A THICK GROVE OF TREES SHIELDED THE OLD cemetery on the north side. It fanned out over bumpy ground, with hills rolling west, at the end of a dirt road barely wide enough for two cars to pass. A historical marker faded by weather stated the First Church of the Godly had once stood on the site, but had been destroyed when it had been struck by lightning and razed by fire on July 7, 1652.
Quinn had read that fact in her research, but it was different to stand here now, in the wind, in the chill, and imagine it. She’d read, too, as the plaque stated, that a small chapel had stood as a replacement until it was damaged during the Civil War, and gone to ruin.
Now, there were only the markers here, the stones, the winter-hardy weeds. Beyond a low stone wall were the graves of the newer dead. Here and there she saw bright blots of color from flowers that stood out like grief against the dull grays and winter browns.
“We should’ve brought flowers,” Layla said quietly as she looked down at the simple and small stone that read only:
ANN HAWKINS
“She doesn’t need them,” Cybil told her. “Stones and flowers, they’re for the living. The dead have other things to do.”
“Cheery thought.”
Cybil only shrugged at Quinn. “I think so, actually. No point in being dead and bored. It’s interesting, don’t you think, that there are no dates. Birth or death. No sentiment. She had three sons, but they didn’t have anything but her name carved in her gravestone. Even though they’re buried here, too, with their wives, and I imagine at least some of their children. Wherever they went in life, they came home to be buried with Ann.”
“Maybe they knew, or believed, she’d be back. Maybe she told them death isn’t the end.” Quinn frowned at the stone. “Maybe they just wanted to keep it simple, but I wonder, now that you mention it, if it was deliberate. No beginning, no end. At least not until…”
“This July,” Layla finished. “Another cheery thought.”
“Well, while we’re all getting cheered up, I’m going to get some pictures.” Quinn pulled out her camera. “Maybe you two could write down some of the names here. We may want to check on them, see if any have any direct bearing on-”
She tripped while backing up to get a shot, fell hard on her ass. “Ouch, goddamn it! Shit. Right on the bruise I got this morning. Perfect.”
Layla rushed over to help her up. Cybil did the same, even as she struggled with laughter.
“Just shut up,” Quinn grumbled. “The ground’s all bumpy here, and you can hardly see some of these stones popping out.” She rubbed her hip, scowled down at the stone that had tripped her up. “Ha. That’s funny. Joseph Black, died eighteen forty-three.” The color annoyance brought to her face faded. “Same last name as mine. Common name Black, really. Until you consider it’s here, and that I just happened to trip over his grave.”
“Odds are he’s one of yours,” Cybil agreed.
“And one of Ann’s?”
Quinn shook her head at Layla’s suggestion. “I don’t know. Cal’s researched the Hawkins’s family tree, and I’ve done a quick overview. I know some of the older records are lost, or just buried deeper than we’ve dug, but I don’t see how we’d both have missed branches with my surname. So. I think we’d better see what we can find out about Joe.”
HER FATHER WAS NO HELP, AND THE CALL HOME kept her on the phone for forty minutes, catching up on family gossip. She tried her grandmother next, who had a vague recollection about her mother-in-law mentioning an uncle, possibly a great-uncle, maybe a cousin, who’d been born in the hills of Maryland. Or it might’ve been Virginia. His claim to fame, family-wise, had been running off with a saloon singer, deserting his wife and four children and taking the family savings held inside a cookie tin with him.
“Nice guy, Joe,” Quinn decided. “Should you be my Joe.”
She decided, since it would get her out of any type of food preparation, she had enough time to make a trip to Town Hall, and start digging on Joseph Black. If he’d died here, maybe he’d been born here.
W HEN QUINN GOT HOME SHE WAS GLAD TO FIND the house full of people, sound, the scents of food. Cybil, being Cybil, had music on, candles lit, and wine poured. She had everyone piled in the kitchen, whetting appetites with marinated olives. Quinn popped one, took Cal’s wine and washed it down.
“Are my eyes bleeding?” she asked.
“Not so far.”
“I’ve been searching records for nearly three hours. I think I bruised my brain.”
“Joseph Black.” Fox got her a glass of wine for her own. “We’ve been filled in.”
“Good, saves me. I could only trace him back to his grandfather-Quinton Black, born sixteen seventy-six. Nothing on record before that, not here anyway. And nothing after Joe, either. I went on side trips, looking for siblings or other relatives. He had three sisters, but I’ve got nothing on them but birth records. He had aunts, uncles, and so on, and not much more there. It appears the Blacks weren’t a big presence in Hawkins Hollow.”
“Name would’ve rung for me,” Cal told her.
“Yeah. Still, I got my grandmother’s curiosity up, and she’s now on a hunt to track down the old family Bible. She called me on my cell. She thinks it went to her brother-in-law when his parents died. Maybe. Anyway, it’s a line.”
She focused on the man leaning back against the counter toying with a glass of wine. “Sorry? Gage, right?”
“That’s right. Roadside service a specialty.”
Quinn grinned as Cybil rolled her eyes and took a loaf of herbed bread out of the oven.
“So I hear, and that looks like dinner’s ready. I’m starved. Nothing like searching through the births and deaths of Blacks, Robbits, Clarks to stir up the appetite.”
“Clark.” Layla lowered the plate she’d taken out to offer Cybil for the bread. “There were Clarks in the records?”
“Yeah, an Alma and a Richard Clark in there, as I remember. Need to check my notes. Why?”
“My grandmother’s maiden name was Clark.” Layla managed a wan smile. “That’s probably not a coincidence either.”
“Is she still living?” Quinn asked immediately. “Can you get in touch and-”
“We’re going to eat while it’s hot,” Cybil interrupted. “Time enough to give family trees a good shake later. But when I cook-” She pushed the plate of hot bread into Gage’s hand. “We eat.”
Sixteen
IT HAD TO BE IMPORTANT. IT HAD TO MATTER. Cal rolled it over and over and over, carving time out of his workday and his off time to research the Hawkins-Black lineage himself. Here was something new, he thought, some door they hadn’t known existed, much less tried to break down.
He told himself it was vital, and time-consuming work, and that was why he and Quinn hadn’t managed to really connect for the last couple of days. He was busy; she was busy. Couldn’t be helped.
Besides, it was probably a good time for them to have this break from each other. Let things just simmer down a little. As he’d told his mother, this wasn’t the time to get serious, to think about falling in love. Because big, life-altering things were supposed to happen after people fell seriously in love. And he had enough, big, life-altering things to worry about.
He dumped food in Lump’s bowl as his dog waited for breakfast with his usual unruffled patience. Because it was Thursday, he’d tossed a load of laundry in the washer when he’d let Lump out for his morning plod and pee. He continued his habitual weekday morning routine, nursing his first cup of coffee while he got out a box of Chex.
But when he reached for the milk it made him think of Quinn. Two percent milk, he thought with a shake of his head. Maybe she was fixing her version of a bowl of cereal right now. Maybe she was standing in her kitchen with the smell of coffee in the air, thinking of him.
Because the idea of that held such appeal, he reached for the phone to call her, when he heard the sound behind him and turned.