Rekindling Trust Read online

  If she had come here with only the twins, she wouldn’t worry so much. Timothy was normally a good boy when not under the influence of his older brother. However, Andrew rarely let a moment go by if it presented an occasion to cause trouble.

  She despised thinking of her child—her oldest baby—in that way. She detested thinking of herself as a failure when it came to motherhood. Unfortunately, she couldn’t deny the fact that both were true. She’d heard it often enough from her father and those who complained about the turmoil Andrew caused.

  Mark my words, Edythe, one day that boy will end up in prison.

  Not if she could help it, even though she wouldn’t put it past Judge Danby to volunteer to sentence him if given the opportunity. Fortunately for Andrew, his grandfather had retired from the bench.

  Edythe never understood why her father held Andrew in such low esteem...his own grandson. It was an attitude that began the moment Andrew was born, long before the boy was capable of being a troublemaker. It wasn’t right, and it wasn’t fair. Then again, no one had ever accused her father of sprinkling fairness around like spring showers.

  “Mother, don’t forget to buy carrots for Shadow.”

  “I won’t, Sarah Jane.”

  “If you do, I will remind you.”

  Yes, she would.

  Edythe squeezed Sarah Jane’s hand, her contented smile eclipsing her concerns. Nothing was more important to her daughter than that rabbit and the rest of her menagerie—a goose, a pregnant cat, two turtles, a hen, and a monstrous and intimidating dog. The latter wasn’t satisfied until he’d spread an ample supply of saliva on everyone in sight.

  That was this week. Who knew what they would feed next week. Apparently, word had spread through the animal community that those seeking refuge need only step onto Danby property where they would find themselves wrapped in the cocoon of a little girl’s care.

  “Good morning, Mrs. Westin.” Mr. Ogilvie smiled at Edythe, Timothy, and Sarah Jane. The smile fell when it landed on Andrew.

  Edythe couldn’t blame him. Three months ago, he had caught her son shoving another boy near a stack of canned goods, toppling them over. The household ate beans and tomatoes from dented cans for months.

  “Good morning, Mr. Ogilvie. I need paprika and three onions, please.”

  Sarah Jane tugged on her hand. “And carrots, Mother.”

  “And carrots, Mr. Ogilvie.”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  He was in the midst of gathering her items when a shout erupted from outside the store. “Give it back, you scamp.”

  Edythe turned in a circle, taking a head count of her children. As expected, she was missing one. “Oh, Andrew,” she muttered. She couldn’t let that boy out of her sight without risking shouts and angry voices.

  She let go of the twins and hurried out the door. A clerk had Andrew pinned to the brick wall with one hand. With the other he tried to tear off her son’s cap, but Andrew held on to it with both hands, as if his life depended on keeping it on his head.

  The livid clerk caught sight of Edythe. “The boy took two potatoes from the bin and hid them in his cap, Mrs. Westin.”

  Closing her eyes, she counted to three, then opened them. Andrew’s nostrils flared and he lifted his chin. Something other than anger beamed from his brown eyes. Hope? Anticipation? She couldn’t quite read it. “Did you take the potatoes, Andrew?” She’d asked a silly question. It was obvious he hadn’t been born with a head so high his cap didn’t reach his ears. “Give them back. Right now.”

  He stared at her. “They’re rotten, anyway.”

  Mr. Ogilvie joined them. “Mrs. Westin, I value your business but must ask you to leave your children home from now on. They are a disruption to the shopping experience of my other customers.”

  Andrew narrowed his eyes to little more than slits. “My ma can do what she wants.”

  Edythe couldn’t let her son speak to others that way. “That’s enough out of you, young man. I’m sorry, Mr. Ogilvie. This won’t happen again. Will it, Andrew?”

  For a moment her son’s eyes lit with something akin to respect. It lifted her spirit...until the light vanished and he spit on the sidewalk. “I figured you’d take somebody else’s side over mine, just like at home.”

