For Love of Eli: Quilts of Love Series Page 2

  She loved how he called everything at the Misty Wolf “ours,” from the big house itself to the land surrounding it. Taylor went to him, and hugging him from behind, said, “That is a big herd, isn’t it! And you’re right … we can see the horses from up here.” It still amazed her that, almost from his first day here, he’d started referring to the Misty Wolf Inn as home. Even more astounding was how quickly he’d accepted the fact that his dad had been killed by a roadside bomb in Afghanistan, and a car crash had taken his mom. Oh to have the pure, unquestioning faith of a child, she thought, thanking God for the green-eyed blessing who stood in the circle of her arms.

  “Can we go riding later?”

  “Maybe … if there’s time. It’s Friday, don’t forget.”

  “Oh, yeah. I almost forgot. An Uncle Reece Friday.”

  “Mmm-hmm.” Uncle Reece Fridays … her least favorite nights of the month.

  “Can I call him, see if he can come get me a little early, and maybe go riding with us?”

  “I don’t see why not. As my grandpa used to say ‘It never hurts to ask.’ ”

  One of two things would happen when they got downstairs: Eli would get busy doing little boy things and forget to make the call, or he’d get his uncle on the phone only to find out that Reece still had patients to see and wouldn’t be able to leave the office early.

  Turning to face her, Eli looked up into Taylor’s face. “So what’s in the ugly ol’ trunk over there?” he asked, using his thumb as a pointer.

  Taylor kissed the top of his head. “You know, I honestly have no idea.”

  “Whose is it?”

  “Mine.”

  “Whoa. No way. It’s yours, and you don’t know what’s in it!”

  Smiling, Taylor shrugged. “ ’Fraid not.”

  “But …” His eyes widened as he looked at the trunk. “Why not? Did somebody say you weren’t allowed to?”

  “No.”

  “That you’d get in trouble for opening it?”

  “No, nothing like that.”

  Frowning, he said, “Then … then why haven’t you opened it!”

  How could she explain to this bighearted boy—who’d lost both parents in less than a year’s time—that she didn’t have the guts to look at reminders of the people she’d lost?

  “I don’t have a good reason.” In truth, Taylor didn’t have any reason.

  “You know that’s just weird, don’t you?”

  “Yes, yes, I suppose it is.”

  Eli crossed both arms over his chest. “So, what do you think is in there?”

  “Oh,” she said with a sigh, “probably just a bunch of old junk. A few things that belonged to my mom and dad, and to my grandparents, maybe even your dad.”

  Eyes narrowed slightly, Eli said, “Oh. I get it. You don’t want to see all that stuff ’cause you’re afraid it will make you sad …”

  “Well, I-I—”

  “… and remind you how much you miss them, right?”

  She pictured Eliot’s gap-toothed grin, her dad’s playful wink, her mom’s loving smile. “Right.”

  He took her hand, gave it a little squeeze. “You know what I do when I miss my mom?”

  Taylor didn’t know if she had the self-control to keep her tears at bay if he continued.

  “I hug their pictures re-e-eal tight.”

  “… because that’s all I have left of them,” Taylor finished. Stirrings of resentment swirled in her heart. She’d never forgive his mom for giving away everything that might have reminded Eli of her and his dad. Makes it real hard to believe your death was an accident, Margo, Taylor thought. But bitterness quickly gave way to a blush of shame as she realized what Eli was really telling her: you should be thanking God that you have these things to help you remember your loved ones.

  “It’ll be okay,” he said, patting her hand. “I’ll be right here with you. Don’t worry, if you get sad, I’ll give you a hug.”

  With that, Eli led her over to the trunk. “There’s nothing in there to be scared of,” he said, getting down on one knee. “There’s probably nothing in there but old lady underwear!”

  He giggled at his little joke as Taylor marveled at the depth of his perceptiveness. “Bummer!” he said, tugging at the big padlock. “Did your grampa lock everything up?”

  “Pretty much,” she admitted, picturing dead bolts on the tool shed and barn, the garage, and the slanting doors leading into the basement.

  “Oh, cool!” Eli said, pointing at a tarnished skeleton key. It dangled from a yard-long strand of twine that had been tied around one of the trunk’s leather handles. “Must be something pretty good in there,” he said, inserting it into the keyhole.

