Heritage

  Copyright

  ISBN 978-1-59310-940-7

  Copyright © 2006 by Mary Davis. All rights reserved. Except for use in any review, the reproduction or utilization of this work in whole or in part in any form by any electronic, mechanical, or other means, now known or hereafter invented, is forbidden without the permission of Truly Yours, an imprint of Barbour Publishing, Inc., PO Box 721, Uhrichsville, Ohio 44683.

  All scripture quotations, unless otherwise indicated, are taken from the Holy Bible, New International Version®. niv®. Copyright © 1973, 1978, 1984 by International Bible Society. Used by permission of Zondervan. All rights reserved.

  All of the characters and events in this book are fictitious. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or to actual events is purely coincidental.

  Our mission is to publish and distribute inspirational products offering exceptional value and biblical encouragement to the masses.

  One

  The problem with perfection is, there is no room for mistakes.

  Rachel Coe gazed at her reflection in her freestanding full-length mirror, a gift from her fiancé. Her knee-length black evening dress was conservative where it needed to be but as feminine as Christopher liked it. She turned once, slowly, to make sure there were no spots or wrinkles.

  She didn’t want him to find any flaws. If she presented herself as perfect, then Christopher’s family could have no objections, and she would be included. She would belong to a family with a background. . .a heritage.

  She studied her dress again. Christopher hadn’t seen this dress yet, but she was fairly confident he would approve. If not, she could quickly change into one of her other black dresses. She didn’t want to depend on him for everything, but she valued his advice. There were subtle nuances on what was acceptable to wear, do, and say in the circles in which his family moved—nuances she was still getting the hang of. This dress would be her self-test on how she was doing.

  She put on a short string of pearls and the matching earrings Christopher’s mother, Emma, had given her as an engagement present. They had belonged to Emma’s mother. She fingered them at her throat. Something from the past. Something from bygone days to hold onto. Something to pass on to her children. A heritage.

  The Winstons could trace their ancestors back to the founding fathers of Boston. So they said. Rachel’s own mother had moved to the area and married a good and decent man when Rachel was just a baby, but they were always on the fringes of society, the society that mattered, anyway. Now she was about to step over the line that separated one segment of society from another. A step up. She could only trace her roots back as far as her mother, and she didn’t even know where her mother had come from.

  Her stepfather died when she was thirteen, and her mother remarried twice more, pounding into Rachel’s head that if she didn’t have her looks, she didn’t have anything. When her mother became terminally ill and lost her hair from chemo, Rachel’s third stepfather walked out on them. The rat.

  The doorbell rang. She sucked in a quick breath. Christopher. She glanced at the clock on the wall. He was early. Trying to catch her imperfect? She ran Sunset Rose over her lips, his favorite color on her. It complimented her olive skin. She checked herself in the mirror by the front door of her upscale apartment and touched her dark brown hair. Perfect. She swung the door open.

  A deliveryman thrust a clipboard toward her. “Sign on line seventeen.” She heaved a small sigh of relief at it not being Christopher, even though she was ready. She didn’t like to feel rushed when greeting him. She didn’t want him to sense her being flustered. If she acted and dressed as they did, they would think she belonged, even if she knew better. After signing, he handed her a large registered express envelope and left.

  She turned over the delivery. Jacobson and Son, Attorneys at Law. This wasn’t Christopher’s family’s attorney. She pulled the tab to rip open the cardboard envelope and pulled out a business-sized envelope.

  The doorbell rang, and she jumped. Showtime. She dropped the two envelopes on the entry table then checked her appearance as she took a calming breath. Just as she reached for the knob the envelopes registered. Never leave personal items out in the open. She grabbed them both and threw them in the bottom of her entry closet.

  She stepped back as she opened the door so Christopher could see her full appearance in one—hopefully approving—glance. Christopher scanned her from head to toe as he stepped inside and closed the door. He wore a black tux and a lock of his thick wavy hair hung down on his forehead. He combed it back with his fingers. “Is that a new dress?”

  “I bought it yesterday.” She turned slowly for him and held her breath. “Do you like it?”

  He walked up to her and took her hands, holding them out from her and assessing the dress. “You picked this out all on your own?”

  She nodded, daring to breathe. Did he like it or not?

  He nodded and smiled. “You have certainly improved your eye for fashion. Who designed it?”

  She named the designer. She knew that was important. Being a model she had worn the fashions of all the top designers, but in her personal life she saw no point in indulging in their high price tags. . .until Christopher entered her life. Now she found herself worrying about what she wore whenever she expected Christopher or was going out in public where someone might recognize her as a future Winston.

  “Then it’s perfect. You look perfect.” Perfection was not easy to come by. . .and so easy to lose. “And Grandmother’s pearls are just the right touch. In fact, you look so good, I might just stay here with you and skip Mother’s party.” He pulled her close and kissed her.

  As tempting as that might be, she knew he’d never let down his mother by at least not putting in an appearance at one of her parties. It’s where she’d met Christopher. She’d gone with Mark, a photographer from the modeling agency. Christopher hadn’t seemed interested in her, and he certainly hadn’t interested her, but he called the agency the following Monday. She overlooked his fair hair and pale eyes and focused on his height and charm. At five foot nine, she intimidated some men, especially when she wore heels, but Christopher topped six feet and preferred her in heels.

