Touching Stars (37 page)

Having recently seen how painful a broken leg could be if it wasn’t attended to properly, I could just imagine what the assassin had endured.

I read on. In the end, the broken leg had helped to identify Lincoln’s assassin, as had a tattoo on his hand, with the initials J.W.B.

The words blurred, and no matter how hard I stared at them, I couldn’t read on. My mind was racing ahead. There was a drawing of the scene at Ford’s Theater, where the murder had taken place. It showed the actor Booth fleeing across the stage. I held the newspaper closer, but the actor himself was little more than a dark suit holding a pistol aloft. He appeared to have a mustache and dark hair, appeared to be somewhat youthful. More than that I couldn’t tell.

I forced myself to continue reading to the end. Most people believed the right man had been caught and killed. The dead man had carried Booth’s diary and no fewer than five signed photographs of beautiful women, some of them actresses known to have worked with him.

But according to the newspaper, not everyone was so certain. The cavalry had caught Booth and nearly roasted him in a barn before they’d shot him through the neck and hauled him up to the farmhouse, where he’d died on the porch. The body had been identified by witnesses to the killing, although skeptics claimed the details were peculiar. Some sources said the body was so badly burned that a positive identification was unlikely, although others said that it wasn’t burned at all. One witness said Booth’s hair was the wrong color. Some wondered if the reward that had been offered might have inspired members of the cavalry to make the identification without enough proof. There were questions about whether Booth had conspired with others to kill Lincoln, perhaps those high up in either the Confederacy or even the Union government. Perhaps agents for these statesmen had helped him escape in the end, letting someone else die as scapegoat.

Questions, yes. But none as immediate as my own.

What was the real name of the man living in our house?

For a moment the possibility that we were harboring the murderer of Abraham Lincoln made my belly tighten in pain. I put down the newspaper and leaned against the post, sweat breaking out on my forehead even though the afternoon was pleasantly cool.

What was really tattooed on Blackjack Brewer’s hand? Had he memorialized his love for a woman named Daisy by embedding a
D
with India ink? Or were the remains of his tattoo the remains of something more insidious, the initials of a man who had killed the President of the United States, then somehow escaped, leaving another to pay for his crime?

I tried to dismiss the injured leg and tattoo as nothing more than an accident of fate. But even though I tried, those details and others wouldn’t be dismissed. Blackjack had stated repeatedly how much he despised Lincoln and how glad he was to see him dead. Of course, this was not an unusual stance. But Blackjack also had a vast knowledge of Shakespeare. Was it really possible for someone to have such an uncanny ability to memorize lines as he claimed he did? Or had he learned those lines years before, recited them onstage, bowed proudly to resounding applause?

John Wilkes Booth was said to have had a potent attraction for women. Even my cautious, reserved mother was falling for the blatant charms of the man who said his name was Blackjack Brewer.

I closed my eyes and wondered how it would feel to climb a scaffold, to feel a rope being placed around my neck, knowing all the while that the people I loved most in the world were sharing my fate. And at the same time I wondered how it would feel to report a man because he bore vague similarities to a murderer, a murderer who by all accounts was already dead and in the ground. To turn in Blackjack, knowing that he might be innocent of that crime but guilty of another for which he should be allowed to escape.

If Blackjack was—as we had suspected from the beginning—a Confederate officer or spy fleeing charges related to the war, then if we turned him in, we would no longer be patriots but traitors.

The two words chased each other through my head. I realized that with the difference of one letter each, all the other letters were the same.

I heard the front door of my own house close, and my eyelids flew open. Blackjack stood on the porch, gazing toward the cabin. As I watched, he started down the steps and toward me. He walked faster each day and now used the cane for little more than the occasional rut.

I did not want him to see the newspaper, with its exhaustive detail on the capture and killing of Booth. Blackjack would know I had read it and that I might have begun to make connections. For now, I wanted to keep that a secret.

I had only seconds to dispose of it before he was close enough to see what I was about. I folded the newspaper and slid it between two steps to the ground below, where I hoped it would be hidden from view. For the time being I had seen all I needed to. Now the end of the war and the rebuilding of the South seemed of minimal importance.

“I wondered if you might like a ride on my horse,” Blackjack said, as he drew closer. “It’ll do you both good, and I’m not yet ready to mount her. Your mother forbids me to get in and out of the saddle until my leg is a little stronger.”

For days I had eyed the bay with longing. When my father was alive we were proud of his stable. He had the knack for breeding, and he had sold many a colt to strangers who arrived from as far away as Harrisonburg to buy from him. I had grown up on horseback and missed riding nearly as much as I missed meat for supper.

