Blood Kin (30 page)

 

. . . and if that diamond ring don't shine,

Papa's going to buy you a coach and nine.

And if that coach and nine won't pull,

Papa's going to buy you a baby bull . . .

 

It was annoying and frightening at the same time, and she wondered again if Daniel was right, if she
should consider going home to Newark for a few days. She couldn't imagine what had kept him or Emma away all night, especially since neither had mentioned they would be away. Truthfully, she was more concerned about Daniel. What if he'd found the careless shooter and the boy had shot him? She'd given Daniel her cell number, but she realized this morning that he hadn't given her his. She had no way to contact him. All she could do was to wait.

She had to do something positive, something normal. Going to the deck in the hallway, she removed a yellow legal pad, went into the kitchen, and began her week's lesson plans. She already had a full schedule, but she'd learned during student teaching never to enter a class unprepared. It wasn't fair to the kids, and she'd figured out long ago that it was better to have too much to finish in the allotted time than too little.

But it was difficult to concentrate on the school-work. She kept reliving the night she'd spent with Daniel at the cabin. She couldn't help fearing that she might have unconsciously committed incest.

The possibility that an act so beautiful could be so wrong sickened her, but she refused to accept it until she had proof. If someone other than Matthew had fathered her, then she would be free to be with Daniel, not just for a night of fun and games, but for more. Not that she was thinking of marriage—she wasn't ready to make that leap of faith so soon. She'd made one mistake in that department with Elliott, and she wasn't about to make a second try with a man she'd known only weeks. She'd made such a bad choice in Elliott that it was difficult to trust her judgment.

Truthfully, she didn't know what she wanted, other than a repeat of the giving and taking that those hours
with Daniel had brought. She had felt more desirable, more alive than ever before. She'd never known anyone, before or after Elliott, who had that effect on her. When Daniel walked into a room, it lit up. Colors seemed brighter and more vivid, scents stronger. She might be a foolish romantic, but she wasn't willing to walk away from him if there was any chance they could have a life together.

Reason told her that she was a stranger on Tawes—she didn't belong here—but something deeper whispered that she did. This was exactly where she should be, and these were her people. What was the phrase Emma and Will used? Blood kin? Was it possible that the ties of family were stronger than culture, education, or the influences of the rest of society?

Thoughts of Daniel didn't make her forget the scare of the stray bullet the previous day; nor did they curb her need to know her biological father's identity. Why hadn't he stood with her mother when she'd become pregnant? Had he been responsible for Beth's beating and, ultimately, her death? Surely Matthew knew more than he'd told her. She was still going to try to get him alone and question him further, but she knew that he'd be busy conducting services at church until after noon.

When her lesson plans were in order, she tried her adoptive father's number in California. For once the connection went through, and she managed to reach him on the second ring. They chatted briefly, mostly about his recent medical checkup and about her step-mother's vacation plans for the month of August. They exchanged pleasantries and hung up without her mentioning Daniel or her near accident the day before. Her father had never been a person to confide in, and he would have been as uncomfortable as she if she'd
tried. Their conversation was civilized, as usual. They were both cheerful and courteous; they said all the right things, but nothing could fill the gap of emotional detachment that had always yawned between them.

Once, when Bailey was young, before her mother had contracted the illness that killed her, she'd overheard a heated discussion between her parents. It wasn't an argument. They'd never argued or become emotional on any subject other than debating the best methods to curb illiteracy and to cut the burgeoning birth rates in third-world countries. In this instance her father had considered a change in mutual funds, and he'd reminded her mother that they would have been in a better position to save for retirement if they didn't have a daughter to educate. Her mother's reply had been, “Charity begins at home,” and that he could hardly profess a concern for people in South Asia if he wasn't willing to provide for one motherless child here in his own house.

The words and the guilt she felt while eavesdropping had hurt, and she'd run to her secret spot in the attic where she kept her favorite books and an old blanket that had been designated for the Goodwill box. She hadn't cried, but she'd wanted to. It was the first time she could remember feeling that adoption was somehow shameful, and the thought remained to haunt her for all the years that followed. “. . . Charity . . . motherless child . . .” Even now, the memory made her ache inside.