  He stepped back from her and smiled then ran a thumb along her bottom lip. “I smeared your lipstick. Sorry about that.”

  She put her hand to her lip. His roguish smile told her he wasn’t really sorry. “I’ll go fix it.”

  ❧

  Rachel sipped her lemon water while everyone else at the Winstons’ large dining table drank red wine. She had never acquired a taste for it. Her mother had also drilled into her head from a young age that alcohol would only make her look prematurely old. Whether that was true or not, she saw no point in risking it for something that only impaired one’s faculties. When most people had had a few drinks they either became loud, rude, or obnoxious. Usually all three. Their inhibitions and senses dulled. She always wanted to be in control of what she was doing.

  Mr. Winston set down his glass. “Christopher’s namesake came over on the Mayflower.”

  Of that her future father-in-law was proud. And the Grahams, sitting across from her, were new ears for the old stories. No one else in their family had ever bothered to name a child after the first Winston on the continent. Whether it was true or not didn’t matter. It was their family history.

  “He and a group of men brought their families from Plymouth and settled in Boston.”

  And they were brutally attacked their first night. And ancestral Christopher vowed revenge. As usual the conversation had come around to the Winstons’ long history in Boston. That meant the same stories hashed over and over. She liked that Christopher had a heritage she could attach herself to, but the poor Grahams.

  She had known Christ
opher for three months, engaged for two of those months, and already she knew all there was to know about the Winstons. They liked to tell their glorious stories and assumed everyone liked hearing them. And they didn’t always need fresh blood to tell them. She’d tolerate them ruminating about the past. . .at least for the next five months. Once she and Christopher were married on Valentine’s Day, she could afford to tune them out. For now she’d be diplomatic and turned her attention back to her father-in-law-to-be.

  “The savages kidnapped his wife and two daughters. And left his son for dead. When Christopher finally found their bodies, detestable things had been done to them.”

  Muriel Winston gasped but didn’t detour her husband.

  Rachel could never quite tell if Muriel’s reaction was real or to embellish her husband’s story. Lawton wasn’t going into the horrid details this time, so Muriel’s reaction was likely just for embellishment.

  “Christopher nursed his son back to health, and the two of them rallied the men to take vengeance. Killed every last one of the savages. They had to make the place safe, after all.”

  Muriel closed her eyes for a moment and put her hand to her chest. Mrs. Graham was grimacing.

  Rachel knew just how she felt. If the stories were upsetting, why keep telling them? If only there were some way to stop them.

  Uncle Bert, sitting next to her, sipped his wine. “Why not tell the one about our cousin Palmer?”

  Lawton Winston squinted his eyes at Bert. “Because I’m not through with Christopher’s story.”

  Bert muttered something under his breath then said, “But Palmer is so much more entertaining.”

  Lawton deepened his glare. “As I was saying, all the Indians were killed, but so was his son.”

  Bert reached for the salt. “Excuse me, dear.”

  “Christopher married the daughter of one of—”

  Rachel jumped from her seat with a gasp as her water goblet tipped into her lap. Clumsy Uncle Bert! Why didn’t he ask her to pass him what he wanted? She swatted the water from her dress with her napkin.

  Bert held out his napkin. “I’m so sorry, dear. Let me help you.”

  Christopher was at her side and shooing Uncle Bert away before she could tell him she could handle it on her own.

  “I’ll just go dry this off.” She went to the bathroom and dried her dress the best she could. She couldn’t even see where the liquid had been.

  When she left the bathroom, she stared at the doorway to the dining room, then went to the library. She walked to the window and pulled back the heavy brocade curtain with the back of her hand. She just needed a little break.

  “Sorry for the spill.”

  She spun around and saw Uncle Bert sitting in one of the winged chairs flanking the fireplace. “It was only water.”

  The firelight danced on his aging face. “I know. That’s why I did it.”

  She widened her eyes. “You did that on purpose?”

  He nodded. “I didn’t think you were enjoying the story. . . again. You are simply too polite to leave on your own. And the Grahams certainly weren’t enjoying it.”

  “No one likes that story.” Rachel shuddered. “Why do they keep telling it?”

  “They like to keep telling themselves that they are right and better than others. Justified in their grudges.”

  His frankness always took her off guard. She could never say anything so brash and still be a future member of this family. “Well, the stories are important to them. People shouldn’t forget their heritage and what their ancestors had to overcome.”

  “History according to the Winstons?”

  Was he implying that all the stories were fabrications?

  “A lot of it is embellishment.”

  Embellishments? Not lies. “Don’t most people stretch the truth a little?”

  “A little?” He raised his graying bushy eyebrows. “It is hard to believe that every single generation had all heroes in the family. I did a little research on our family’s founding fathers. I believe the area Christopher and the boys tried to settle all those years ago was a bit west of here.”

  “Really.”

