Chapter One
Sherman Cobb wasn't feeling well. In fact, he hadn't been
feeling well for quite some time. He couldn't even
remember the last time he woke up in the morning feeling
rested and refreshed, ready to face whatever the new day
brought. That was why he was sitting in Doc Ryder's
waiting room, expecting the worst.
He'd first visited the doctor a few weeks ago, complaining
of pain and tiredness. "Ordinary enough symptoms," Doc
Ryder had said in a reassuring tone of voice. But when the
doctor palpated his abdomen, Sherman was sure he'd noticed
an expression of alarm flicker across his face. It was
quickly suppressed, but Sherman had noticed it and Doc
Ryder's usually brusque and hearty tone became cautious
and guarded as he ordered a battery of tests. "Nothing to
worry about--just to be on the safe side," he'd said, but
Sherman hadn't believed him.
Deep inside, he knew something was wrong, just like some
women can tell they're pregnant long before the strip
turns blue on a pregnancy kit. He didn't know how he knew,
but he could feel death overtaking him, like the gradual
chill you feel when the furnace goes out. First your hands
and feet feel cold; then you notice you can't seem to get
warm and the radiator feels cool to the touch. You check
the thermostat and notice the temperature has fallen a few
degrees; the oil tank must be empty or perhaps the pilot
light has blown out. You go down to the cellar to
investigate.
That's what he'd done. He'd come to the doctor to find out
what was wrong. But no matter what it turned out to be, he
knew it wouldn't make any difference. His pilot light was
struggling to stay lit, but he knew it was just a matter
of time before he finally ran out of fuel.
He sighed and reminded himself that he'd cheated the grim
reaper a few times in his life and could hardly complain
that his chit had finally come due. He'd had a good life,
a productive life. He'd had his share of success; he'd
known great happiness. All told, he thought, there was
only one thing that he wished had been different.
Maybe it could be, he thought, wondering whether he should
simply leave things be or should try to change them after
all these years. And if he did, would there be enough
time?
Pausing at the kitchen door with an armful of lilac
blossoms she had just cut, Julia Tilley realized Papa was
angry about something. In her twenty years she had become
an expert reader of his moods, always watching for the
slightest flicker of his mustache, the curl of his mouth
and the lowering of his brows. Not that such acute
awareness was required today--she could hear his voice
reverberating through the entire house, like thunder.
Julia hesitated, unsure what to do. The lilacs would
certainly wilt unless she got them into water very soon.
On the other hand, Papa's anger seemed to be directed to
her older sister, Harriet, and Julia was content to leave
it that way. She certainly didn't want to draw his
attention by going inside the house.
Moving quickly, she picked up the old enamel bucket that
held kitchen scraps and carried it out to the compost heap
next to the garden, where she emptied it. She then took it
to the pump and filled it with clean water for the lilacs.
She set them in the shade and sat down on the porch steps,
wondering what to do for the duration. She could walk down
the drive to the mailbox, hoping Papa's tantrum would be
over by the time she returned, or she could stay here on
the stoop and--well, not exactly eavesdrop because that
would be wrong, like opening someone's mail--but perhaps a
phrase or two would come to her and she could figure out
what all the fuss was about.
"Damned scoundrelโฆa Communist...filthy New Dealer..."
So, it was about Thomas O'Rourke, the young man her sister
Harriet had been seeing. Julia had suspected as much. He
was a labor organizer and a big supporter of Mr.
Roosevelt's New Deal. Papa, a Maine Republican, had no
doubt that Mr. Roosevelt's policies would ruin the
country.
"I love him, Papa, and you're not going to stop me."
Julia's eyebrows shot up in amazement. Harriet was daring
to argue with Papa.
"Don't you dare talk to me like that, young lady," was
Papa's predictable response.
"I'm not young, Papa, don't you see? I'm thirty years old.
I've always done what you said and what has it gotten me?
I'm an old maid--too good for anyone in this town, that's
for sure."
Julia considered this. It was true, she realized, with a
jolt. None of the farmers and small tradesmen who lived in
Tinker's Cove would want a college-educated wife like
Harriet. Or herself, for that matter.
"Is that what you want? To marry some man and become his
laundress, his cook, his concubine?" Papa practically spat
out the words.
On the stoop, Julia hugged herself. She could see Papa's
expression as clearly as if she were the object of his
wrath. The bristly eyebrows, the narrow nose and hollow
cheeks, the frowning mouth. How could Harriet bear to
confront him? How could she stand his disapproval?
"Yes, Papa," replied Harriet, coolly. "That's exactly what
I want, more than anything. I want to feel Thomas's arms
around me, his lips pressed against mine. I want to give
myself to him. I want to bear his children."
Julia's jaw dropped, and apparently, so did Papa's. There
was silence. A long silence. Julia sat very still,
watching the swallows' swooping flight above the neat rows
of baby lettuce in the vegetable garden.
When Papa finally spoke, his voice was as cold and hard as
ice.
"Understand this: If you marry Thomas O'Rourke, you are no
daughter of mine and you will have nothing that is mine.
Marry him and you will become dead to me." Julia's lips
twitched, hearing the awful words.
Rachel reached out to gently shake Julia awake, but
hesitated. Miss Tilley was almost ninety years old and,
like a lot of very old people, didn't sleep well at night.
It seemed a shame to disturb her, even if lunch was ready.
She had made up her mind to turn down the pot when Miss
Tilley's eyes sprang open.
"Ah, you're awake," said Rachel. "Are you ready for lunch?
It's your favorite, shrimp wiggle on toast."
Julia Ward Howe Tilley blinked and looked around. She'd
been dozing, she realized. Papa was long gone, and dear
Mama. And Harriet was dead, too. Julia stroked her
arthritic fingers and furrowed her brow. She was the only
survivor, the last remaining member of her family. Or was
she? What if Harriet had given Thomas O'Rourke a child?
Her heart beat a little faster at the thought.
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