My Way Home (St.Gabriel Series Book 1) (St. Gabriel Series) (44 page)

“So you knew who I was when I met you at James’ apartment?”

“No, but when I looked at you, standing right there in front of me in James’ kitchen, it was like I was looking at Camellia Miller. I was hoping it was you, but we didn’t know for sure until after you had already left the island. We were able to find out you were adopted and by people who were related to the Millers.”

“To George?”

Celia nodded.

“He knows my parents?” It still sounded odd to call them that.

“No. And we still don’t know how you ended up with the Engels.”

“Why have you kept the lodge? Stephen didn’t know it belonged to you?”

“No, only George and I knew about the lodge. And it’s never belonged to me, Cammy. It has always been yours. We were just keeping it for you. I didn’t know that when I bought it and while we had it all these years. But when I saw you walk up the hill to see the lodge two summers ago, I knew you were the reason.”

“You were looking out the attic window?”

“Yes.”

I still had so many questions, but there was only one thing I wanted to do at that moment. I stood up and said, “I want to see Lucy.”

George hitched up the buggy and he and Race took me to Lucy’s house. Her front door was open and she was sitting at her kitchen table trimming flowers. I sat down next to her and laid my hand on top of hers and asked, “Lucy, do you know who I am?”

Her eyes filled with tears and she said, “Cammy.”

A Lodge Full

Guests were in room number ten, but when they checked out, I took the key off the hook and didn’t put it back for the rest of the season. I couldn’t get myself to call my parents Dorothy and Franz Engel, but Frank did. Our mother still didn’t want to hear Frank say anything about it.

A time would come when I needed more answers, but I was adjusting to what I did know. And actually, what I didn’t know, I wasn’t sure I was ready to hear. So I kept busy and tried not dwell on it.

Frank and Sara were helping us get the lodge put to bed for the winter and preparing for their move to Seattle. They would leave after Thanksgiving.

I was determined not to have a repeat of the previous winter, so I checked and double checked my lists. Race looked over my shoulder at Einstein. “Did you write down having all of the furnaces and the heater in the henhouse serviced?” he asked.

“Yes.”

“How about checking all of the shutters?”

“Got it.”

“And the food for the animals?”

I held Einstein up to him. “Would you like to do this?”

Lucy was making her own preparations
for the winter, and she let me help her get her garden and greenhouse in order before the cold weather moved in. The greenhouse, I had learned, was a gift from Celia for Lucy’s thirtieth birthday, and Celia has had it maintained ever since. George told me all about it.

First we mulched the perennials and planted bulbs, and then we cleaned the greenhouse. We moved everything outside and swept and scrubbed from the top panel of glass to the far corners of the floors under the growing racks. Then we brought in all the geraniums and other plants that weren’t St. Gabriel cold hardy.

Race and I planned a big Coleman Thanksgiving at the lodge that year. When I was helping Lucy with her garden, I asked her if she would spend the holiday with us, “Paul and Janie are coming home and George and Celia will be there. Will you come?”

She smiled with her eyes but didn’t say anything.

“The Morrisons and the Cummings will be there too.” Lucy loved Joel’s three girls. Sierra, the youngest, liked to help Lucy in her garden, and Lucy was as big a fan of Benji Cummings as I was.

“Will you come?” I asked her again.

Lucy grabbed my hand and took me into the shed behind her house. Inside were flowers and herbs that had been tied into bouquets with twine and hung from the ceiling. On the counters were beautiful arrangements of dried flowers in different stages of completion. Lucy stood on a step ladder and cut down a few bunches and began working on an arrangement that was in a big old copper boiler. I sat on a stool and watched for almost an hour. When she was finished, she stood back, looked at it and then handed it to me.

“For Thanksgiving?” I asked.

Without a word, she smiled and was out the door and back to the garden on her knees, spreading sweet island compost on the ground beneath a row of peonies. That’s what she does when I try to talk about her and me. She just smiles and busies herself with her flowers.

