Perhaps Grace had the upper hand in 1692, but here in 1912, I oversaw my destiny, and nothing my responsible sister could say would persuade me otherwise.
“Is this why you asked us to come?” Grace asked, frowning.
“Of course.” I grinned at her. “I wanted to surprise you. And give Mama and Daddy a much-needed vacation from the orphanage.”
Our parents shared another look—and this one had nothing to do with me.
Something was wrong.
Grace must have noticed it, too, because she moved away from me and put her hand on Mama’s arm. “What is it?”
“Nothing,” Mama said, forcing a smile.
“Is it the orphanage?” Grace asked.
Mama put her hand over Grace’s. “We didn’t want to say anything now—especially here.”
I moved closer, forgetting about the large crowd. Our parents were strong, intelligent, and hardworking. I rarely worried about them. What could be wrong?
“Our landlord approached us before we left Washington with unexpected news,” Mama began. “A buyer has offered to purchase the building we’ve been leasing for the past twenty-five years.”
“At a price we could never match,” Daddy added.
I frowned. The orphanage was ideally situated in the heart of Washington, close to where they lived. It was just as much our home as the house we grew up in. And it was home to dozens of children and the matrons who cared for them. Mama and Daddy would never be able to find another building like it.
“How could Mr. Lorenz sell the building to someone else?” I asked. “Why wouldn’t he sell it to you?”
Again, my parents shared a concerning look—and my worry mounted. What weren’t they telling us?
“The buyer is J. B. Thurston,” Daddy said, directing his words toward Grace.
My heart stopped for a second, and I looked at Grace.
J. B. Thurston was the wealthy owner of several shirtwaist factories in New York. Grace had gone undercover to reveal the abuse and neglect in his buildings and had written an exposé article that created trouble for Thurston. Change had been slow in New York, even after the catastrophic fire that killed over a hundred and forty employees at the Triangle Shirtwaist Factory a year ago, but Grace’s article had stirred things up. The success of the story had gotten her a raise and a bit of notoriety at theNew York Globe. It had also encouraged her editor to agree to her trip to Florida as a correspondent.
“It can’t be a coincidence,” I said to Grace.
Her face had gone pale. “J.B. Thurston?”
Daddy nodded.
She shook her head. “I’m so sorry,” she whispered. “I had no idea.”
“It’s not your fault,” Mama tried to assure her.
“He must have done his own investigation to know right where to strike me,” she said. “He can’t take your orphanage. I won’t let him.”
“I’m afraid Mr. Lorenz can’t turn down Thurston’s offer,” Daddy said, heaviness in his voice. “He’s offering three times what the building is worth.”
“Is there nothing we can do?” I asked.
“I can approach Mr. Thurston and tell him to leave my family alone,” Grace said, indignant.
“I don’t want you anywhere near Thurston,” Daddy replied, his voice filled with warning. “He’s a dangerous man and would never listen to you anyway.”
“Then what will we do?” she asked him.
Mama let out a sigh. “Mr. Lorenz has agreed to sell us the building at the price Mr. Thurston has offered, but we must provide half the money as down payment by May 1st and the other half by September 1st.”
