on the log for today.” But she crossed to the window anyway. “Oh.”

“What do you mean, oh? Do you know him? He is gor-ge-ous. And a little wild looking. Yummy.”

“He had car trouble this morning up on the road. Mr. Oliver gave him a jump.”

“I’ll give him a jump.” Valery pumped her eyebrows.

Julia snorted and swatted her sister’s arm. “I thought you and Jed were back together.”

“We are. I’m kidding, but I ain’t dead like some women I know.”

Julia ignored the pointed comment. “I’m going down to see what he wants.”

“You’re not leaving me behind. I might be taken, but I like to look. And you could use a man in your life.” She poked a finger at Julia’s chest. “Maybe he fell madly in love the moment he laid eyes on you. Maybe that’s why he’s back.”

Julia hit her sister with the pile of dirty linen. “Hush.”

Valery laughed, stopped at the mirror for a quick fluff and then followed Julia down the stairs.

Eli Donovan stood at the back entrance, holding a mug imprinted with the logo of Peach Orchard Inn.

“Ma’am,” he said when Julia opened the screen.

Valery swept to her side. “She’s Julia Presley. I’m Valery Griffin, her sister. And you are?”

Eli looked as if he wasn’t quite sure what to make of the vibrant, gregarious brunette who talked a little too fast. “Eli. I brought back your mug.”

Julia took the cup from him. “Thank you.”

“The coffee was good.”

“Would you like more?” Valery pounced on him like a cat on a grasshopper. She pushed the door wider. “Come on in. Coffee is always fresh and available for our guests’ pleasure.”

Oh, great. Julia fought not to roll her eyes and groan.

Eli glanced her way, and she could have sworn she saw amusement in his leaf-green gaze. Seeing the humor, too, she smiled. “Might as well come in, Eli. My sister is a steamroller. She seldom takes no for an answer.”

* * *

Eli followed the two sisters through the immaculate copper-and-cream kitchen into a breakfast room with cranberry-red walls, white trim and a wall of sparkling windows. Six square tables were set with white linen and napkins in the same deep red as the walls. He noticed the scent again, as he had this morning. Subtle. A waft of fresh bread and clean air. A far cry from the rancid human odors of his past seven years.

He felt out of place, miserably so, but he was here and he was going to do this no matter the result. A man looking to start over had to start somewhere.

“Pretty,” he said, surprising himself.

The woman named Valery beamed. She was a looker, long, wavy dark hair and lots of curves, with a vivacious personality that promised a good time. But it was the quieter Julia who drew his interest. Dressed in casual beige slacks and white buttoned blouse, she had a calming way about her. Like this house. Serene. That was the word. He hadn’t used serene in a long time.

“I thought I’d lost this cup forever,” she said.

“I almost forgot about it.”

“Have you had breakfast? I know it’s closer to noon, but brunch perhaps? There’s still some casserole left.”

“I’m okay.” He wondered if she always tried to feed people or if he simply looked pathetic.

“You’ll have something, Eli,” Valery said. “Julia is a fabulous cook. Maybe her muffins or some peach tea?”

“I heard about that tea.”

“Really? Where?”

“A police officer in town.”

Julia’s blue eyes rounded. “Don’t tell me you got a ticket?”

“No, nothing like that.” Man, she was pretty, her voice as smooth and Southern as a praline sundae. Classy and cool. Like his mother’s. A dull ache tugged behind his breastbone. He averted his gaze, found the view outside the windows.

“Was it Trey Riley?” Valery asked, coming in from the kitchen with a plate of food that made his mouth water. “He’s the cutest thing.”

“That was his name. Nice guy.”

“Sweet as pie. Here you go. Julia’s ham-and-egg strata. Julia, get him some peach tea.” She winked. “If you hate it, I’ll make fresh coffee.”

“Nobody hates my peach tea,” Julia called from inside the giant stainless-steel refrigerator.

Feeling like the beggar he was but hungry enough not to care, Eli dredged up the dry bones of his mother’s manners. “Would you care to join me?”

“Sure.” Valery plopped down across from him and propped her chin on her hand. “Julia, bring me some tea, too, and maybe a muffin.”

“Are your legs broken?”

Eli smiled at his fork. Valery laughed but flounced up to serve herself. “Sassy wench.”

In seconds, both women were back. Valery had joined him at the table while Julia stood a little apart next to the gleaming windows sipping a glass of peach tea. He wished she’d sit down, too, but instantly retracted the wish. She had no business sitting anywhere near him.

Eli sipped at his drink. Cold, sweet and fruity. Three peach slices floated with the ice cubes. “Terrific. Thank you. The casserole is good, too.”

He’d said thank-you more times today than he had in years. He was pretty sure he’d wake up in a minute back in his cell.

“I assume you got your car running again.”

“Thanks to Mr. Oliver.” He reached into his shirt pocket. “Is he around? He left this wrench.”

“He and his wife went into town for a while, but I can give him the tool when he returns.”