Race and I decided
to tell Paul and Janie about the parents I was born to when we flew them home a week before Thanksgiving. We lit a fire in the lobby fireplace and Race wove the tale as only Race could, “I’m going to tell you a story about a woman who found her way home.” And he had them hook, line and sinker.

The rest of the family trickled in the next few days, and Race waited to tell the story again until everyone had arrived. It was quite the topic of conversation, and there were lots of questions, many of them we couldn’t answer.

We had a lodge full for the holiday—Paul, Janie and David, Sara and Frank, Marni, Loretta, and the entire Coleman family, well, almost all of them. We had people sleeping in every nook and cranny.

Thanksgiving Day more family and friends filled the lodge—James and his son Trent, the Morrisons, the Cummings, Lisle and Kurt, and the Meaks. And we told everyone to round up anyone who didn’t have plans elsewhere, so there were lots of new faces. I was hoping Lucy would show up. She didn’t. But George and Celia were there, as a couple.

Every buffet and china hutch was crowded with food, and Lucy’s dried flower arrangement was in the center of the pie table. A row of tables was lined up from one end of the dining room to the other, and the fireplace was full of logs aflame.

We were all sitting down at the tables and before we let everyone loose at the buffets, Race’s dad stood up and raised his glass. “We have two Thanksgiving traditions in the Coleman family. First, everyone must write something they are thankful for and drop it in the Thankful Bowl before they fill their plates.” Raceter nodded toward the big stoneware bowl in the middle of the table that already held a dozen pieces of folded paper. “I can see some of y’all were thinkin’ ahead. Second, we have the toasts and the blessings, and it’s Cammy’s rule that we start with the youngest and the oldest folk before we eat, and then we keep ‘em coming while we chow down.” Raceter looked at Benji. “Mr. Benji Cummings, it’s my understanding that you are the youngest here. Are you ready to say your peace?”

Benji looked at his mother for direction.

Miriam leaned in and said to Benji, “Just do what we practiced.”

Benji scooted out of his chair and walked over to stand beside Raceter who lifted him up onto the chair at the end of the table. Benji’s eyes seemed to grow wider the longer he stood there. Then he squeezed his eyes shut tight and blurted out, “Thank you.” And opened his eyes and smiled big.

The room broke into a roar of laughter and Benji was crushed.

Race’s mom stood up and grabbed Benji’s hand and said, “That’s the most important prayer there is darlin’. Well done.” And then she took the littlest Cummings back to sit with his parents.

“Well that’s a tough act to follow young man,” Raceter said to Benji with a big smile. “But I’ll give it a go. Looking around at this table, at all this family by blood and love, I can’t help but remember my first Thanksgiving with my bride.”

Anna swatted Raceter’s bottom with her napkin. “Oh, Mr. Coleman, not that. That story’s as old as Moses.”

“And like Moses, a classic. You let me say my peace, now, honey.” Raceter cleared his throat and continued, “We’d been wed for four whole months and my bride was determined to dazzle the families with her homemaking skills. She’d been cooking for three days and had prepared a feast fit for the Queen.

“When the family all arrived that afternoon and we were all sittin’ down to the table, my bride went to the kitchen to retrieve her glorious turkey and present it to our guests. We heard a scream in the kitchen and when I went to see what the matter was, this sweet woman was standing in the middle of the room holding a roasting pan filled with a pasty white, raw bird that had been sittin’ in a stone cold oven for half the day. We had a Thanksgiving meal that year of side dishes, and pie. So when you see me cut into one of those pies over there as part of my main course, know that Cammy and I have an understanding about that,” Raceter looked over at me for confirmation, “don’t we, darlin’?”

“Yes, Dad, a complete understanding,” I said.

Raceter continued, “I’m just honoring tradition—”

“And not his waistline,” added Anna. “He’s on the before and after dessert plan.”