I was wary of Blackjack, though. I wondered why he made the offer. I was sorry when he sat down beside me, as if to discuss it.

“You’ve been good to share your home with me.” His smile looked natural and genuine on his handsome face. “The war’s been hard for you, Robby, and it’s not easy to have a stranger in your home now, on top of everything else.”

“We’ve had many.”

“None so permanent.”

I narrowed my eyes. “You intend to stay with us forever?”

He laughed. “No, I just meant none that had stayed so long.”

“Why haven’t you gone?” I asked boldly.

“Because I’m not certain where to go.”

Having expected another smooth lie about Winchester and company on the road, I was taken aback. “What about your home in Winchester?”

“I think it’s likely there’s nothing left of it. I wonder, too, if it’s sensible to stay this close to the scene of—” He looked at me and frowned. “Robby, are you ill?”

I shook my head. I suspected my cheeks had just drained of color. “The scene of
what?
”

“The war.” He looked as if he still wondered about my health. “The
battles,
Robby. So much waste here, so much destruction. A lot of Confederates will try their hands out west, perhaps even Mexico. I’ve been considering it.”

“What would you do there? What profession would you pursue?”

Of course he didn’t reply “the stage.” I had known he wouldn’t. But so much would have been explained.

“I haven’t thought that far,” he said instead. “I have money to get me through for a while.”

“Not Confederate money.” I had noticed that he had given my mother Federal greenbacks and some silver. For such a devoted Confederate, this was surprising.

“I saw the necessity to abandon that some time ago, although it pained me to do so.”

“Perhaps you have family who’ll help you.” I tried to sound nonchalant, but as I spoke, I thought of the Booth family, who, according to the newspaper, were well known in theatrical circles and surely capable of keeping their exiled brother in funds.

“I have prospects. But what of you and your mother? What will you do? Your mother deserves more than a life of hard work with little to show for it.”

“What are you suggesting?”

He shrugged. “This damnable war.”

He might be an actor and a good one, but I thought this sentiment came from his heart. I had dreams at night where I was walking down a road, carefree and happy. Then the road opened, and as I watched, a mountain grew in front of me. As I stood there, I knew the mountain was too high to climb and too wide to walk around. I could go back or stay where I was, but moving on would never be possible again.

We sat morosely. I wondered who he was. I don’t know what
he
thought about, but at last he stood. “Let’s saddle…Princess.”

I noted the hesitation. He had never called his horse by name before. I wondered if he had made up this one on the spot.

I wanted to say no. I didn’t want to share good moments with Blackjack Brewer. If I had to make a decision what to do about him, good moments would make that harder. I wished he would saddle Princess, or whatever the mare was really called, and ride away.

In the end, though, I went with him to the barn. And when I climbed on Princess’s back, for those moments, at least, I could forget what might be true and just be a boy again.

E
very day that week, Eric waited until Gayle left for the dig; then he went off to make arrangements for her surprise party or firm up plans on the telephone. Luckily the church hall wasn’t already rented for Saturday evening, and Sam’s secretary had a list of local businesses to recommend. He had never pulled together a party this quickly, but considering, things went well.

He interviewed two caterers who were agreeable to work on such short notice and settled on the one with the less traditional menu. He hired a bluegrass band Jared said was a local favorite, a photographer whose wedding portraits showed promise, and a florist to provide table decorations and streamers. A local winery would provide two cases of their best vintages, and a baker was designing a birthday cake. He was lucky this was July and he wasn’t competing for resources with a host of June brides. On such short notice, he wasn’t able to do everything he wanted, but he was satisfied.

Today, since the campers were hiking up the mountain for lunch—and because he had no desire to go up the steep trail with them—he had made several appointments to finalize arrangements.

He was in a particularly good mood, since after last night’s campfire Jared had taken him aside to tell him that he was not going to be a grandfather. Eric figured he’d had a big silly smile on his face all morning, and he hadn’t cared who saw it.

Now he swung by the church to meet the florist for last-minute instructions.

Although his sons hadn’t been as much help as he’d expected, with their feedback and a church directory he had put together a guest list of almost a hundred. With no time for formal invitations, he had asked some of Gayle’s friends to form a phone tree. Additionally, he had spent every evening after Gayle went back to the carriage house making more calls. A lot of people were on vacation or otherwise committed, but about half had accepted the invitation, including Gayle’s parents, who were flying in for the event. Some of the people he called made other recommendations for guests, and he’d increased the guest list accordingly. Now he was convinced enough were going to show up for a lively gathering.

He got to the church office before the florist and greeted Sam’s secretary, Dovey Lanning, an elderly woman whom he recognized as one of the quilters who sometimes came to work on the Touching Stars quilt.

