Finding Grace: A Novel Read online

  Her father called for her, and she hurried to follow him and her brothers out of the store. All the while, she felt as if she had wings on her feet. Her mind raced with excitement, her heart fluttering like mad. How long had it been since she'd known such a deep feeling of joy? She could not remember. She wasn't quite sure why the feeling held her so strongly. The encounter, after all, had not been anything so extraordinary or unusual, but it held her just the same, and she quickly ceased to question its existence. It would not last forever - common sense said that. But she intended to delight in it for as long as she could.

  * * * * *

  She felt the bowl of fruit slip from her fingers. It hit the floor…just as her father’s hand struck the back of her head, hard.

  “Watch your clumsy hands! Them peaches are for your Mama’s dessert cobbler.”

  She nodded as she knelt down to clean up the mess. She knew she should have been paying more attention, the way she usually did. Most of the time, she was very vigilant in her actions, always watching to avoid mistakes. But since that morning at the store, her common sense seemed to have vanished. She couldn’t stop thinking of Charlie, and she really didn’t want to. He was on her mind all the rest of that day, and into the night as well.

  Later as she lay in bed, she thought of how much he’d changed. As a boy, he’d been a bit heavy, and rather shy. He’d been a little clumsy too, but he had been so sweet. Now, she saw very little of that awkward boy.

  It was his eyes that she remembered so well, and the way he looked at her…with that smile. No one had ever looked at her that way before. If she’d been a believer in magic, she would have sworn he'd cast a spell on her, to make her heart beat so and send her thoughts reeling this way.

  Then a moment of sense returned to her, and she chastised herself for her wild thoughts and feelings.

  Grace Langdon, you are the biggest fool in the world. If there were such a thing as magic, why would it be wasted on the likes of you?

  She wanted to be logical…to think with her head, and not her heart. And yet, it was the voice of her heart that spoke louder. All through the night she slept fitfully, the two powers of hope and reason warring for control, until at last she came to a decision.

  She needed to see him again. Judge his words, study his reactions. Only then could she begin to tame this struggle within her soul.

  * * * * *

  Out in the bean patch, she sat on an overturned bucket. Her back was bent low as she searched the leaves for the hateful little vegetables. Under the blazing sun, her bonnet didn’t offer much protection. Sweat trickled into her eyes, and she ran her sleeve across her face. For a moment, she sat up to take a breath and to stretch her back, which ached miserably from the way she was forced to crouch down. She sighed, bending back to resume her work…and she jumped in sudden fright, startled by one of the barn cats as it pounced on a field mouse. Fury drove her up to her feet. Rocks flew from her hands.

  “Devilish beast!” It would have served the wretched varmint right to have its head cracked by a stone…and it would have served her temper as well. She needed something to unleash her frustrations upon, especially of late.

  It had been a week since she’d seen Charlie. After seeing him at the store, her hopes had been high that he might make an appearance, maybe drop in for supper one afternoon. But each day went by without an appearance or a word. Before long, the joy she'd felt at seeing him started to fade, and soon, her spirits were lower than they'd ever been before. Had he been a ghost, appearing for that brief time, only to vanish without a trace? She knew he was tending to his father, which of course that would be taking up all of his time. But still, she had a selfish wish that he would take time to come and visit. Heaven knew there was little chance of their meeting any other way.

  It made her heart sink a little when she thought of it. Their school days were long gone, and they wouldn’t see each other at church. The Langdons were Methodists, and the Hillards had always been devout Baptists, so their paths did not cross in religious circles. Trips into town were rare, so that was not much of an option. On top of everything else, Walter Hillard did not live nearby. As a child, Charlie had lived with his mother and father on a nearby farm - a beautiful place with a gleaming white house and a big red barn, set in a huge plot of rich bottom land. But after the death of his wife, Mr. Hillard had abandoned the old place and moved into a little shack high up in the hills. Now, that was where Charlie was, and for the time, it was where he would remain.

