In Search of Eden (29 page)

“Oh!” Miranda exclaimed. It looked like a doll house, a picture in a lovely book.

“This is my grandma's house,” Eden said, opening the gate. “Come on in.”

She felt a little hesitant.

“It's okay,” Eden said. “She's real nice.”

Miranda followed her to the porch.

“Come on in. I need to ask her something.”

“I'll wait here.”

Eden shrugged and banged through the gingerbread-cornered white screen door.

“Grandma!” she called.

“In here,” a voice answered.

“Can my friend borrow that bike in the shed?”

“Of course, honey. I think the tires are flat, though.”

Miranda grinned at Eden's solution to her transportation problem. Why not? The exercise would do her good. For longer trips she would work out something else.

The voice got closer; then someone Miranda assumed was Eden's grandmother stepped out onto the porch. She was a tall, gracious woman of ample proportions with a pouf of silver hair that still showed streaks of blond. Her eyes were warm brown, and there was a sprinkling of freckles on her arms, face, and neck. She had a kind face and wore an expression of interest. She had on burnt-orange pants and a wild geometric print blouse of gold, green, and rich sable brown. Her shoes were gold metallic flats with gemstones. She wore a gold bracelet, two long necklaces, one of which, upon close examination, proved to be a watch and the other a cross, and gold bangle earrings. When she spoke, Miranda was reminded of slow, sweet things: honey and taffy and hot fudge.

“I'm Ruth,” she said, holding out her hand, which was warm and soft. “Ruth Williams. Welcome.”

“Thank you,” she answered, suddenly shy.

“Won't you come in and have something to drink?”

“She made a cake last night,” Eden volunteered.

Miranda hesitated for just a moment, but Eden was obviously anxious, and Ruth seemed to sincerely welcome her. “Thank you,” Miranda said, “I'd be grateful.”

She followed them into the house, which was as delightful inside as it was out. The living room had a red-and-white checked sofa and lots of trailing ivy plants. There was furniture of golden oak, a braided rug of gold and cream and red and green, and lots of sunshine and lace. There was a quilt over the back of the couch in the same colors and another one in the dining room on the table, mostly covered by a sewing machine on one end and stacks of papers on the other.

“I'm writing my column,” Ruth said. “Once a month I write ‘Simple Pleasures' for the
Blue Ridge Journal.”

“That sounds nice,” Miranda said. “What's this column on?”

Ruth smiled. “This month I'm writing about springhouses. How my grandmother used to keep her milk and cheese and butter cold by building a little box over the creek or spring. I write about these things so that children can know and remember when all of us are gone.”

“I don't like to think about that.”

“I know,” Ruth said gently. “But the Lord takes us all when our time is done. And times change with the people.”

They went into the kitchen, where Eden was already taking down cake plates and getting out the knife. The cake proved to be of the Bundt variety and was studded with nuts.

“You're not allergic to black walnuts, are you?” Ruth asked.

“No, ma'am,” Miranda answered.

“This is my brown sugar pound cake with black walnuts,” Ruth said. “I was raised up near Richmond, and there were three black walnut trees at the edge of our property. Every year it was my job to gather the nuts and hull and shell them. What a chore!” she said, putting coffee on to brew without seeming to exert any effort or break the thread of her conversation at all. “Are you from around here?” she asked.

“Tennessee,” Miranda answered. “Nashville.”

“Well, you're not very far from home,” Ruth said. “What brings you to Abingdon?”

She was going to have to answer that question more often now that she was becoming a temporary resident rather than simply passing through. For now, though, she fell back on her usual explanation for why she was in Kankakee or New Orleans or Philadelphia or New York. “I just like to travel around,” she said. “I'd like to see as much of the world as I can before I die.”

Ruth smiled. “That must be an interesting life,” she said. “You must have met lots of different people. Think of the stories you could write.”

Miranda nodded and smiled.

“Miranda's gonna work at the Hasty Taste,” Eden volunteered. “She taking Elna's place.”

“Well, what a blessing for Wally,” Ruth said. “I know he was worried about how he was going to manage. Do you have a place to stay, dear?”

Miranda grinned and nodded toward Eden. “That was thanks to Eden, too. I'm going to be the custodian at the mortuary.”

“Is that right?” Ruth beamed. “Well, welcome to our town.”

There was a clatter on the porch, and the screen door opened and twanged shut. Heavy footsteps clumped on the wood floor of the hall. Uncle Joseph's bulk filled up the doorway. He looked like a storm cloud about to rain, and Miranda felt a perverse satisfaction as she leaned back in her chair and took a bite of cake.

“Joseph, I'd like you to meet—”

“We've met,” he answered curtly.

His mother gave him the eye, which he ignored. “What's my old bike doing out on the porch?”

“Oh, is that yours?” Ruth asked, eyes wide. “I wasn't sure which of you boys had left it here, unused and rusting all these years.”

Miranda suppressed a smile and felt a healthy respect. She was in the presence of a master.

“Miranda's gonna use it, so she doesn't have to buy insurance,” Eden contributed.

At that Miranda's cheeks flamed, and Joseph got a chance to look superior. “Oh, is that a fact?”

“If that's all right with you,” Eden added, and Ruth and Eden looked toward him with expectant faces. Miranda pointed hers toward her shoes.

“Sure,” he mumbled, “I guess,” then turned to leave.

“Won't you have some cake, darling?”

He mumbled something else, and then Miranda heard the screen door shut and his boots clumping back across the porch and down the stairs.

“What's wrong with Uncle Joseph?” Eden asked. “He's grouchy.”

“He works too hard,” Ruth said with a shake of her head. “Don't pay him any mind. Now, where were we?”