She peered at him over wire-rimmed glasses. “I hear you’ve been working on our quilt.”

He flashed the famous Eric Fortman smile. “It’s okay. I don’t mind if you pull out my stitches.”

“Don’t know why we would. Not the best I ever saw, but surely not the worst. You show promise.”

He was ridiculously pleased. He had asked Noah to teach him to quilt simply as a way to understand his son better. It had worked, too. They’d quilted together several times since, and their conversations had brought them closer.

Of course he’d also quilted by himself a time or two for absolutely no good reason.

“It’s a beautiful quilt,” he said, and meant it.

“One of my favorite patterns. Like the Lone Star, only nothing lonesome about this one. A whole family of stars.” She tilted her head in question. “But you didn’t come to chat about our quilt.”

“I’m here for the florist, but I’m early. Is the reverend in?”

“Reverend Sam’s in the sanctuary. Probably rearranging the pews. We come in of a Sunday morning and nobody knows where to sit. We’re all mixed up. He says that’s the point.” She shook her head, as if there was no way to account for their renegade minister.

“I’ll see if I can find him.”

“You find Reverend Sam, you tell him Mrs. Trident called again. He’s dodging her calls. She’s got a bone to pick with the sermon last Sunday.”

“I gather it wasn’t love thy neighbor?”

She snorted. “More like love thy enemy.”

“That never goes over well.”

She bent her head back to the work on her desk. “Tell me about it.”

He found Sam, arms folded over his chest, staring at the simple altar at the front of the sanctuary.

“Looks like you’re planning something,” Eric said from the entryway.

Sam swung around to greet him. “Eric. Good to see you. And I’m always planning something. It generally gets me in trouble.”

“Along those lines, there’s a Mrs. Trident who wants you to phone.”

“She’ll have to take a number. Last Sunday I talked about the need for forgiveness. It hits people right where they live. Those who are happy holding grudges want to take them to the grave.”

Eric wondered if he was one of those people. Every month he’d spent in Afghanistan was now colored by equal parts of fear and rage. He had dreams in which he picked off his captors one by one and watched them die, particularly Adib, who had pretended to be his friend.

Sam put his hand on Eric’s arm. “After everything you’ve been through, anger’s normal. It’s part of the healing process. Just don’t hold on to it longer than you have to. Don’t nurture it.” He paused. “That was more or less the sermon.”

“You read minds?”

“In our prison ministry I work with men and women who’ve made anger their way of life. Some of them have a right to be angry, but as a lifestyle, it’s the ultimate destroyer.”

“What do you tell them?”

“Examine it, confront it, let it go. Give it to God, if they’re willing to take that step.”

“Sounds simple.”

“Most difficult things do.”

Eric decided he liked Sam. They were having a conversation. Sam wasn’t preaching. And it sounded as if this lesson was personal and hard won.

As the two men started toward the doorway, Eric explained his reason for being there.

“I came to see if you’d be willing to say a few words about Gayle after dinner Saturday night. And the grace, of course.”

“I’m amazed at how fast you’ve put this together.”

“I’m surprised nobody else thought about giving her a party.”

“She told everybody not to.”

“She’s going to love it.” Eric realized he sounded a little unsure. “Gayle doesn’t want people to fuss over her, but everybody needs a little fussing now and then.”

“I’ll be happy to help any way I can.”

“I’m curious about something.”

By now they were well on the way back to Sam’s office, but he stopped, as if he thought this might be important. “What’s that?”

“What keeps you here?”

“In this church?”

“In the church, the Valley, in rural Virginia. Don’t you feel a little, well, overqualified for this gig?”

Sam smiled in a way that seemed to say he’d had this conversation before. “Some people paint on large canvases, some on small ones. The paintings seem equally valuable to me if the artist’s talented and dedicated. It’s a question of what’s most appealing.”

“And this appeals to you?”

“We aren’t talking about me, are we?”

“You’re pretty good at this counseling bit.”

“It would have been a mistake to ask Monet to paint his water lilies in miniature.”

“Or maybe it just takes a lot of ego to use that much canvas.”

“No, it takes understanding of our abilities and inclinations.”

“Sometimes people change.”

“I hope so, or I’m wasting my life. But sometimes change isn’t the point.”

“Then what is?”

Sam clapped him on the back. “Figuring out how to use the talents you were born with.”

Since the kids were going to be carrying lunch up the mountain today, Gayle laid out an array of sandwich fixings, fruit and cookies so they could pack their lunches. Noah was back at work helping, but when it came time to do cleanup after lunches were made, she realized he had disappeared.