By midafternoon, when Emma and Daniel still hadn't shown up, Bailey returned to the parsonage. A red-eyed and disheveled Grace opened the door. “Oh, child, you're a godsend. I'm so glad you came. Please.”
She waved her inside, and Bailey was instantly struck by the smell of Lysol and furniture polish. Obviously the older woman had found someone to do her heavy cleaning, because the banister and front entrance hall gleamed.

“I've been so distraught,” Grace said. “Matthew's ill, you know. Harry Tilghman—our senior deacon—had to stand in for him at church this morning.”

Bailey followed her into the dining room. “I'm sorry. I didn't know. I wouldn't have come if—” The terrier came yipping out of the kitchen and leaped up on its hind legs, scratching at Bailey's bare shins.

“Hush, hush, baby,” Grace soothed, scooping the dog up. “Naughty. You'll wake Daddy. Excuse me.” She rushed to the back door and dropped the dog on the step. The animal continued barking and digging at the screen, but Grace ignored it and returned to the dining room. When she returned, she handed Bailey a large mug of coffee. “Have some of this. It's a French roast that Matthew particularly likes.”

“No, thank you, I—”

“Please. You know the old saying: ‘Waste not, want not.' ”

Giving her a half smile, Bailey took a sip. The coffee was strong, but good. Grace had apparently added sugar, but it seemed impolite to complain, so she sat and drank the coffee. “It was wrong of me to come without calling first,” Bailey said, “but I wanted—”

“Don't apologize. I was just getting ready to come in search of you.”

Bailey's legs stung, and when she glanced down she noticed a thin line of blood on her left ankle from the dog's sharp claws. “I wanted to talk to Matthew, but I'll
come back in a day or two when he's feeling better. I don't want to disturb him if he's sleeping.”

“Nonsense.” Grace brushed a stray lock of hair away from her face. “If that noisy rascal doesn't rouse him with his incessant barking, we certainly won't. I'm afraid Matthew picked up a stomach bug when we were in Crisfield shopping for groceries. The checker at the market looked positively green. She told us, after our order was half rung up, that she was going home because she was sick.”

Bailey wished she hadn't come. Once again she found herself trapped by Grace and her ceaseless chatter. “You must have your hands full,” she said apologetically. “I'll come—”

“No, you must . . .” Grace dug a tissue out of her apron pocket and blew her nose. She looked as if she were about to burst into tears. “I've wronged you, dear. . . .” She clapped a hand over her mouth, smothering whatever she was attempting to say. Moisture glistened in her eyes. “Please listen to me.”

It was the first time Bailey had seen Grace without makeup. Now she realized why the woman wore such thick foundation. Old acne scars pitted her cheeks. Despite her disfigurement, with her hair pulled back into a knot Grace looked years younger and much more human.

“If there's something I can do . . .” Bailey offered.

“I don't know which was worse, poor Matthew's embarrassment at throwing up all over the upstairs hall on a dash for the bathroom or missing services this morning. My husband takes his duties as pastor seriously, but I told him straight out—‘Matthew,' I said, ‘it would be a disservice to your flock if you passed this upset to any of your congregation.' ”

“You said you had something to tell me,” Bailey reminded her.

“It's Daniel.” Grace reached out and patted her hand. “I know I haven't been as welcoming as I should have, but please know that I've never meant to cause you any distress.” She wrung her hands nervously. “It just my way to speak my mind before considering how my words may sound.”

“I don't understand.” In spite of the perfectly manicured nails and several expensive rings, Grace's large hands were neither feminine in appearance nor attractive. The knuckles on her long fingers were red and swollen with arthritis.

“Daniel called here just a little while ago. He found something at Elizabeth's farm, something you must see. He wanted me and Matthew to bring you out by boat right away. It's the quickest way to get there, but when I told him Matthew was ill, he—”

“You spoke with Daniel this morning? Is he all right?”

