When the Tide Ebbs: An epic 1930's love story (A Grave Encounter) (25 page)

LUNACY

Book I – Switched Series

Advised by a quack doctor in 1915 that her unborn child is at risk for lunacy, a wealthy woman pays a midwife to secretly switch her baby with the newborn daughter of a penniless couple. Twenty-one years later, the truth’s revealed in a
Last Will and Testament
and Harper Harrington is forced to swap places with Veezie, the rightful heir. Harper leaves the palatial estate and moves to a rundown shanty in Goose Hollow, Alabama. But she soon discovers the unattached, young country doctor there has something far more valuable to her than the affluent lifestyle she left behind. Yet, to take it from him will break his heart. If he wasn’t so stubborn, Harper could fall for a man like Flint.

When Dr. Flint McCall learns Harper is secretly attempting to sabotage his plans, he begins a quest of his own. How could he have fallen in love with such a pig-headed woman?

PROLOGUE

Flat Creek,, Alabama

September 24, 1936

The executor’s brow furrowed. “She left a letter, Paul. You’d better brace yourself.”

“A letter?” The attorney gave a short chuckle. “Can’t say I’m surprised.” His swivel oak desk chair squeaked as he leaned over to spit a wad of Prince Albert Chewing Tobacco into a nearby cuspidor. “Confounded woman’s determined to have the last word, even after death.”

“But she claims . . .”

“Don’t let it rattle you, ol’ man. In a few minutes, it’ll all be over.”

“You think?” The executor jerked an envelope from his breast pocket. “Wait until you read this. There’s gonna be trouble Paul. We should’ve retired after Gordon died.”

Paul Aycock, a portly man in his late seventies had served as the Harrington estate attorney for three generations, and now with the widow Harrington’s recent demise, his semi-retired status would change. Numerous pictures of him posing with President Hoover, President Roosevelt, Governor Graves and other dignitaries lined the shellacked pine walls of his office.

Paul couldn’t deny he’d had a great ride, but he was tired. In less than twenty-four hours, the doors to the conference room at Nine Gables would open and he’d read Ophelia Harrington’s
Last Will and Testament
, ending his long career. He was eager to exit the legal jungle and take the South sea island cruise he promised his wife ten years ago.

The wiry executor shoved the envelope toward Paul. “Here, take a gander, then tell me you aren’t rattled.”

After adjusting his spectacles, Paul unfolded the pale blue stationary and read aloud:

“My name is Ophelia Harrington. For twenty-one years, I have denied my birth daughter, known as Veezie, her rightful place as a member of the Harrington family.”

Paul stopped. His gaze locked with the executor’s. “Veezie? Who is this Veezie?”

The executor made a slight motion of the wrist. “Keep going. You’ve only begun.”

When a scandalous thought passed through his mind, Paul’s jaw dropped. “Good gravy, Ralph. Is Ophelia saying she gave birth to an illegitimate child?”

“Finish.”

He shrugged and nodded.

“Though I erred in life, I hope to make amends at my death. It was not until after I became pregnant twenty-one years ago that I made the horrific discovery my husband’s mother had given birth to two children suffering from lunacy. May the child of my womb and the child I reared forgive me for putting my trust in a foolish quack who led me to believe my husband carried a flawed gene and my baby would be born a lunatic.”

With his fingertip, Paul traced his pencil-thin mustache. “Sounds like—”

Ralph cut him off. “She tells all in the letter, friend. Continue.”

“I was sorely grieved that I had the means to provide a good life for a healthy child, and yet my baby would be doomed to live out his/her life in an attic. Knowing the dire financial straits of the O’Steen family and having been informed our babies were due approximately the same time, I reasoned I was doing right for all concerned when I paid a midwife to switch babies. My husband and I could provide a good life for a child. The poor O’Steens could not. For a paltry sum, a midwife came to understand my predicament and made the swap without the O’Steens’ knowledge. I now see the error of my ways, but feel it understandable that in my frenzied state of mind my reasoning was skewed.

After making inquiries, I have recently learned my birth daughter is alive and well and in possession of all her faculties. The startling news has left me sorely distressed. Not the fact my child is sane, but that she’s been deprived of the love and adoration of her natural parents. As hard as I tried, I formed no affection for the child I named Harper. I am convinced heredity is a much stronger influence than environment.