  Her heartbeat doubled when the latch went click because now, she couldn’t turn back. The sound bounced from sun-faded bureaus, threadbare chairs, framed photos, and fading portraits that stood like somber sentries against the turret’s curved walls.

  Eli sat back on his heels. “Well?”

  Taylor might have said, Well what? if she could have found her voice.

  “You want me to open it, or are you gonna do it?”

  What I want, she thought, is to go downstairs, right now, and put Isaac to work installing a big lock on the door to the turret. After which, she’d throw away the key.

  Eli must have read her hesitation as permission to open the trunk because that’s exactly what he did. “What’s that smell?” he wanted to know.

  “It’s cedar, a much less stinky way to protect clothes than moth balls.” Her hands shook as she removed a layer of tissue paper.

  “What’s that?”

  “A cigar box,” she said, peeling away the bulky burlap wrapper. Hands trembling, she handed it to Eli, who flipped up the lid to expose a jumble of gold chains, once-silvery earrings, bangle bracelets, rings, and a cameo broach the size of an egg.

  “Oh, yuck,” Eli grumbled, frowning as he handed it back. “Nothin’ but girl stuff.” Then he pointed. “Wonder what’s in there?”

  Taylor set the cigar box aside to retrieve a small wooden cedar chest. Inside, wrapped in brown paper, were dozens of scallop-edged photos, some still wearing the corner tabs that had once fastened them to the pages of an old-fashioned picture album. But sensing Eli’s impatience, Taylor put the box down. She’d have plenty of time to look through the photographs after Eli left for his weekend with Reece.

  In the next layer of the trunk, three elegant hats: a simple veiled pillbox, one adorned with ostrich plumes, and a straw sunbonnet trimmed in velvet. Here, a lacy-edged scarf; there, a crocheted shawl, and a single elbow-length glove that was missing one of its iridescent pearl buttons. Then, a white box filled with embroidered handkerchiefs, a package of seamed silk stockings, and finally, a wedding gown, veil, and size-five white satin shoes—all preserved to perfection in their blankets of cotton-soft tissue.

  Eli exhaled a heavy sigh. “Aw, is it all girl stuff?”

  “Sorry, kiddo,” she said, mussing his bangs, “but it looks that way. But just as soon as we put everything back the way we found it, we’ll open another box. And who knows,” she added, tapping the tip of his upturned nose, “maybe that one will be filled with all sorts of cool boy stuff!”

  “Want me to help?”

  “No, you go ahead and play. Just be careful; some of that stuff is sharp, remember.”

  As he busied himself with the whirligig and the fire truck, Taylor noticed a brown cardboard box at the very bottom of the trunk; on its lid, her mother’s beautifully feminine script spelled out “To Taylor.”

  Was it coincidence that Taylor found the box today—the Friday before Mothers’ Day—her very first as a substitute mom? She didn’t think so. Hands trembling and heart pounding, Taylor eased off the lid. And under a blanket of pale pink tissue paper, she saw an unfinished quilt, scraps of cloth, spools of thread, and a pencil sketch of what her mother had in mind when the project began. “Oh, my,” she whispered, hugging it to her chest, “isn’t it just lo
vely.”

  Eli knee-walked closer to get a better look, lips moving as he counted a dozen colorful squares cut from satin and silk, cotton and flannel. Then he picked up a small, square envelope and handed it to Taylor. “What’s this?”

  Taylor’s fingers were shaking when she took it from him.

  “Is it a note? From your mom?”

  Nodding, she bit down hard on her lower lip. Oh, Lord, she prayed silently, please don’t let me cry.

  “I can read a little,” Eli said, peering over her shoulder, “but Mrs. Cunningham hasn’t taught us cursive yet.”

  Despite her astonishment at finding the quilt, Taylor picked up on Eli’s not-so-subtle hint. She slid the ivory notepaper from its matching envelope and cleared her throat.

  “To sweet Taylor, my precious little gift from God,” she read, “I pray this will keep you warm, not only on this, your 7th birthday, but every day of your life. I will also pray that it will always remind you how very much you are loved and treasured, for you are my heart, dear one!”

