“There you are.” Lisa greeted Abby as she entered the kitchen, Morton close behind. “I’m not used to you being up and out this early.” She glanced at Morton, and then turned back to Abby. “Are we okay?”
“He knows about Jack. I’m working on being okay.”
Lisa nodded and cleared her throat. “I have some things for you to do.”
“Sure. I’ll be down in a little while. Come on, Morton.” Abby turned to leave.
“Whoa. Hold on there,” Lisa said. “Let’s do this in reverse. You help me first, and then do your own thing. That’s called a compromise.”
“This is important.” Abby took another step.
Lisa put her hands on her hips, not a good sign. “I’m sure whatever I have for you to do is much less important, right? Well, wrong. We have this little business, remember?
To make it run properly we have to work together. And we want it to run properly for various mundane reasons, like we want to pay the bills, eat, things like that. ”
“I get it. And I think compromise is a good thing.” Abby nodded. “I’ll just run upstairs and do one tiny thing, then I’m all yours. Until lunchtime.”
“Discussion over,” Lisa said. “Jack tells me you’re having lunch together in town. He’s taking the truck and leaving in a few minutes. You will go with him and get the groceries on this list, you may have lunch, then come back. I’m sure your ‘tiny thing’ will be waiting when you get here.”
Abby mentally stomped her foot. She had to read Silas’s diary. “I want to help. But my hair’s a mess, and I have to change clothes. And it makes more sense for me to get the groceries after lunch, so they won’t have to sit in the hot truck while we eat. Jack will help me.”
“Perhaps I’m not making myself clear. Jack has a schedule to keep. He won’t be here much longer. He’s getting supplies this morning and has to work this afternoon. Go comb your hair and be outside in five minutes.” The buzzer on the clothes dryer went off, and Lisa hurried out of the room.
“Tough break,” Morton said.
“Did I ever mention how annoying she is?” Abby frowned. “I’ll call you when I get back.”
Abby stowed Morton’s pack under her bed. The slave shackle clanked as they slid together. How much more complicated could life get? A secret room, slave shackle, Civil War diary, bullets in the middle of the night, Jack’s behavior—Abby looked at herself in the mirror. “You are a mess.”
She pulled clean jean shorts out of the dresser and rummaged through the drawer for the pale blue, V-necked Hollister T-shirt, her favorite. Jack might be for-real crazy, but she wanted him to like her. She had to learn how to be a sister.
The truck horn blew, echoed by Lisa’s shrill voice. “Abby.”
Abby grabbed her purse, got the grocery list off the refrigerator on the way through the kitchen, and ran out to the idling truck.
Jack got out of the driver’s seat and opened the passenger door for her. He smiled, but looked wary. “Good morning, Cherie.”
“Thanks.”
“You look good.” Jack got in and put the truck in gear. “Your shirt is the same color as our eyes, you know.” He grinned. “I’ll drop you at the market and pick you up after I finish at the hardware store. Won’t take long, then I’ll make good on my promise of Chinese for lunch.”
The errands took an hour, but they were still the first customers at Chin’s China Palace. Abby looked around the room, as if fascinated by the faux Chinese décor. She avoided making eye contact with Jack. When she thought about him as a gorgeous older guy, flirting had been no problem. But she had no clue how to act toward a brother.
Abby ordered sweet-and-sour chicken, and Jack told the waiter, “Same.” After the server left, he poured a cup of hot tea and slid it across the table.
“Sweet and sour? Is that just your lunch, or does it describe you?” Abby took a sip of tea, grimacing at the bitter taste.
“I could ask you the same question, sis. I think we all have a little of both in us, don’t you?” He poured tea for himself. “Of course, the sweetness is all yours.”
Abby turned the lazy susan in the middle of the table, chose a white packet of sugar from a bowl, and added it to her tea. “How’s your journal coming?”
“My journal?” Jack said. “Oh, yeah, the journal. Why so curious? It’s a journal, which means it’s private.”
Abby studied the change in him, caused by one innocent question. One minute suave, the next, defensive, as if she’d hit a nerve. Something about the journal must be a big secret.
”It’s just a question. You’re writing a journal—isn’t it about the bike trip?—and you said I’m in it. I’m not asking for your deepest, darkest secret.”
The waiter arrived with their order and Jack changed the subject, telling Abby about Chinatown in Toronto and his life at the university. When they finished, the server returned with the check, orange slices, and fortune cookies.
Jack grabbed the check and pushed the dessert tray across the table. “Go ahead, open yours first.”
Abby cracked open the cookie and laughed. “Who writes these things? It says: Never wear your best pants when you go to fight for freedom. I guess when I become a freedom fighter I’ll wear my paint-splattered jeans. It’s your turn.”