May God forgive me for denying my own flesh and blood. I feel no sympathy for the child I reared, for she’s enjoyed a life of plenty, which her biological parents couldn’t have provided. Now, it’s time to provide for my own.”

Paul drew a deep breath and deposited his spectacles in his coat pocket. His knees wobbled. “This is insane. What are we going to do, Ralph?”

“We have no choice, Paul. Poor Harper. She’s a good kid. I knew Ophelia was a wicked woman but I never expected something like this.

CHAPTER 1

With insufficient saliva to moisten her lips, Harper Harrington picked up a half-filled water goblet from the mahogany conference table and took a swig.

According to the summons, the reading of the will would take place at two o’clock. No doubt the attorney had a valid reason for the torturous delay, and out of respect Harper didn’t wish to appear impatient—yet, surely she’d explode if she bridled her tongue one minute longer.

“Pardon me, Mr. Paul, but what are we waiting for?”

A silent conversation appeared to take place when Paul made eye contact with Ralph Hale, the executor, who mutely responded to the glare with clinched lips and a shrug.

The attorney tugged at the collar on his starched white shirt. “I’m sorry, sugar, but if you’ll be so patient as to allow us a few minutes more.” His head lowered. “I know this isn’t easy for you. My deepest apologies.”

“No, it’s I who should apologize. Please, forgive my impatience.” Harper gnawed at the cuticle on her right thumbnail. Her heart raced when she imagined her mother’s shrill voice chastising her for the nasty habit and slapping her hand from her mouth. Even after the doctor signed the death certificate, Harper half expected her pristine mother, with every golden finger wave in place, to rise in defiance and conquer death as she conquered life.

The polished, colossal table, which reeked of linseed oil, would seat eighteen, yet there were only six of the sleek Periand chairs surrounding it. The remaining twelve lined the wall. Harper eyed each chair, then counted heads. One chair for the attorney, one for the executor, possibly two for the servants, and one for her. But why the sixth?

The elderly attorney paced back and forth across the mammoth room, wringing his hands. Never had Harper seen Paul so fidgety. He removed a gold fob watch from his trousers, took a quick glimpse and then poked the small timepiece back into the watch pocket.

The eerie silence made her quiver. She untied the small linen handkerchief attached to her bangle bracelet and dabbed at her moist forehead. Though dog days of summer officially ended last month, the hot, humid South Alabama air stole her breath. She pilfered through her pocketbook and withdrew a dainty, pink silk fan that bore a painting of a Geisha girl. Harper swallowed the pain and tightened her fingers around the fan’s slim bamboo handle. Her deceased father had brought the souvenir back from Japan in 1934, when he and three other planters from Alabama went on a cotton exchange expedition. How she missed him.

With a flick of the wrist, she swished it back and forth in a continuous motion, but the tiny fan was of little comfort. She guessed the temperature to be nearing triple digits. A good rain would help cool things off, but there’d been no rain in sight for several weeks.

The tall rosewood Grandfather Clock in the corner of the room chimed on the half hour. She licked her dry lips and stared into the now empty goblet. Out of the corner of her eye, she caught George, the caretaker, lumbering toward her, his wrinkled brown hand clasped around her favorite hammered-aluminum tumbler. The decrepit old soul’s hunched shoulders appeared more stooped than ever. Rheumatism, no doubt, though he never complained. With his free hand clutching his back, he approached the conference table and leaned his tall, lanky frame forward to deposit the cold drink in front of her.

“’Scuse me, Miz Harper,” he whispered. “But the ice truck jest now come. Beulah said she reckoned you might like a cold glass o’ sweet iced tea to cool you off a bit.”

Harper clutched the icy cold tumbler and held it against her warm cheeks. Her mother would’ve reprimanded her and called it uncouth. Perhaps it was.

She smiled. “Bless your heart, George. And thank Beulah for me, ya hear? I declare, I don’t know what I’d do without you two saints.”

“We think highly of you, too, Miz Harper. Yes’m, we sho’ do. Mighty highly. And I hope—” He stopped and wrung his hands. “Can I get you sump’n else?”