“It’s a tradition I’ve honored all our married years and anyone here is welcome to follow suit.” Raceter held his glass high and cleared his throat.

“Your toastin’ time is up, darlin’,” Anna said to her husband.

“I’m just gettin’ started, honey.”

“Oh, Lord, keep the food warm.” Anna shook her head and rolled her eyes.

Raceter held his glass higher. “To my son and his beautiful wife, our dear Cammy, thank you for bringing us all together to be part of this very special day, in this very special place, with these very special people.” Raceter nodded at Celia and George.

And I looked at George who was sitting next to me and squeezed his hand and he squeezed mine back.

Raceter went on, “I’m thankful for my beautiful wife, my children, and grandchildren and all my family, which includes everyone at this table, even those of you I haven’t got acquainted with yet. Thank you Lord for all you’ve seen fit to provide and for seeing us through the storms, Happy Thanksgiving everyone. Let’s eat.”

More toasts of thanksgiving were shared while we ate, and then halfway through the meal Benji stood on his chair and said, “I wasn’t done.” Apparently, he’d had an epiphany. He waited until he had all the attention in the room and then shut his eyes and said in his booming four-year-old voice, “Thank you for the food we eat. Thank you for the world so sweet. Thank you for the birds that sing. Thank you, God, for everything. Amen.” Benji looked down at his mother. “Did I say that right?”

“Just right,” said Miriam.

And everyone clapped and cheered.

“I’m not done!” shouted Benji. “And I’m thankful for the pie and that we get to dance.”

And we did dance. We laughed, and ate and we danced, and our Thankful Bowl was overflowing.

After the holiday
Frank and Sara were the last to leave. Sara and I hugged for a long a time and shed lots of tears, but we did not say goodbye.

Then things got very, very quiet. By the end of November, I had put the lodge back together after our houseful of holiday mayhem, and then I took Einstein and climbed the stairs to Race’s study where he was sitting at his roll-top desk. I spun his chair around, sat in his lap, and flipped to the lodge’s final accounting for the season.

“Well, we’re ready for Old Man Winter, and despite a remodeling budget that went bust, a fire and being closed for over a month for repairs, we’ve had a pretty good season, Mr. Coleman. We won’t be traveling five-star, but what continent would you like to explore?”

“I don’t know. Someplace we can see before the ice crossing forms and after the Winter Bazaar. I told Ralph I would help Matthew and him get the tree for Main Street and I’d coach one of the snow softball teams. And James and I were talking about when we would open up the tunnel.”

“Sounds like a pretty full schedule. You really should try not to get yourself so booked up,” I said and winked.

He kissed me good.

“Is that your novel?” I was looking at the printed ream of paper on his desk.

“It’s just some notes. I thought we might want them someday.”

“Notes? That’s some pile of notes. Notes about what?”

“You and me, the island, the lodge, Lucy, George and Celia.”

“Really, can I read it?”

He nodded.

I lifted the stack and flipped through it. “This is what you’ve been writing?”

“Yes.”

“Since day one?”

“Yes.”

“What about your novel?”

“I’m working on it. I have the rest of my life for that.”

I hugged the pages to my chest. “Did you know it would have quite the ending?”

“There isn’t an ending—just a beginning.”

Home

I am a Tadyshak, and a Miller and a Quinn. I was raised by Engels, fell in love with a Coleman and was conceived out of love. My life may have been very different if the terrible thing that happened so many years ago hadn’t happened. Would I have chosen the same school all the way across the country where I would meet Race? Would I have gone to college at all? What about Paul and Janie? What about my little brother Frank?

After all that has happened, I ended up home. Home on an island that speaks to my soul, home with my family, married to a man I adore, the only man I have ever loved. The face of my Irish grandmother leaped a generation and was given to me as was her spirit, passed on like hair and eye color. Despite a childhood that always seemed foreign to me, my Quinn spirit was preserved.