Eli handed it over. He wasn’t a thief and didn’t want anyone thinking he was. Didn’t need the grief and he sure wasn’t going back to prison. Especially now when his boy needed a dad. “Tell him I won’t forget his kindness.”

“I’ll do that.”

“Yours, either.”

She only smiled, but the soft look was encouragement enough to give him an opening. He’d rehearsed his speech, his arguments and ideas all the way from the park. He’d even stopped at the In and Out Quick Stop to splash water on his face and comb his hair, a shaggy bunch of waves that needed a barber’s hand. He knew how he looked, like a homeless street bum, a description, no matter how shaming, that wasn’t far from the truth. His idea of home was his Dodge and, when money allowed, a room in a rent-by-the-week roach motel. Haircuts and soft beds would have to wait.

What was he doing here? What made him think he could do this? He was broke and homeless. Just because a little boy had his DNA didn’t make him a father.

The familiar, dreaded knot formed in the pit of his stomach.

Loser. Convict. Get up and get out of here. You’ll never make this work.

His hand trembled on the fork. He put it down and reached for the red napkin. The delicious ham and egg felt leaden in his belly. He took another sip of peach tea, swallowed to chase away the negative voices.

This wasn’t about him. He knew what he was, but his son didn’t.

A boy needed a father. Eli should know. Losing his parents’ love and support had been a chain saw through his soul that had left him with a gaping emptiness he couldn’t fill.

For the sake of a child he didn’t even know, he had to ask. If Julia rejected his idea, which he fully expected, he’d try the pizza place. And if there was an application, he’d lie. They didn’t run background checks, did they?

Nobody in Honey Ridge knew him. He could start fresh, his secret tucked away inside, and build a life his son could respect. He should have used a false name, but it was too late for that now. He’d have to hope no one noticed him enough to check into his past.

He folded the napkin and laid the starched cloth next to his empty plate. The Donovan table always had ironed napkins. “Your peach orchard needs maintenance.”

The sentence had come out wrong, blurted and abrupt. He clenched his back teeth. Polite conversation was barely a memory.

Julia tilted her head as if she wasn’t quite sure what he was getting at. Caught in the sunlight, a stray blond tendril spun gold along the curve of her jaw.

“We’ll get to it eventually.”

“I can do it.” He rushed on before she could reject the idea, stunned by the vehemence with which he desired her approval. “Officer Riley thought you might be ready to start work on that old carriage house.”

She glanced toward the tired old building set half a hundred yards beyond the house. “I’d love to, but money is an issue.”

“I understand.” He focused on his plate, afraid he’d see rejection in her eyes, afraid he’d give away his desperation. A remodel like this could take months, maybe longer, and time was money in his pocket. “What if I made you a good deal?”

“What kind of deal?”

He flicked a glance at her. She gazed at him with more interest than he had right to hope for.

“I need work. I could help with the orchard and other odd jobs around the place. I have experience in construction.” Thanks to the prison system, which he was very careful not to mention. “In exchange for room, board and a small salary, I could do those things and repair the carriage house, as well. Whatever you need done.”

Julia brought her tea to the table and sat down. His heart beat a little faster, but he kept his expression bland.

“I don’t know. Material costs alone—”

Valery pointed a muffin at her sister. “We won’t get another offer like that, Julia. A construction company costs out the wazoo. Even Sam Baker charges more than we can afford right now, and he’s the cheapest around.”

“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

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.”

Will’s head snapped toward Charlotte. She’d not eaten yesterday?

Charlotte brushed a hand along the hair above her ear, a smooth strip of blond pulled tightly into a bun. A loosely knit blue chignon covered the knot but couldn’t hide the golden shine.

Will felt awkward to notice such a thing as a woman’s hair. With Charlotte he was noticing too much.

“Don’t worry about me, Lizzy,” she said. “I am hale.”

The maid didn’t argue but simply stood in the doorway, her black gaze fixed on Mrs. Portland. Charlotte took no umbrage at the impudence, and Will wondered at the relaxed relationship between slave and mistress.

“Mrs. Portland.” Will touched Charlotte’s elbow, surprised at himself for taking the liberty. “She’s right. You need your strength.”

The slave’s sharp gaze cut to him and settled there in speculation. Like a man burned, he drew away. “If you please, ma’am, could we have a word in your husband’s study?”

Lizzy gave him one long, final stare before fading back into the kitchen.

Once inside the small study, Will rotated his hat in his hands as he waited for Mrs. Portland to be seated at her husband’s writing desk, and then he took the black haircloth chair next to her. She was close enough that her lemony scent drifted to him, a disturbingly pleasant variance from the campfire smoke and coppery blood that clung to this stately home.

Without preamble and in defense against her appeal, he said, “Private Stiffler discovered a rebel hiding in your orchard last night.”

She blanched, pressing back against the mahogany desk chair, a hand to her throat. “In the peach orchard?”

Had she known? Was she harboring and aiding the enemy outside while inside the house his men bled and suffered?