  Her inclination was to hide from the gathering crowd, but it occurred to her that he tested the depth of her resolve. If that were the case, she couldn’t afford to fail. She straightened and stared him in the eyes. “Andrew Westin, you will apol—”

  “You don’t talk to your mother like that.” Mr. Ogilvie stepped up to Andrew and ripped off the cap. Two small potatoes rolled off her son’s head and hit the sidewalk with successive thuds.

  At the grocer’s interruption, the heat of an angry flush burned Edythe’s face. She reached for her son. He slid from her grasp and marched down the sidewalk. “Come back here, young man.”

  He picked up his pace, heading in the opposite direction of her father’s house. She lowered her arm and turned to the twins. “Let’s go home, children.”

  “Mother, you didn’t get the carrots.”

  “I’ll have everything delivered to your home, Mrs. Westin.” Mr. Ogilvie grinned at Sarah Jane. “Even the carrots.”

  “I’m terribly sorry, Mr. Ogilvie. Thank you.” Edythe herded her youngest children down the sidewalk.

  No doubt rumors regarding the incident would fly around town, sullying further her son’s reputation and hers.

  BARRETT CLENCHED HIS hands at his sides. It was all he could do to remain where he stood a couple of doors down from the grocer. The child was clearly guilty of both theft and disrespect. Barrett had choked the inclination to march up to the defiant boy and demand he apologize to his mother, then to the man from whom he stole.

  Now that he’d seen Edythe for the first time since his return, the old protectiveness betrayed his alleged indifference. While he might no longer wish to acknowledge her on the street, he knew Edy well enough to know how severely her son’s harsh words cut her.

  On the other hand, he wanted to demand she take the young man in hand and not allow her son to run over her as thoroughly as her father used to do. Had she not learned anything in the years since Barrett last saw her? Did she continue to hide the passion and strength he knew, deep down, she possessed but feared exercising, or was this simply a bad day for her?

  With her son’s attitude, he would guess Edy’s husband also held little sway with the boy.

  Her choice to marry Lamar Westin all those years ago had caught Barrett by surprise. One day he thought her love was his, the next he’d found it belonged to someone else.

  Why must she be more beautiful now than in his memories? Why wasn’t she fat and haggard, instead of tall and lithe? She possessed a form that belied the birth of the children she now escorted in the opposite direction down the sidewalk.

  Three children. Three children that were not his.

  He turned away and walked into the barbershop, leaving behind thoughts of Edythe Westin—trying to, anyway. He had more than his share of issues to deal with, like setting up his practice and seeing that Wynn had everything he needed at the sanitarium.

  But first, an overdue haircut.

  Barrett took a seat in a chair along the wall to await his turn in the busy shop. With a subtle study of the men around him, he strove to identify anyone he remembered from his years growing up in Riverport.

  Mr. Ferris, the barber, of course. A fixture in town since before Barrett was born, though he’d never given a Seaton male a haircut. That was done at home.

  Was that Mr. Reinwald two seats down? If so, he’d aged greatly.

  Maybe it had been a mistake to return to a place where its good citizens remembered the name of Seaton and the unjustified shame brought upon it. He may have erred in thinking he could establish a law firm here and attract clients.

  He was Wynn’s only remaining family—his support. Letting his brother die in the tumbledown shack he had found him in almost
two months ago was out of the question.

  Barrett glanced out the front windowpane at the busy street. The place had changed over the years. He almost hadn’t recognized it when he first arrived. New businesses. New people. He’d never have imagined electricity, a department store, a brewery, or the number of other three- and four-story buildings up and down Commerce Street. The town boasted three bridges that spanned the river instead the one he’d crossed for the last time at eighteen. Maybe, with the influx of new residents, his practice would do well enough.

  A middle-aged man with arms and legs as thick as tree limbs filled the doorway to the barbershop. His form darkened the room. “Did you folks see that spectacle down the street? Ol’ Danby’s grandkid got caught up in trouble again.”

  Ferris stopped in the midst of clipping an elderly man’s hair, the scissors pointed in a dangerous angle toward the customer’s head. “What’d he do this time?”

  The man laughed. “Stole a couple of spuds from Ogilvie and stuffed ’em inside his cap.”