  And it was signed Your loving mother.

  For what seemed a full five minutes, Eli sat quietly, nodding. And then he said, “I get it. Your mom died before she could finish your birthday present, didn’t she?”

  The sheen of tears in his big green eyes told Taylor that he really did get it. Unable to speak past the sob aching in her throat, she drew him into a hug.

  “Family,” he said into her shoulder, “is the most important thing in the whole wide world.”

  “Yes,” she whispered. “Yes, it sure is!”

  “I’m really glad,” he said, looking into her face, “that your mom made you something to remember her by.” He looked back at the unfinished quilt. “Well, at least she tried to, anyway.” He met her eyes to add “You’re glad about that, right?”

  Yes, of course she was, but not so glad that she hadn’t heard the note of regret in Eli’s sweet voice: his mom hadn’t left anything for him to remember her by and (thanks to Margo’s closet-cleaning frenzy) neither had Eliot.

  Eli leaned into the trunk, his voice echoing as he said, “Hey, look at this!” Sitting back on his heels, he held up his find. “It’s a pearl.” He held it between thumb and forefinger to inspect it. “Do you think it’s real?”

  “No,” she said as he handed it to her, “probably not.” She showed him the glove with the missing button. “I think it belongs here.”

  His tiny finger ruffled the threads, still dangling from the glove’s wrist. “You gonna sew it back on?”

  “Probably not,” she said again, “since the glove doesn’t have a mate. But I’ll save the button. Who knows where it might end up?” Snickering, she tousled his hair. “Maybe on your soccer uniform!”

  Eyes wide, he cringed. “No way! Eww! Yuck!”

  Taylor pulled him close and said, “You know I’m only teasing, right?”

  “Yeah. ’Course I do.” But his smile faded as he glanced at the unfinished quilt. He didn’t have to voice his wish aloud for Taylor to know what it was: wish my mom and dad left me stuff like this to remember them by.

  As she searched her heart and mind for just the right words to comfort and reassure him, a shard of sunlight glinted from the button and exploded in a dazzling rainbow arc that radiated blue and green, pink and purple. It lasted an eye blink, a heartbeat, a mere spark in time before disappearing like the horizon’s illusive green flash …

  … exactly long enough for an idea to begin taking shape in her mind.

  2

  Few things irked Reece more than knowing he’d lost control of a situation, and he’d felt anything but in charge of the meeting with his realtor. It wasn’t Wesley’s fault that the market was in such miserable shape, or that Reece would take a financial beating no matter which house he put on the market. So why had he stomped from the office like the proverbial bull in a china shop?

  It seemed like he’d been in this foul mood for more than a year, starting on that blustery day last April when his sister’s lawyer hit him with the awful news: Taylor Bradley would get custody of Eli! Taylor, whose Misty Wolf Inn attracted musicians and artists and all sorts of weirdos and nut jobs. Taylor, who wore too much mascara and jangly jewelry and flowing skirts. Taylor, whose idiot brother promised to remain stateside but went back on his word and got himself killed four days after rejoining his unit in Afghanistan … making Margo a widow and leaving little Eli fatherless.

  To be fair, it wasn’t Taylor’s fault that every time he saw her, he was reminded of Eliot. She’d looked as shocked as he’d felt when Moses Adams read those life-altering words, dictated by Margo herself. Reece had studied enough psychology while earning his MD to recognize his ire for what it was: misplaced hostility. But just because Taylor hadn’t started the legal ball rolling didn’t make it any easier to admit that Eli seemed to prefer her company to his.

  Better watch it, Montgomery, he warned, or you’ll end up looking and sounding as grumpy as old Amos himself.

  He tried reflecting on more positive things, like the fact that, in less than half an hour, Eli would be belted into his booster seat in the back, inundating him with a thousand and one questions: What holds the clouds in the sky? Why do some cars make so much noise? Who decides the speed limit? How do policemen become policemen? Thinking about that alone was enough to make him relax enough to appreciate that the scenery—from Cassell Coliseum to the Blue Ridge Mountains and the Appalachians—made the intolerable reason for the trip a little more tolerable.