Jack read his fortune in silence. “These are stupid. Let’s get out of here. I have one more stop before we get back to Bikers’ Rest.” He crumpled the small piece of paper, threw it on the table, and walked to the front of the restaurant to pay the bill.
Abby picked up the wrinkled fortune and smoothed it: You have a curious smile and a mysterious nature. What about this made Jack so angry? She put the fortune in her pocket and followed him.
“It’s going to be at least an hour before I get done in town,” Jack said. “I have to get the rest of the supplies to finish the barn roof. Want to come with me?”
“No, hardware isn’t at the top of my shopping list. I’ll hang out and meet you here.” She dropped her head and added, “Thanks for lunch.”
“The pleasure is all mine.” Jack winked and sauntered down the street.
Now what? Boston had next to nothing to do for an hour. She wandered down the sidewalk.
“Hi there, honey. You’re sure a sight for sore eyes.”
Abby whipped around. Sitting in front of the salvage shop on an old folding chair she saw a familiar pot-bellied man, sun shining on his scalp, gray fringe of hair framing his face.
She smiled. “Um, hi.”
“Remember me? I’m Bill—I own this place. Did you ever find that old Bible?”
“Sorry, I’m really bad with names. And yes, thanks, I did find the old Bible. So, have a nice day.” She turned to cross the street.
“Now hold on there a bit,” Bill said. “Do you live out by Morton? I don’t know as I seen much of you before the other day.”
“My mother bought the old house by the trail, Bikers’ Rest, you know about it?”
“Then you must be the Abby.” Bill smiled around the toothpick in his mouth. “I met your mama, nice lady, and she told me all about what a special daughter she has.”
Abby’s eyebrows went up. “She did?”
Bill nodded. “Yep. So how do you like living in a piece of local history?”
“You know the history of our house?” Abby sat down next to Bill on an identical folding chair. “I’d love to hear more about it.”
“What I know’s more gossip than hard fact, honey, but let me see.” Bill paused, looked up at the overhang, and blew out a big breath. “Well now, it’s been empty for a few years, ever since old Harry Corson passed. He must’a been near ninety before he died, and lived there by himself all that time after cancer got his wife; he was born in that house.” Bill looked at her. “I knew him, of course, from around town. Knew the whole family. Small towns are like that.”
“His children didn’t want the house?” Abby said.
“He and his missus never had kids,” Bill said. “Don’t know why. Maybe they were too busy taking care of his mother. She lived to a ripe old age, too, right there in the same house.”
“His family must have owned it for a long time.”
“As near as I can figure, his family lived in that place for quite a spell, way back when. He took his bride housekeeping there, helped keep it up; finally took it over when his own folks both passed.”
“So it belonged to the Corson family? Do you know when they bought it?”
Bill leaned his chair back and crossed his arms. “Let me think a spell. I do believe it came down to Harry through his mother’s family, the Munroes. Yep, Edna Corson’s maiden name would’a been Munroe. She and my mother were in the same sewing circle.”
Abby squirmed on the hard chair, as a frisson of excitement ran up her spine. Did this confirm that Silas lived at Bikers’ Rest? There couldn’t be that many families named Munroe in one small town.
“Do you know exactly how old the house is? Or if there’s anything special about it?”
Bill chuckled. “Honey, I know a little bit about a lot of things, but not a lot about much of anything. But let me think. Sometimes old Harry got to bragging after a couple beers, said he had a relative in the Civil War that lived in that very house. I don’t rightly know. Far as I recollect, that house weren’t no different than any old house around these parts.”
“There’s a Civil War grave at Dravo Cemetery with the name Silas Munroe. The birth date on the stone is 1843.”
Bill nodded. “That would fit. Harry always said five or six generations of his kin lived there. Mebbe he had reason to brag after all.”
“If Bikers’ Rest is that old, could it have been a stop on the Underground Railroad?” Abby held her breath.
Bill laughed. “Well now, I guess anything’s possible, but since Harry never bragged on it, seems unlikely. I’m just glad someone saw the potential in that old place and preserved it. You and your mama have vision.”
“Potential, right.” Abby experienced a flash of pride for her mother. She checked her watch. “Thanks for the history lesson. If you think of anything else about the house or the Munroe family, let me know.”
“Sure thing, honey. Come on back any time, and bring Morton; he’s a fine boy. Been takin’ real good care of his mama, her being so sick and all.”
Abby waved and hurried away. Time to finish Silas’ diary at last—maybe in the very house he left to go to war. Could this be a sign that they had always been meant to be together? Did love exist like a silent river, just waiting to be found? Would her love for Silas create some supernatural way for him to be resurrected? Or were they doomed to never know the fullness of an earthly relationship?
A premonition washed over Abby, making her shiver even in the midday heat. Did she have to die to be one with Silas?