  The barber huffed. “If his ma don’t get hold of him, that boy’s gonna wind up behind bars one day.”

  “That’s what Ogilvie’s clerk said.”

  “I’m sure Mrs. Westin wishes that man of hers was still around. Westin seemed to keep some control over the young’uns.”

  Barrett absorbed every word. Lamar Westin was dead? Or had he up and left?

  “I ain’t sure Danby does the boy any good.” The customer in the chair spun in the seat, oblivious of the scissors that nearly took out an eye. Barrett recognized the owner of the feed store. What was his name? He waited for the man to elaborate on his statement. “Ever since his wife skedaddled with that lawyer, the judge has been as hard as flint. I always felt sorry for his daughter. She was a sweet child. Still is far as I can see.”

  Ferris scanned his shop, his glance a tad nervous, as though he expected to find Danby sitting in one of his chairs. The judge’s harsh ways stoked that anxiety in people. The barber’s gaze landed on Barrett and narrowed a bit like he tried to place him but couldn’t.

  When it was his turn in the chair, Barrett dusted hair off it and settled in the seat. The smell of witch hazel lingered from the shave given to the previous customer.

  The barber placed a towel around him. “Trim for you today?”

  “Yes, please.”

  Ferris picked up the scissors and a comb. “New in town?”

  “Yes.”

  “You look familiar. Gotta name?”

  “Yes.”

  Before Barrett could say more, a man behind him snorted. “Maybe he doesn’t speak English, Zeke. Probably all he knows are the words yes and please.”

  Ferris leaned close, smelling of coffee and tobacco. “You speak English?”

  There was no dodging the truth, not if he wanted to practice law in Riverport. “Yes, I speak English. Yes, I want a trim only, and yes, I have a name, Mr. Ferris. It’s Seaton.”

  “Seaton?” Proof of his name registered with the widening of the barber’s eyes. “You the one that went to prison?”

  “No, sir. I’m Barrett.”

  A gaze in the mirror showed him an older farmer laying down his newspaper. A moment later, he shuffled out the door.

  Barrett had just provided the occupants of the shop fodder for several days of gossip while they regurgitated the events of the past. He anticipated quite a flapping of gums when it came to the story of Wynn’s arrest and conviction, Barrett’s claim that Danby’s personal bias influenced his brother’s trial, and Edy’s ultimate choice.

  How long before she learned he was back in town, and would it matter to her?

  I’ll write, Edy.

  Not that his letters prevented her from marrying someone else within two months of his leaving.

  Ferris clipped a few hairs from the top of Barrett’s head. “Your brother still in prison?”

  “No.”

  “You in town on a visit?”

  “I’m opening an office here. I’m an attorney.”

  “You don’t say.” The barber wiped his sleeve over the area on the top of his bald head. “Guess you heard me mention that Mrs. Westin’s a widow.”

  So death had taken Westin away.

  Barrett strived to make sense of why hearing the barber’s words shook him. He never rejoiced in anyone’s demise, but something burgeoned inside him. With four words, emotions he’d cut out years ago rose to afflict him once more. Mrs. Westin’s a widow.

  “Were you around when that scene took place at Ogilvie’s?”

  Snickers tainted the air inside the barbershop, reminding Barrett of another visit to Riverport to learn that Edy had married Lamar Westin. He’d felt like the butt of a joke that day, too.

  The men here could gossip all they wanted after Barrett left, but he’d not contribute to it. “All I really want is a haircut, Mr. Ferris.”

  The man sniffed. “Whatever you say, but I wouldn’t go lookin’ for no trouble if I was you. Best I recall, that didn’t work out so good last time.”

  The trouble began with Edy’s father. It ended with Wynn’s prison sentence, Edy’s faithlessness, and Barrett’s regret.

  Maybe Wynn was right in saying Barrett had made a mistake moving back here. Maybe he should return to La Porte.

  No. He couldn’t deny his brother the companionship of family, especially if these were Wynn’s last days. If need be, he wouldn’t deny himself the opportunity to say goodbye and, if God allowed, hold Wynn’s hand as he took his last strained breath.