By the end of the day, Miranda's immediate problems had all been solved, thanks to Eden. She had taken Joseph's bike to the gas station and had the tires patched and filled and some oil applied to its various joints and gears. It rode like a dream when she was finished, and she felt young and carefree with the wind ruffling her hair. She rode to the hardware store and purchased a lock for it, and drove Mr. Cooper's car only once as she checked out of the Super 8. She actually walked to the police department and spied on Joseph Williams again before she did so, hoping he would stay put until it was parked again, this time behind the mortuary. She was in luck.

She moved it with no incidents; however, she did phone Mr. Cooper and, after a brief update on her activities, arranged to have the Cadillac added to his insurance. She wrote out a check for an amount that should cover a few months' worth of premiums and dropped it in the mail, then unpacked her suitcases. When she was finished, she took a small satchel she'd brought with her and rode to the grocery store, bought eggs and bread and peanut butter and coffee, and rode back home. By nightfall she had arranged her things in the bedroom, eaten supper and cleaned up, and had even set out clothes for work in the morning. There was no television, which was fine. She walked outside and sat down in front of the funeral home and enjoyed the dusk. She would have to think of something nice to do for Eden to thank her for all her help.

As the sun set she came back inside, showered, and got ready for bed. When she set the alarm on her cell phone for 5:00
A.M
., she realized with chagrin that she had completely forgotten to call
Aunt Bobbie. She checked her watch. It was only nine-thirty. She took a chance and dialed her aunt's number. She answered on the third ring.

She sounded tired, as usual, but this time she seemed more interested in Miranda's progress. “How's the search coming?” she asked.

“Pretty well,” Miranda answered. “I don't really have any leads on the baby yet, but I've gotten myself established here. And made a few new friends,” she added, thinking of Eden's bright face and Ruth's kind one.

“That's good,” Aunt Bobbie said.

Miranda imagined how silly this must seem to her, someone with real-life responsibilities who probably didn't have time to go digging around in the past. “Aunt Bobbie, I just wondered if you could tell me a few things.”

“All right,” her aunt answered, but her voice sounded wary.

Miranda sighed. There was a wall that shut down over her and Mama whenever she tried to get any information on their past history. “Where exactly did you and Mama grow up?”

Hesitation. “Why do you want to know that?”

“Just a hunch. Might not pan out.”

“It was near Thurmond. In West Virginia,” Aunt Bobbie said. “But I don't see how that can help you.”

“Where were Mama and Daddy married?” she asked, ignoring the discouraging attitude.

“At a justice of the peace in Nashville,” Aunt Bobbie said, a little more easily.

“Do you know exactly where Daddy was from?” she asked Aunt Bobbie.

“No, I don't. I just remember it was somewhere south of us— maybe Georgia or Florida.”

That was a pretty wide territory. Miranda didn't say so, though, just thanked her for the information. “And you don't have any ideas about the connection to Abingdon?”

“No,” Aunt Bobbie said. “Honey, I've got to go. I've got to
get my uniform in the dryer. I'm working graveyard tonight.”

“Thank you, Aunt Bobbie,” she said, and after hearing her aunt's tired good-night, she hung up the phone.

What had happened to those girls? she wondered. What had made them want to never say the name of their home again, to never see their people? What had made Mama so brittle and angry and dangerous and Aunt Bobbie such a worn shell of a person?

She wrote in her journal for a while, of her questions and frustrations, then made a few pages of collage. She tore up a magazine and put in pictures of locks and keys and drew a heart with a chain and padlock.

She felt sad for the both of them as she pondered it, but she also felt a thrust of anger. She was tired of secrets. She was going to get to the bottom of a few. She was going to find things out.

chapter
29

J
oseph stayed late at the office. He took the copies of the traffic tickets he had issued to Miranda DeSpain and ran the information through the National Crime Information Center database. She had no criminal history or outstanding warrants anywhere. He Googled her just on a whim and found a tantalizing bit of information. The Spokane, Washington,
Spokesman Review
reported that in 2001 a marriage license had been issued to a Charles E. Porter and Miranda M. DeSpain, both of Coeur d'Alene. He checked the ticket he had issued. Miranda's middle initial was I, not M. He ran his hand over his face. He needed a shave. He got up and went to the window. He should go home, but there was really no reason, now that he thought about it. Flick had been staying at his mom's ever since Eden had come. There was no one waiting for him, not even a dog. He chuckled silently to himself for his pathetic thoughts.

He looked down on the street below. The storefronts and streetlights were decorated with hanging baskets of spring flowers, the trees in full leaf. Tourists came to Abingdon because of its history and because of its character. It had the feeling of a place apart, where life was protected or at least partially shielded from
the harsh realities of the world. People lived here and loved this place because it was safe. There was goodness here. He felt a fierce protectiveness toward it, and he realized he would do whatever was necessary to keep it that way. A little thought nagged him then that bad things happened in Abingdon the same as everywhere else. Evil found its way in through people's hearts, not through holes in fences.

He set the thought aside, then went back to his desk and pulled out the county sheriff's reports on the crimes of the Irish Travelers. They had been a busy bunch. Mr. Norwood had been the first casualty with the asphalt sealant scam. Then there had been a gas station owner out on Highway 58. They had sold him a box of worthless tools. A Mrs. Frederick Mueller had paid them to prune her fruit orchard. They had indiscriminately chopped away at half the trees, then told her she had bud moths and they would have to spray, but they needed another three hundred dollars to buy the supplies. She gave it to them, and they were never seen again. The county extension agent had looked things over after they left. There were no bud moths, and the trees that had been “pruned” would need years to recover before they bore fruit again.