“Daniel, why, yes. He's fine.” Grace peered at her over glasses that had slid down on her thin nose. “Is there some reason why—”

“No. Why didn't he call me? He has my number.”

“He said he tried, but you know our phone service on Tawes is hit-or-miss. I think it's worse out past the grocery.”

“It must be, because Emma's phone was working this morning. I called my father in California.”

“There you go, then.” Grace nodded.

“Did Daniel tell you what he'd found?”

Grace shrugged. “I got the idea it was a message or a letter, but he was adamant that you must come to the farm as soon as you could. He said it would answer all
your questions.” She untied her apron. “Just let me change into something more suitable for the boat, and we can go now.”

“But Matthew—”

“He's miserable, but not dying. He barely had a fever, and I left a pitcher of ice water on the nightstand, where he can reach it.” She pushed her glasses up with one crooked finger. “I assumed you'd want to go right away. Of course, if you'd prefer to bike out to the farm . . .”

“No, no,” Bailey said hastily. “If you're sure you don't mind, I'd appreciate it if you'd take me in your boat.”

“Fine. That's settled then. Give me five minutes, and I'll be ready. Would you like to borrow a windbreaker or a scarf, dear? It can be breezy on the water.”

Bailey shook her head. She couldn't imagine what Daniel had found, or why he wanted his brother and sister-in-law to accompany her to the farm instead of simply bringing his discovery back to Emma's. The fact that he'd included his brother sent a chill up Bailey's spine.

“All right, then,” Grace said cheerfully, reentering the room minutes later. “We'll hop into the boat, run around to Elizabeth's, and see what Daniel's being so mysterious about. I just hope he hasn't gotten your hopes up for nothing. Daniel's been a nervous wreck ever since he returned from overseas. He witnessed a terrible tragedy over there, you know. A young woman he wanted to marry died in one of those awful terrorist bombings. Blown into so many bits they had to identify her by fingerprints and a piece of jewelry.”

“How awful.”

“It never would have worked out,” Grace continued as they boarded the Boston Whaler tied to the dock at
the back of the parsonage. “Can you imagine a woman like that fitting in on Tawes? Lord knows what they eat. Cats and goat heads, for all I know. They're better with their own kind. Not that I wouldn't have welcomed her into the family. I try to do what's right, regardless of others, and I do try to bear my share of Matthew's ministry.”

“Daniel never told me he'd lost someone he cared about overseas,” Bailey shouted over the sound of the motor.

“All I know is what he told Matthew. Daniel certainly doesn't confide in me.”

“It must have hurt him deeply.”

“It's what comes of becoming involved with foreigners.” Grace turned the wheel to guide the boat around a buoy. “She fancied herself some sort of militia soldier.” She glanced at Bailey.

The younger woman held on to the gunnel and stared out at the receding shoreline. The wind had whipped her hair loose, and she looked more like her mother than ever. An older version, of course, Grace thought, Beth Tawes having passed away so young. But so much likeness she almost found it disturbing. Both Beth and Bailey were small women, and they shared those delicate features that so many men seemed to prefer. Lucky for them that they'd been born into fortunate situations, spoiled, some might say. Neither would have survived a week in her stepfather's house.

“ ‘Live by the sword, die by the sword',” Grace murmured, “According to the Good Book. I wouldn't know anything firsthand about bombs, other than what I've seen on the news, but Matthew reads a great deal. He said he didn't suppose there was enough left of his brother's fancy woman to fill a dishpan.”

Once they'd left the town behind, Grace cut the engine
and let the Boston Whaler drift. “Don't be alarmed, dear,” she said. “I just thought we needed to have a few minutes before we find out what Daniel has to show us.”

Bailey tilted her head and gave Grace a curious look.

Grace made no attempt to hide the tears welling in her eyes. “I must admit I haven't been completely forthcoming with you, and I think you need to be prepared. As I said before, I'm plainspoken. I've even been called rude, but I don't mean to be. I call a spade a spade. And if you want the honest truth, Beth Tawes wasn't the girl she pretended to be.”