  But really he didn’t have any more business complaining about the drive than he had for grumbling about the schedule. It had been Taylor’s idea to alternate holidays and weekends with Eli.

  Reece checked his side mirror, then passed an eighteen-wheeler, remembering as he put it behind him how awkward they’d all felt in the moments following Moses’ announcement that Margo picked Taylor for Eli’s legal guardian. A flurry of emotions had flashed across her pretty face, from shock and disbelief to joy and, finally, compassion as she realized what he must be feeling, hearing the news. She’d blinked back big silvery tears, and clearing her throat, said, “Surely there’s some mistake, Mr. Adams.” And even after Moses pointed at the clause in Margo’s will and insisted it was all there in black and white, she refused to accept it as fact. “But … but why me, when Dr. Montgomery is, well, he’s a doctor. A pediatrician no less! He gave up so much to help Margo after Eliot died. I just can’t believe she’d—”

  Moses silenced her with a raised hand and made it clear that it was his job to draw up the papers, not second-guess his clients’ decisions.

  But that didn’t satisfy her either. Taylor leaned into the space between her chair and his. Leaned so close, in fact, that Reece had inhaled a whiff of her flowery shampoo. “If we can talk him into drawing up the paperwork,” she’d whispered, “would you be okay with spending every other weekend with Eli?”

  She’d said more, but to this day, he couldn’t remember what, specifically, because he’d been too busy trying to figure out why she’d suggest such a thing. He didn’t know how long he might have sat there, staring like a gap-mouthed dunderhead, if she hadn’t added, “I’m happy to pay for it if Mr. Adams charges for the addendum. Anything for Eli.”

  His grip tightened on the steering wheel. Anything for Eli, indeed.

  Reece had cosigned the loan for Eliot and Margo’s sprawling rancher … for Eli. Now, with both of them gone, he’d kept up the payments, thinking to sell the place at some point, an investment in Eli’s future. He’d hold onto the hideous mass of wood and glass indefinitely … if he thought for a minute Eli might want it someday.

  But the boy hadn’t made a single reference to the house where he’d spent the first three years of his life. In fact, the casual observer would find it hard to believe he hadn’t been born in Taylor’s B&B, because that’s the place Eli called home.

  And that wasn’t Taylor’s fault either.

  “Thanks for nothin’, sis,” he muttere
d as a car no bigger than a breath mint sped by on his left. Any minute now, the big elaborate sign at the end of Taylor’s drive would appear alongside the road. Last thing he wanted was to show up with a head of steam, the way he had two Sundays ago, when it dawned on him that Margo’s death hadn’t been an accident. Despite the depression that kept her in a drug-induced fog, she’d managed to map everything out, right down to making a list of the stuff Eli was allergic to. He’d been so mad at himself for taking so long to figure it out that when he’d arrived at the B&B red-faced, Taylor suggested he crank up the A/C for the drive home.

  As if on cue, the bright white fences surrounding her corral came into view. She didn’t keep many horses—four, maybe five—and he gave credit where credit was due. Just enough to entertain her equine-loving guests, he thought, but not so many that their care and vet bills would eat up precious time and money.

  Was it his imagination or was the smallest one looking at him now?

  Reece slowed his Mustang. Sure enough, the dapple gray ran alongside the fence, keeping pace with his sedate black sedan, purchased solely because there wasn’t space in his two-seater Alfa Romeo for Eli’s booster seat. The dashboard clock said 4:31. He had time to stop, give the animal a pat on the nose. It whinnied as he pressed harder on the gas pedal. “Maybe next time,” he said, looking into the rearview mirror. “And maybe not.”

  The terrifying episode from his childhood still haunted his dreams—not as often as it once had—but more than enough to make him squeeze the steering wheel even tighter. Before it happened, his grandfather used to call him Saddle Pants, because Reece loved to ride and did it every chance he got. If he’d taken Pop’s advice and got right back into the saddle, he might own a horse or two of his own.

  Taylor’s white mailbox appeared, luring him back to the here and now. Beside it, the big welcoming sign:

  Misty Wolf Inn

  Rooms & Suites

  Full Country Breakfast

  Dinner w/reservation

  (Guests only)

  540-800-1234

  TAYLOR BRADLEY, OWNER