“You look like you’ve lost somebody.” Travis snitched a cookie before she could reprimand him. “Need help?”

“Noah took off somewhere.”

“I saw him a minute ago. He was talking to Jared.”

Gayle thought she knew what their conversation might be about. Brandy was back at work, but it was clear her son and his girlfriend were no longer an item. Brandy had been favoring every other male counselor except Cray with her infectious smile and long-lashed gaze. Her tank top was tighter, her shorts shorter, than in days past. And she had carefully avoided Gayle and Noah ever since they’d arrived.

Gayle was both relieved and worried. She didn’t know who had instigated the breakup, but no matter who had taken that step, Jared was bound to feel hurt and confused. Young love was never easy.

“Are you busy this afternoon while the kids are hiking?” Travis asked.

She brought her thoughts back to him. “Do you need help supervising?” She looked around and spotted Carin at one of the excavation units with a camper. “Scratch that. You’ve got all the help you need.”

“I thought we’d do our own field trip. They don’t need me on the hike.”

“You and me?”

“And Helen Henry.”

She noticed, but didn’t have time to examine, what was a palpable stab of disappointment at the addition. “Well, sure. Where are we going?”

“She’s going to take us to look at Miranda Duncan’s grave.”

“Oh, that I’d like to see.”

“I don’t want the whole gang trooping through a little country graveyard, but I thought we’d take a camera so they can see the photos.”

“When are we going?”

“I told Helen I’d call when you get back. We’ll pick her up on the way.”

“Let me just find Noah and we’ll finish cleaning up.”

“I’ll be here waiting.”

She didn’t have to search for Noah. He arrived a minute later. “Sorry.” He grabbed one of the dishpans holding leftovers and started toward the pickup. She took the other and followed him.

“Mr. Allen said you were talking to Jared?” She made a question out of it.

“Uh-huh. He’s got something he wants to do this afternoon, and he asked if I’d take his place on the hike. He’s going to check with Mr. Allen. Will that be okay with you? I’ll come back and finish my share of cleanup.”

“You feel well enough?”

“I feel great.”

This time she didn’t hint. “Where’s Jared going?”

“He didn’t say.”

“I think he and Brandy broke up.”

“You
think?
” He said it as only a teenager could.

“Did he say anything to you?” She stopped herself. “Forget I asked.”

“Okay.”

“It’s fine with me if you take his place, but if he needs our car, I want to know why.”

“He said he’s borrowing Cray’s pickup.”

Now she had no excuse to question her oldest son. Whatever he did in somebody else’s vehicle was his own business.

She and Noah finished carrying everything back to the pickup and dropped it off at home. Then she took a few minutes to freshen up and change out of her catering clothes. Wearing a vintage Laura Ashley sundress, she returned to the dig to find Travis.

“What happened to my food lady?” he asked.

She told herself she hadn’t changed to impress anybody. “I thought the flowers on this dress were prettier than the mustard on my T-shirt.”

“Good call. Let me tell Carin we’re leaving. She promised to get everybody on the trail in a little while.”

She watched as he crossed the site. He and Carin laughed about something. Carin pointed to the hole where three campers were working, and the two of them laughed again. Then he put his hand on Carin’s shoulder and kept it there a moment as they finished their discussion.

She wondered exactly how far that relationship had progressed, and if it was ever possible for a married man to remain friends with another woman without damaging both relationships. She knew she should be happy for Travis, but she wasn’t exactly there yet.

He returned. “Okay, let’s go.”

They started toward his Highlander. “Carin’s a real asset, isn’t she?” she asked.

“We’re lucky to have her.”

“She hasn’t taught any of my sons. Maybe we’ll be lucky next year.”

“She’s relatively new at the high school, but I’ve known her since we were kids. She grew up just outside Woodstock. Our parents were friends.”

“I’m kind of surprised you haven’t mentioned her before.”

“Why?” He sounded genuinely puzzled.

“I guess I’m picking up vibes.”

“Are you?”

“She’d be lucky to have you.”

“I’ll remember you said that. I’ll send her your way if she ever needs a recommendation.”

She decided he was as bad as her sons. Men possessed an innate ability not to deny or confirm anything.

“Y chromosomes,” she said out loud.

“What?”

“Never mind.”

As they drove to Helen’s house, they chatted about camp. She told him she thought Jared had finally broken up with Brandy, and he agreed that he’d noticed the tension today.

Helen’s farmhouse was standard issue Virginia. White frame, front porch with rockers, peonies blooming along the driveway. She was waiting on the walkway, and Travis got out to help her into the SUV. Gayle moved to the back seat, then leaned forward so Helen could hear her.