  Thinking of all that, she began to wonder what had really happened to the Hillards all those years ago. She knew that Mrs. Hillard had died, but beyond that, the details were pretty vague. When it had happened, people had talked about it in whispers, so she hadn’t caught much of it. She could remember her mother and someone else discussing it, but when Grace got too close, the talking ceased. Her curiosity had eventually faded, as the topic was eventually forgotten in time. But now it sprang back to life in her mind, and being a nearly full-grown woman, she felt she had the right to ask questions and hopefully have them answered.

  As she set the table for supper that night, she looked at her mother, who was stirring a pot on the stove and humming to herself. Mrs. Langdon was in a good mood…a rare thing to see, but in this case, a welcome thing. That might have had something to do with the fact that, this being Sunday afternoon, the house was empty and quiet except for the two of them. Mr. Langdon had taken all the boys fishing, and Grace usually was happy to join them, but today she had preferred to spend her time alone. Now she was glad she had done so. To ease her way into the subject, she started with a bit of small talk.

  “Mama, guess who I saw in town the other day?”

  “Charlie Hillard,” her mother answered

  Grace’s mouth formed a little circle of surprise.

  “How did you know?”

  Rachel looked slightly annoyed by the question. “For heaven’s sake, Gracie. Everybody knows by now that he's back in town. And everyone knows about his father being so sick. Poor old Walter.”

  So there is sympathy there, Grace said to herself. Thinking of that, she wondered if this might be a good time to press for information. What would be the harm in doing so? Feeling a little bit braver now, she spoke.

  “Mama,” she began. “How did Charlie’s mother die?”

  Rachel turned down the fire on the stove. She opened the oven to take out a skillet of corn bread. She turned it over on a plate, and then turned it right side up. Grace waited with half-hearted patience, wondering if her mother had even heard the question. But she hadn’t long to wait. As Rachel took a knife from the drawer and began to slice the corn bread, she began at last to speak.

  “I don’t know if you remember her much,” she said. “You were hardly seven at the time. Charlie was about nine, and Katie was a few months away from having another child. Walter had just left the house one morning, when he heard her screaming. He ran back as fast as he could.”

  Grace’s eyes grew wide with apprehension, and Rachel paused in her story. Wanting to know it all, Grace asked with some hesitation, “What happened?”

  A sad, almost sickened look came to Rachel’s face, but still she spoke.

  “Katie had broken the kerosene lamp. It caught her skirts on fire and burned so fast, she didn’t stand a chance. By the time Walter got to her, she was too far gone to save.”

  Grace sat with her hand covering her mouth, horrified. Now she wished she had never asked about it, as the image branded a scar on her imagination.

  “Thank the good Lord Charlie was out playing, and didn’t see it,” said Rachel. “After they buried Katie, Walter went about out of his mind grieving. That’s why he sent Charlie off to be with his kin. He just plum couldn’t stand to raise the boy on his own.”

  As Grace took her hand away from her mouth, she gave an involuntary shudder.

  “Poor Mr. Hillard,” she said. “No wonder he is the way he is. And poor Charlie. I always knew he lost his mothe
r, but I never imagined it was like that.”

  Rachel stood up suddenly, as if the topic was too upsetting to continue with. “It was a long time ago. But if you see Charlie, don’t you go asking him about it. I don’t imagine anything but the grave will ever set it right, for either of them.”

  Grace shook her head, her reply meek. “No, of course not.”

  What else was there to say? She felt a sudden need to busy herself, so she started pouring tea into the glasses. For the first time in a long time, she wished she didn’t possess such a curious nature.

  As she filled a glass, she heard the dogs barking from out in the front yard. Someone was coming up the drive. She felt her heart beat fast with excitement.

  Charlie, she said to herself. Full of anticipation, trying to suppress a hopeful smile, she rushed to the front window…only to find disappointment. It wasn’t Charlie at all, but just another neighbor stopping by. She let out a sad sigh, calling out to her mother.

  “It’s Mr. Wilson come to call.”