“No thank you. You’ve done quite enough.” She reached out and tugged the old man’s shirt sleeve. “But I’m curious. What are you hoping for, George?”

“Begging yo’ pardon, ma’am?”

“You said you were hoping, but you didn’t finish your sentence. I’d like to know what you’re hoping for.”

“Uh . . . sorry, Miz Harper.” His deep voice rumbled like distant thunder. “I reckon I clean forgot.” He shuffled to the back of the room and leaned against the wall, beside Beulah.

The ticking clock seemed to grow louder with each swing of the pendulum. She glared at the hands. A quarter ’til three. She strummed her fingers on the table hoping to relieve the building tension. When heads turned, she slunk down in her chair. “Sorry,” she muttered.

She studied the sixth chair. Could it be—? She shrugged. Impossible. Her mother would never have left anything to the church. Ophelia was neither religious nor charitable and she had no real friends. Harper peered out the east window at the giant Live Oak trees with their knotty trunks and moss-draped limbs, separating the immaculate yard from the vast Harrington cotton fields. Clumps of mistletoe sprouted from oak branches like huge nosegays. Her throat constricted, seeing a rotted rope with a small board dangling from the end. She closed her eyes and could hear her father yelling, “If I push you any higher, sweetheart, your toes are gonna touch Heaven’s gates.” Her eyelids squeezed shut to hold in the moisture.

Six months earlier, of his own freewill, her beloved daddy had chosen to shove those gates wide open and rush in. A part of her wanted to be furious with him for leaving her. Another part understood. Gordon Harrington had been called the richest planter in the South with cotton fields stretching over thirty miles from Coffee County in Southeast Alabama, down to the tip of the panhandle in Holmes County, Florida. His money could buy most anything—except the thing he wanted most—peace of mind.

Ralph, a WWI veteran with one leg shorter than the other, limped toward the north window, which faced the main road. Moments later, he turned, made eye contact with Paul and offered a hefty nod. Harper’s pulse raced.

Ralph hobbled toward George and Beulah. His uneven gait created a clomping sound as he lumbered across the oak floors. From his hand gestures, he appeared to be coaxing the servants. George and Beulah, looking mortified, meandered across the room where they were prodded to take a seat at the table. Perhaps, they too, feared Ophelia rising from the dead to chastise them once again for “forgetting their place.” Did they understand they were invited to the table because their names appeared in the will?

Harper chewed her nails. She hoped her mother chose to be generous, though the possibility of Ophelia leaving the servants more than a pittance was remote. Whatever they received could never compensate for the oppression the dedicated caretaker and devoted housekeeper tolerated through the years.

Beulah squirmed in her chair and with downcast eyes, twisted a muslin handkerchief in her hands until it resembled a small rope. Sweat gathered at the edge of her head rag. If only Harper could reach across the wide table, she’d grasp those dark, calloused hands and assure the sweet old soul she didn’t begrudge any compensation left to her and George. Whatever meager stipend they received from the will could never be enough. Once the estate was settled, Harper would see to it they were amply rewarded. She bit her lip. Why wouldn’t Beulah look at her?

Silence broke when Fillmore, the Doberman, barked announcing a guest. George slid his chair away from the table and without a word spoken, slipped out through the wide double doors.

Paul trudged over and took a seat at the end of the table. With his thumb, he swiped beads of perspiration formed on his upper lip. “I’m sorry for the long delay, Harper, but I trust we’re about to begin.”

Within seconds, the doors swung opened. A well-endowed young woman wearing a red satin dress, two sizes too small, wobbled in on six-inch sling-back pumps. Another half-yard of material could’ve wrapped the body parts begging for cover. Her dishwater blond hair was drawn away from her face and held in a haphazard fashion with countless bobby pins.

Was this a joke? This . . . this chippy was summoned? Harper’s eyes bulged when the little floozy propped her foot on the rung of a chair and with her skirt shamefully hiked above her knee—even so far as to reveal a portion of her garter—gave her loose stocking a yank.

A deep blush rose from the nape of Paul’s short, stubby neck and traveled all the way to the top of his bald head. He cleared his throat. “Miss O’Steen, I presume?”