  Chapter Three

  Inhaling the scent of pot roast, her favorite dish, Edythe walked into the dining room and saw her children already sitting around the table. Normally, she must call them multiple times in order to lure them away from whatever activity entertained them.

  Sarah Jane wore one of her best dresses. A large blue bow tamed her tawny hair and sat straight on her head for once. The boys wore Sunday suits, their hair combed, parted, and slick with oil.

  “My, you all look lovely and handsome. What is the occasion?”

  Her father sat at the head of the table, his attire no less formal than on any other day. “Are you being coy, Edythe?”

  “Coy? No, sir. It looks like a special occasion, but I don’t—”

  “It’s your birthday, Mother.” Timothy nearly bounced in his seat.

  Sarah Jane grinned. “We made you presents.”

  Her birthday? Edythe recalled the date. “Yes, it is my birthday. I’d forgotten.”

  Andrew sat slumped and quiet in his chair. For the most part, he’d behaved himself since the fiasco at the grocer’s.

  She took her seat at the table. “Do I smell roast?”

  “Grandfather asked Mrs. Cameron to make it. She made a cake, too.”

  Pleased by his thoughtfulness, Edythe glanced toward the other end of the table. “Thank you, Father.”

  He cleared his throat. “That’s enough chatter, Sarah Jane.”

  Their cook and housekeeper, Mrs. Cameron, must have heard her name, because she carried in a platter and set it in front of the judge.

  Edythe eyed the meat, potatoes, and onions. “It looks delicious, Mrs. Cameron.”

  “Thank you, ma’am.”

  On occasions when her father ate with friends or associates, Edythe took advantage of his absence to invade the kitchen and prepare a light supper for herself and the children. While not a superb cook, she enjoyed doing something she rarely had opportunity to do. It reminded her of what it was like to be the mistress of her own home.

  At the end of the meal, the judge gave the children permission to leave the table and retrieve their gifts. The twins bounced from their seats and out of the room. Andrew followed behind them with sedate steps and a bored manner. In a few minutes they all returned with paper-wrapped packages tied with ribbon and set them on the table before her.

  “Happy birthday, Mother.” Sarah Jane kissed her cheek.

  “Happy birthday, Mother.” Timothy’s wet kis
s dampened the other cheek.

  Andrew returned to his chair.

  “Well, boy, what do you have to say?”

  Her oldest glanced at Edythe and mumbled, “Happy birthday.”

  She fingered the paper on her daughter’s gift. “Well, let me open these, shall I?” She pulled an end of the white ribbon bow and laid aside the paper. It took her a moment to understand what she was seeing. Once she did, her breath caught. “Did you do this by yourself?”

  “Yes, ma’am. Well, Mrs. Cameron helped me find the box. Do you like it?”

  “It’s...It’s lovely, Sarah Jane.” Edythe held up the small, box-style frame for the others to see. Inside the girl had pasted an artistic collection of some of her favorite things in nature: a blue jay’s feather, a maple leaf, a daisy from the flower garden. All in all, she’d squeezed about ten objects into an eight-inch by five-inch box. Objects that defined her daughter’s interests and delighted her, which in turn delighted Edythe. “Thank you, darling.”

  “Open mine next.” Timothy craned his neck to see over the table as she pulled the red ribbon from his package—another wooden box, this one with a lid.

  Opening it, she pulled out a small windmill made of a folded sheet of paper attached to a thin stick with a tack. He had drawn a large shape on each “blade”—star, circle, square, diamond. “This is a lovely little toy. Thank you, Timothy.”

  “It’s not a toy, Mother.” Disappointment filled his voice.

  “I’m sorry.” She should have realized it held greater scientific purpose for him. Timothy’s toys always became a means to an end. She studied the colorful contraption. Though she knew the answer, it would please her son to explain. “How does it work?”

  “Blow on it.” He leaned over the table and blew, but the gust of air wasn’t strong enough to do more than flutter the ends of the paper. “See? Distance affects the amount of wind it receives and its ability to turn. Now, you try it.”