  “Come to call, and come to talk I reckon,” replied Rachel.

  Grace snorted in disgust. “He come to fill his belly full, that’s what it is.” She didn’t bother trying to hide her sarcasm…which Rachel immediately chastised.

  “Don’t be ugly. It’s our Christian duty to be neighborly.”

  Grace huffed. Neighborly, she thought. That old fool is just looking for a handout wherever he can get it.

  She watched as he came near the porch, his bald little head reflecting the sun. Troll, she thought. And then she saw his attention was caught by something. A moment later she heard her father’s voice calling.

  “Hey Jim, where you been? Come on in the house and sit a spell.”

  A noisy camaraderie soon erupted. There was male laughter and bellowing, followed by heavy treading on the floor and the scraping of chairs as the men clamored for a place around the table. Mr. Wilson sat himself down in a chair and, without pause, snatched up the glass of tea before him. Tilting his head back, he downed the contents of his glass in several loud and slurping swallows. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, and letting out a loud breath of air, he looked up at Grace. With a smile, showing off what few teeth he had left, he pushed the glass at her in a silent demand for more. Silently she obliged…but the moment he turned away, her lip curled in disgust.

  Nasty old coot, she thought. Lord forgive me for saying it, but I hope he chokes.

  He said to everyone, “I reckon I just heard something mighty interesting.”

  Here he goes again, Grace thought, Tellin’ tales and rattling on and on. She was still shaken by what she’d heard of Charlie’s mother, and now this old fool was going to dominate the whole conversation at the table. It made her want to scream and curse.

  They paused to say the blessing. And then it began. He didn’t even take a moment for the Amen to sink in before he started talking.

  “It seems old Walter Hillard kicked the bucket last night.”

  She gasped aloud at the news. But her little noise passed without notice…the conversation carrying on as if she were not present. Seeking comfort, she looked to her mother. But Rachel seemed more concerned with seeing that plates were full, although she did manage a few words.

  "God rest his poor soul.”

  While she gave that small comment, Mr. Wilson continued with his own talk.

  "Charlie is still up there at the house, from what I hear. His aunt and uncle came and had the body down to the undertaker. He'll be buried tomorrow morning, over at the Baptist Church."

  As he spoke, he went on heaping food on his plate. Grace watched him in disgust as he stuffed food in his mouth, looking very much like a fat-cheeked squirrel. The way he was acting, he could have been talking about the weather instead of the death of a neighbor. She wanted to walk over and slap him across his ignorant head. With a last hope of respect for the dead, she looked to her father…who, with an unmoved expression, held out his glass to be refilled.

  "I heard tell that old Robert Brown is a real fire and brimstone preacher. He shakes the rafters when he’s up at the pulpit. I wonder if he’ll give the eulogy."

  Mr. Wilson pursed his lips. “I hope not. All them fire and brimstone types get up there and spew the gospel for two or three hours. Land sakes…the man in the casket is dead. Throw dirt on him and get it over with.”

  Grace’s mouth opened slightly. Disgust was written in every line of her face. And the revulsion only deepened as her father, giving a careless shrug, gave a last comment on the subject.

  “We’ll be there to pay respects.” He took a deep drink of his tea. And as he put it down, his face broke into a smile.

  "You should have been down in the holler with us, Jim. I caught me a trout like you wouldn't believe."

  They started rattling on about fish...talking loud, laughing and telling tales. And that was the end of their mourning over the Hillards.

  She was suddenly ashamed of every adult at that table, especially her mother. Women were supposed to be comforting and healing, but Rachel seemed indifferent. Grace had the urge to jump up and curse every one of their wretched souls. She wanted to run out the door and ride all the way over to the Hillard place to tell Charlie how much she cared…how she wouldn't forget him as everyone else had.

  But now was not the time. If she went running off like a mad fool, embarrassing her folks in front of company, there would surely be hell to pay. Not that she cared a bit for their opinions at that moment. It was the consequences that she dreaded - having to come home and be berated, maybe even switched, and then having to hear about it every day until the end of time. No, she would have to slip away quietly, after everyone was stuffed full with their supper and too sated to care what she did.

