Jack visibly stiffened again. “I’ll be fine. The boot isn’t on my driving foot.”
And he didn’t want her along. He didn’t need to say it, and it hurt, but that was okay. She’d been preparing herself for Jack’s departure for weeks now, even while she feared he wasn’t yet healthy enough for the journey.
Chapter Thirty-Two
It didn’t take long before Jack reached open countryside on his drive to North Carolina. He rolled the windows down to smell the autumn scents of freshly mowed hay from the final cutting of the season. The radio played Garth Brooks, the wind rustled his hair, and the autumn day was perfect.
Too perfect, maybe. It felt like a betrayal of Alice and the summer they’d carved out of borrowed time. Moving forward to his next project didn’t feel like liberation; it felt hollow. Every mile he put between himself and Alice pressed against his chest like a slow, steady weight.
The ache would pass. It always did. He’d left plenty of places before, but Alice and Williamsburg weren’t just another dot onthe map. For a while it felt like home, and she felt like a partner. She’d gotten under his skin in a way he hadn’t anticipated, even though he wasn’t made for gardens and porches and sleepy weekend mornings.
He gripped the steering wheel a little tighter, wondering how long this ache of regret was going to last. He’d just crossed the North Carolina border when his cell phone buzzed and he glanced at the screen.
Sophie.
His heart squeezed and he stared straight ahead, nothing but farmland on either side of him, the yellowing leaves of a late soybean crop looking withered and tired.
He didn’t want to take this call, but a glance in the rearview mirror showed nobody behind him. He slowed the truck and pulled to the side of the road, then parked. He took a sobering breath before answering.
“Yeah, Sophie?” His voice was sad, gentle. So was hers.
“Jack, your dad passed away this morning.”
The prickle of tears shouldn’t have happened, but they did. He turned to gaze out over the shriveled crops, strangely beautiful beneath the vast autumn sky. Sophie continued talking. “It was very peaceful. The whole family was here, and he died in his own bed. It was what he wanted.”
“Thanks for letting me know,” he said, his gaze scanning the expanse of sky above. A few wispy clouds feathered across the blue horizon, a vast and boundless canvas that seemed to go on forever.
Oh, Dad. The pain in his chest widened and expanded. Frank Latimer hadn’t been the best father, but Jack hadn’t been the best son either. They both should have been better.
At least they made up at the very end.
“The funeral will be on Wednesday, here in Baltimore,” Sophie said. “It’s going to be a celebration of Frank’s life rather thansomething somber and serious. He wanted to make sure you were invited. He wanted you to meet your sisters. I’d like that too.”
Sophie’s voice choked off, and regrets crashed down on him. If he had answered Sophie’s calls a year ago, he would have had more time. He could have taken Frank to one of his golf courses. Maybe they could have even played a round together.
The funeral was scheduled right in the middle of his meetings with the Camp Lejeune folks. If he didn’t win this contract, he would be staring at six months with no work, no income.
It didn’t matter. If it was what his dad wanted, then Jack did too.
“Thanks, Sophie. I’ll be there.”
Jack’s departure for North Carolina left Alice feeling alone and adrift, but nothing soothed a broken heart better than throwing herself into a thorny research challenge. The inventory of Reid’s Roost when it was auctioned in 1705 mentioned a portrait, and the odds were good that it was a painting of either Helga or William Reid Denby. Maybe evenbothof them. Alice turned to Arlo Whitworth from the Colonial Art Museum for help locating it.
Arlo’s office was nestled beneath the slanted ceiling of the history museum, and she gave him a wide smile in greeting. Something about a man wearing a polka-dotted bow tie made it impossible not to smile.
“I’ll get you a cup of tea,” Arlo said as he turned a chair out for her to sit. The long, narrow office was crowded with his desk and a massive work table. The sloping roof made it feel even more congested, but she’d always liked the cozy feel of the place.
Soon Arlo brought her a cup of Earl Grey tea in a Wedgwood teacup. The citrusy aroma immediately soothed her as she settled in on the opposite side of his desk.
“I’ve got a thorny research question for you,” she began.
He lifted his teacup in a silent salute. “My favorite kind.” Which made her smile all over again.
She showed him the copy from the courthouse records indicating that Samuel Dunstable bought the contents of the Roost, including a portrait, back in 1705.
“What are my odds of being able to find that portrait?”
“You came to the right place,” Arlo said. “The last Dunstable married into the Hewitt family sometime in the early twentieth century. The decorative art wing of the museum is named after the Hewitts. They donated an art collection worth millions in the 1970s when taxes were high and the law granted huge write-offs to encourage philanthropic donations. All that fancy silver and porcelain in the Hewitt wing came from that collection. They gave us a complete collection of Sevres serving dishes that once belonged to Marie Antionette.”
