Read an Excerpt
Chapter One
Sherman Cobb wasn't feeling well. In fact, he hadn't
been feeling well for quite some time. He couldn't even
remember the last time he woke up in the morning feeling
rested and refreshed, ready to face whatever the new day
brought. That was why he was sitting in Doc Ryder's waiting room, expecting the worst.
He'd first visited the doctor a few weeks ago, complaining of pain and tiredness. "Ordinary enough symptoms," Doc Ryder had said in a reassuring tone of voice. But
when the doctor palpated his abdomen, Sherman was sure
he'd noticed an expression of alarm flicker across his face.
It was quickly suppressed, but Sherman had noticed it and
Doc Ryder's usually brusque and hearty tone became cautious and guarded as he ordered a battery of tests. "Nothing to worry about--just to be on the safe side," he'd said,
but Sherman hadn't believed him.
Deep inside, he knew something was wrong, just like
some women can tell they're pregnant long before the strip
turns blue on a pregnancy kit. He didn't know how he
knew, but he could feel death overtaking him, like the
gradual chill you feel when the furnace goes out. First your
hands and feet feel cold; then you notice you can't seem to
get warm and the radiator feels cool to the touch. You
check the thermostat and notice the temperature has fallen
a few degrees; the oil tank must be empty or perhaps the
pilot light has blown out. You go down to the cellar to investigate.
That's what he'd done. He'd come to the doctor to find
out what was wrong. But no matter what it turned out to
be, he knew it wouldn't make any difference. His pilot
light was struggling to stay lit, but he knew it was just a
matter of time before he finally ran out of fuel.
He sighed and reminded himself that he'd cheated the
grim reaper a few times in his life and could hardly complain that his chit had finally come due. He'd had a good
life, a productive life. He'd had his share of success; he'd
known great happiness. All told, he thought, there was
only one thing that he wished had been different.
Maybe it could be, he thought, wondering whether he
should simply leave things be or should try to change them
after all these years. And if he did, would there be enough
time?
Pausing at the kitchen door with an armful of lilac blossoms she had just cut, Julia Tilley realized Papa was angry
about something. In her twenty years she had become an
expert reader of his moods, always watching for the slightest flicker of his mustache, the curl of his mouth and the
lowering of his brows. Not that such acute awareness was
required today--she could hear his voice reverberating
through the entire house, like thunder.
Julia hesitated, unsure what to do. The lilacs would certainly wilt unless she got them into water very soon. On
the other hand, Papa's anger seemed to be directed to her
older sister, Harriet, and Julia was content to leave it that
way. She certainly didn't want to draw his attention by
going inside the house.
Moving quickly, she picked up the old enamel bucket
that held kitchen scraps and carried it out to the compost
heap next to the garden, where she emptied it. She then
took it to the pump and filled it with clean water for the
lilacs. She set them in the shade and sat down on the porch
steps, wondering what to do for the duration. She could
walk down the drive to the mailbox, hoping Papa's
tantrum would be over by the time she returned, or she
could stay here on the stoop and--well, not exactly eavesdrop because that would be wrong, like opening someone's mail--but perhaps a phrase or two would come to
her and she could figure out what all the fuss was about.
"Damned scoundrel…a Communist...filthy New
Dealer..."
So, it was about Thomas O'Rourke, the young man her
sister Harriet had been seeing. Julia had suspected as
much. He was a labor organizer and a big supporter of
Mr. Roosevelt's New Deal. Papa, a Maine Republican, had
no doubt that Mr. Roosevelt's policies would ruin the
country.
"I love him, Papa, and you're not going to stop me."
Julia's eyebrows shot up in amazement. Harriet was
daring to argue with Papa.
"Don't you dare talk to me like that, young lady," was
Papa's predictable response.
"I'm not young, Papa, don't you see? I'm thirty years
old. I've always done what you said and what has it gotten
me? I'm an old maid--too good for anyone in this town,
that's for sure."
Julia considered this. It was true, she realized, with a
jolt. None of the farmers and small tradesmen who lived
in Tinker's Cove would want a college-educated wife like
Harriet. Or herself, for that matter.
"Is that what you want? To marry some man and become his laundress, his cook, his concubine?" Papa practically spat out the words.
On the stoop, Julia hugged herself. She could see Papa's
expression as clearly as if she were the object of his wrath.
The bristly eyebrows, the narrow nose and hollow cheeks,
the frowning mouth. How could Harriet bear to confront
him? How could she stand his disapproval?
"Yes, Papa," replied Harriet, coolly. "That's exactly
what I want, more than anything. I want to feel Thomas's
arms around me, his lips pressed against mine. I want to
give myself to him. I want to bear his children."
Julia's jaw dropped, and apparently, so did Papa's.
There was silence. A long silence. Julia sat very still,
watching the swallows' swooping flight above the neat
rows of baby lettuce in the vegetable garden.
When Papa finally spoke, his voice was as cold and hard
as ice.
"Understand this: If you marry Thomas O'Rourke, you
are no daughter of mine and you will have nothing that is
mine. Marry him and you will become dead to me."
Julia's lips twitched, hearing the awful words.
Rachel reached out to gently shake Julia awake, but
hesitated. Miss Tilley was almost ninety years old and, like
a lot of very old people, didn't sleep well at night. It seemed
a shame to disturb her, even if lunch was ready. She had
made up her mind to turn down the pot when Miss Tilley's
eyes sprang open.
"Ah, you're awake," said Rachel. "Are you ready for
lunch? It's your favorite, shrimp wiggle on toast."
Julia Ward Howe Tilley blinked and looked around.
She'd been dozing, she realized. Papa was long gone, and
dear Mama. And Harriet was dead, too. Julia stroked her
arthritic fingers and furrowed her brow. She was the only
survivor, the last remaining member of her family. Or was
she? What if Harriet had given Thomas O'Rourke a child?
Her heart beat a little faster at the thought.