  He nodded and leaned a little closer. “And I have an old journal that the family denies ever existed, which alludes to Christopher having kidnapped his second wife and that he went crazy. So don’t believe everything they tell you exactly as it is told.”

  She never believed everything people told her anyway. People always had a hidden agenda. “Thank you for the advice—and the reprieve.”

  “Any time.”

  She smiled. “I should get back before my Christopher comes looking for me.”

  “Things broke up after you left. Everyone went to the conservatory to listen to Muriel play the piano.”

  “Everyone?”

  He gave her a slight nod. “Everyone that matters. And in this family, I don’t always matter, so they are all secretly relieved when I am absent.”

  Maybe that was because he wasn’t afraid to tell the truth about the family’s history. Or was it merely the truth according to Uncle Bert?

  “I only attend my sister-in-law’s little get-togethers to stir things up a bit. I wonder what a few generations down the road will say about the rebel in the family. What small thing did I do that they will twist and blow up to legendary proportions? I once saved a cat from a tree. That could make quite a story in a hundred years or so. Maybe it will turn out I really wrestled a tiger and saved a whole school yard full of children?”

  “There you are.”

  Rachel straightened her shoulders as she turned to Christopher entering the room. She hadn’t realized she’d relaxed her posture around Uncle Bert.

  “Mother is playing Chopin.”

  She took Christopher’s arm and gave Uncle Bert a slight tip of her head.

  Bert held up his glass. “Enjoy.”

  Well, at least with her mother-in-law-to-be playing piano, the worn-out stories would cease.

  ❧

  Three days later, Rachel reached for her umbrella in the entry closet. The express envelope slid to the floor. She took it to her black lacquer secretary and retrieved a sterling silver letter opener with a mother-of-pearl handle. It had been a gift from Christopher after she had suffered a paper cut while sliding her finger under the flap of an envelope. Christopher had scolded her, not for using her finger but for marring her perfect hands. She rubbed her index finger. No scar.

  She slid the opener along the envelope’s top edge and pulled out the letter. The letterhead identified Jacobson and Son as a law firm in Mackinaw City, Michigan. Why in the world would an unfamiliar law office be sending her anything?

  She quickly scanned down the single sheet. According to these lawyers, she had just been bequeathed an inheritance from a relative she never knew existed. They must have the wrong person. She didn’t know any Charles Dubois. But could it be she had finally found a connection to her past? Where there was one relative, there were others. Giddiness welled up inside her.

  Two

  The horse-drawn carriage came to a stop in front of a white, single-level house with red trim on Mackinac Island. Rachel, wearing a cashmere coat over her silk pantsuit, wrapped her gloved hand around the metal bar as she climbed down out of the carriage. Crisp October leaves swirled on the ground where she stepped. “Could I get a hand with my suitcases?”

  The driver shook his graying head. “Sorry, miss. I can’t leave the horses.”

  She resisted the urge to bite her lip. It had been a long day, and all she wanted to do was get inside and take off her heels. This was evidently a self-service type of community. She went to the back of the horse drawn taxi and reached for one of her bags.

  “I’ll get that for you.”

  She looked into the brownest eyes she’d ever seen and stayed there a moment.

  “Is this the only one?”

  She pulled back her focus to a man with black hair tied back into a ponytail at the nape of his neck. “Those
other two that match.”

  He hoisted her bags and set them on the ground, then walked to the front of the carriage. “I have all her bags, Duane. Thanks.” He patted the side of the carriage. The driver flicked the reins. The clomping of the hooves mingled with the jingle of the harnesses as the carriage rolled away. The man with the incredible brown eyes picked up her luggage.

  “I really appreciate your help.”

  “That’s what neighbors are for.” When he smiled, his eyes nearly squinted shut, a contented smile.

  Maybe one day she would achieve that, too. After she was married. . . Neighbor? He is a neighbor? “You live close?”

  He inclined his head to the house across the street. “The blue one. I’m Will Tobin.”

  “Rachel Coe. Pleased to meet you.” She would have extended a handshake if both of his hands hadn’t been occupied.

  He stopped by her front door. “You have your key?”

  Opening the screen door, she fished the key the attorney had given her out of her purse and was about to hand it to him when she realized that not only were his hands full with her belongings no less, but he was not Christopher, expecting to unlock her door for her. She swung the door open and stepped aside for him.

  “After you.” He nodded toward the door.

  She stepped into the rustic-style living room and felt a warmth envelop her. This little house was quaint. She and Christopher could use it as a summer home. . .to get away.

  “The lawyer called me and told me you were coming, so I came over earlier and made sure the water and electricity were on. I turned up the heat so it would be warm enough in here. It seems to be working.”

  “Thank you for going to so much trouble. You are very thoughtful. Did you know my grandfather, Charles Dubois?” It still seemed strange to call someone grandfather.

  He hesitated a moment as though trying to decipher her question then nodded. “We were good friends. I spent time over here when I could.”

  She wondered about the wide, beaded choker around his neck. Unusual design. “You can just set those right there.” She pointed to where he stood then pulled off her right tan leather glove and ran her hand along the top of a smooth log and branch table by the front door.