  Chapter 3

  “Broken”

  After the meal was cleared away and the dishes were washed, she slipped quietly out the front door, moving towards the barn. Her mother was a good way off across the yard, tending her rose garden. From the back of the house, there was a hum of male voices and laughter, the sound of metal clanging against metal, and the occasional thud of something heavy hitting the ground. They were all wrapped up in a game of horseshoes, so even if the house had caught fire, chances were they wouldn't have noticed. Safe from fear of discovery, she got on her roan mare and rode off toward the house in the hills.

  She had only been to the house once, and that had been by accident, when she and her brothers had been out hunting and came across it. They had thought it was haunted, and until recently, she had agreed with them. Who blamed them for thinking it, when the place sat so far back in the woods, and was kept in such a neglected state? She knew differently now, but the place still had a spookiness about it.

  As she dismounted and tied her horse to a tree, she stood rooted to one spot, looking at the little house and wondering if she should just turn around and go home. The place reminded her of Ferndean Manor...the hidden home of Mr. Rochester in his reclusive state. Standing there, she half expected to see a man emerge from within, dark and brooding, to stand broken and silent in the yard. But there was no one. How could she be sure Charlie was even here? There was only one way to know. Taking a deep breath, she walked up to the front door, and after a moment of hesitation, she lifted her hand and knocked.

  No one answered. She waited, and tried again, but still nothing. If this had been the door of another house, she might have given up and left. But there was something about this place that held her in its grip. She had been nervous before, but now that she was here, curiosity worked its way through her. She looked around for a moment. Slowly she took to walking along the little front porch, looking in one window and then another. As she looked through one of the glass panes, she suddenly noticed a movement from within. Wiping the window and cupping her hands around her eyes to block the sunlight, she looked again.

  There was Charlie, sitting in a chair at a little table. Quickly she went to the door to knock again, calling out.
/>   "Charlie, it's Grace.”

  She waited. When still he did not answer or open the door, she took hold of the handle and, slowly, opened it herself. The table sat just inside the room, and sitting silently at it was Charlie. He didn't even turn to look at her when she came in, nor even as she slowly approached him. When she came close to the table, she noticed the jug of whiskey sitting in front of him. Seeing it, she felt a quake of fear run over her nerves. Still, she spoke to him with what courage she could find.

  "Charlie?" she said, hoping he would at least look at her. Then again, maybe it was better if he didn't. But maybe he would at least talk to her. Her eyes moved from him to the jug, and then to the half-empty mason jar he held in his hand. She did not have to ask what the clear liquid in that jar was. It suddenly bothered her that he would be drinking, even under these circumstances, and she sighed heavily.

  "What are you doing, Charlie?"

  His speech was loud, bold…a little slurred from the drink. "What does it look like I’m doing? I'm working up the courage for the funeral tomorrow. I saw one parent buried when I was nine. Now that I'm ten years older, I get to see the other one buried. That's logic, ain't it?"

  His brash tone and cold words stung. But the sting was brief, for she was sure it was the drink that was talking more than he was. Someone had to do something for him, and she felt compelled to be the one. She reached out to take the glass from his hand. But he jerked it away from her reach.

  "Don't touch that!" He held the glass close to himself, and taking the jug from the table, he placed it safely and securely at his feet. "My father drank himself into the grave. And you know what they say about fathers and sons."

  He was scaring her now, the way he was talking. But with her fear, there suddenly came a burst of frustration and anger at him. Men were supposed to be pillars of strength, but when it came right down to it, they were just little boys who had to be told what to do. Or they had to find their courage in a bottle, of all places. It frustrated her to no end. It also bolstered her nerves, and in a swift move, she snatched the jar away from him, dodging his attempts to snatch it back. Going to the front door, opening it, she pitched the glass out in the front yard.