Here it was—his ancestor’s land grant. So his family history was true. Won by her bravery as a spy for independence. With all its formal, antiquated phrasing and unusual capitalizations, he easily understood the message: his tenth great-grandmother had risked her life and her young son’s life for love of her country. Which, no doubt, led to love for this land, this inn.
Caleb set down the framed historical document, looked in the little attic room again, and found a shoebox-sized metal box with an old-fashioned clasp. He reached for it. Opened the clasp and lifted the lid to reveal heavy, folded white fabric with narrow blue stripes.
He pick it up and unfolded the material.
An old-fashioned Revolutionary War–era cap, like women wore when doing their daily work. Looking inside the box again, he found a note, handwritten in blue ink on crumbling paper.
Mob cap Elizabeth Jane Kennedy wore when first setting foot on Jonathon Island.
Somehow, as he sat on the wide-plank pine floor, holding the cap his so-long-ago grandmother had worn, he finally understood.
Elizabeth Jane risked everything for this place. Great-grandfather Chester Caleb bought back the inn, and Dad and Granddad gave up their music for it.
Caleb stood next in line.
For the first time, he saw himself for what he truly was—the trustee of a treasure. Island House Inn was both his past and his future. His legacy and his calling. Worth sacrificing for.
Still needing the guitar to fulfill his obligation to Ariel, Caleb gathered the instrument, the framed document, and the cap and started down the staircase.
Which suddenly and totally and completely unexpectedly now became—hisstaircase.
Chapter Ten
Convincing Aunt Dahlia to use “Mercy Song” on their next record would present enough challenges if she had a lead guitar tonight. Without Caleb, her chances dropped to subzero.
Not knowing where he’d gone or why, Ariel stuck her head out the door—again—hoping to see Caleb heading this way, since he’d left a good fifteen minutes ago. The first rumble of thunder crashed and rain pounded the window wall and poured down the panes as frequent flashing lightning brought its own sense of the unexpected to the room.
As unexpected and unexplained as Caleb’s mysterious departure.
Then he dashed into the room, carrying a guitar and, of all things, a picture frame and a small gray metal box, his brown wingtips clattering on the wood floor.
“I apologize for the delay. My guitar had disappeared from its case, so I rummaged around for this one.”
How could a guitar—Never mind. She’d think about the mystery of the missing guitar later.
Ariel nodded to the rest of the band—her signal for them to get ready to rehearse. With the usual banter and the playingof licks, melodies, and random tunes, anticipation ran high as always when new music came their way. She plugged in her vintage pink paisley Telecaster, prepared to play the song from memory.
“Just a minute.” Aunt Dahlia pulled Ariel aside and whispered, “I like the lyrics, but why does it have jazz chords?”
A question so soon? “Try to keep an open mind.”
Aunt Dahlia raised her brows, cocked her head to the side. “Whenever someone says that, I don’t like what’s about to happen.”
“I think you will.”
Ariel gave a four-count, then Caleb played the intro solo. Drum brushes and acoustic bass came in at measure nine.
She signaled a repeat and soaked in their good jazz sound.
Ariel came in with vocals and crescendoed at the chorus. “‘Sweet mercy, falling like tears…’”
The blend of jazz-inspired emotion and heartfelt praise and thankfulness for God’s mercy brought a powerful awareness of the pleasure and presence of the Lord. She signaled a repeat and sang her own words of worship for a time, then when she slowed the tempo and brought the song to a close, a sweet stillness—a holy hush—filled the room and lingered.
Mercy. Blessed mercy.
Ariel blew out a long breath, not wanting the moment to end.
“We need this song.” Isaiah’s quiet voice broke the silence. He stood at the edge of the band now, holding his ice-filled towel on his elevated hand.