Will watched her shocked reaction, studied the clear-as-June blue eyes. Either she’d missed her calling onstage or she hadn’t known. The relief he felt disturbed him as much as the persistent attraction.

“Yes, ma’am. Stealing the last of the peaches. Are you aware of other rebels nearby?”

“Until you came, the only soldiers we’ve seen were new recruits marching off to war from Honey Ridge.”

“When was this?”

“Last fall.”

Did he believe her? His first inclination was yes, but he had not become a captain because he was foolish or made rash decisions. He’d invaded her home, taken her belongings and would take more before he and his band of injured moved on. Mrs. Portland had been nothing if not cooperative and caring, but she could not want him or his army on her farm.

He was drawn to this woman who worked tirelessly with an uncommon compassion. In another place and another time…Will stopped the rabbit trail of thoughts.

He had a duty and he would do it. But because of women such as Charlotte Portland, he would not become as base as some, looting and robbing and taking spoils of battle like savages.

He prayed he’d never have to.

“What will become of him?” she asked. “The man you found.”

“He’s our prisoner. When we move out, we’ll take him along.”

“Won’t he slow you down?”

“No.” Prisoners were not allowed to slow the progress of fighting men. But he did not share that bit of bad news with Charlotte. “We suspect he’s a deserter.”

“You could let him go.” Her lips formed a thin, worried line. His gaze was drawn there.

“Impossible.”

“Why?” She fiddled with an inkwell situated on the open desk, a reddish-walnut affair bare of papers.

“There is a war going on, Mrs. Portland. I have men to protect.”

“Is he so dangerous, then?”

Will huffed a short, unhappy laugh. “The only danger he presents is the amount of fleas and lice covering his body. He’s so scrawny his bones rattle.”

“The poor soul is starving. You could leave him here.”

He wished he could. Just as he wished he could send all his men home. But because he could do neither, he didn’t respond.

Lizzy, in her snowy apron and head wrap, brought the coffee. Once again her sharp glance slid between him and Charlotte. She was watchful, protective of her mistress, and he would not be at all surprised if she stood guard outside the door.

“Your maid doesn’t trust me,” he said, after Lizzy left the room.

“Should she?”

The question bothered him. He wanted to be trusted but, indeed, with the enemy, he could not make that promise. “Have you owned her long?”

Something fierce and dark flashed in Charlotte’s expression. “My husband owns slaves. I do not. Nor would I if the choice was mine to make.”

Her passion gave him pause. He set the coffee on a side table. “You are loyal to the Union?”

“I am loyal to my home and family. Your war bewilders me.”

“As it does all of us, Mrs. Portland. There are times when I—” He stopped, aware he revealed too much.

“Times when you what, Captain? Wished you’d never joined such a ruthless cause? I’m sure those young men lying in our cemetery would wish the same if they could.”

He blanched. Yes, she’d pinched a sore spot, for he was haunted by the loss of men, some of them hardly more than boys, who’d marched to war filled with fiery idealism only to face the harsh realities of butchery and death.

“I regret every lost man, whether Union or Confederate.”

His revelation, one he’d scarce let himself think much less say, softened her. “I’m afraid I do not understand the politics of war, or the propensity of men to purchase human flesh. Both are obscene to me.”

“Would you prefer the Union remained separated?”

“I would prefer, as scripture dictates, to live in peace with all creatures whenever possible.” She grimaced and a flush colored her cheeks the shade of fresh peach skin. “Forgive me, please. Sometimes I forget myself. I shouldn’t say such things to a man of your position and rank.”

“Voicing an opinion is not a cardinal sin.”

“No? Some believe a woman has no opinion, Captain.”

He wondered if she meant her husband but refrained from asking such a private, personal question. As it was, he shocked himself at the ease with which they conversed. She was bright and knowledgeable, qualities he’d been taught to admire in a woman.

“I beg to differ, considering I have two sisters with sharp minds and sharper tongues and a mother who runs the local temperance league and is an outspoken abolitionist. Father has given up trying to contain them.”

At last, she smiled, and Will realized he’d been waiting for that glimpse of sunshine. “My father is a vicar, an ardent student of both philosophy and scripture. Unfortunately, my mother showed no interest in his rather lengthy dissertations on the human condition. I, on the other hand, enjoyed them and was allowed to read widely and speak my mind. Perhaps too much, as I have learned since coming to America.”

Ah, that explained a great deal. “How did a British vicar’s daughter come to marry a Tennessee farmer?”

He was going too far, asking questions that pushed into her private affairs, and yet for the life of him he could not stop. He wanted to know everything about her. If he told himself his reasons were for the good of his army, there was truth in the lie. Until he knew her well, he could not be assured of his men’s safety. But the rest was pure self-interest. He admired Charlotte Portland.

If his question offended her, she gave no indication. Rather, she laughed. “In the usual manner, I’m sure. Tell me, Captain, are you a married man?”

“No woman will have me,” he said in jest, and yet the stab of betrayal was anything but amusing. A man who’d loved and lost did not take such things lightly.