Chapter 2 - The Ring in the Dirt
Arthur didn't answer me.
Instead, he walked to the tall windows overlooking the garden.
“Mr. Whitmore?”
Nothing.
Annie slipped her hand into mine.
The mansion suddenly didn't feel warm anymore.
I replayed everything I'd said since arriving.
My name.
Annie's name.
Grace was sick.
That was it.
I hadn't mentioned our street.
Our building.
Nothing.
Yet Arthur had recited our address like he'd known it for years.
“Caleb,” Annie whispered, “I want to go home.”
“So do I.”
Arthur heard her.
He turned.
“You should.”
His voice sounded gentler now.
“Someone will arrive shortly.”
“At our apartment?”
“Yes.”
“Who?”
“A physician.”
“We can't pay.”
“You aren't paying.”
“I don't want charity.”
Arthur's eyebrows lifted.
“You came here asking for leftovers.”
“I offered to work for them.”
For the first time, he smiled properly.
It vanished almost immediately.
“Fine. Consider the medical visit payment for the garden.”
“That garden isn't worth a doctor.”
“You haven't seen my doctor's bills.”
I didn't laugh.
Arthur sighed.
Then he walked to a cabinet and removed a large paper grocery bag.
He disappeared into the kitchen.
When he returned, the bag was full.
Bread.
Fruit.
Soup.
Crackers.
Cheese.
Things I hadn't seen in our kitchen for weeks.
“This is too much.”
“No,” Arthur said quietly. “It isn't.”
Annie stared at an apple near the top.
Arthur noticed.
“You may eat that one.”
She looked at me for permission.
I nodded.
She took it.
The first bite made a crisp sound in the enormous room.
Arthur watched her chew.
His face tightened.
“Why do you know our address?” I asked again.
His gaze shifted toward me.
“I knew your mother.”
My heart stopped.
“Our mother?”
“Yes.”
“From where?”
Arthur looked down at the ring.
“That's a longer conversation.”
“You can make it short.”
Something like surprise crossed his face.
Maybe adults weren't accustomed to children demanding answers.
But I wasn't leaving without one.
“Her name was Sarah Foster,” I said.
“I know.”
“How?”
Arthur walked slowly toward a desk.
He opened a drawer.
For several seconds, he searched.
Then he removed a photograph.
He placed it face down on the desk.
His hand stayed over it.
“You need to go to Grace first.”
“No.”
“Caleb—”
“You know where we live. You knew Mom. You called somebody to our apartment without asking. Tell me why.”
His jaw tightened.
Then he turned the photograph over.
I stared.
My mother was standing in Arthur's garden.
Younger.
Smiling.
Beside her stood a woman I'd never seen before.
She had one hand resting on Mom's shoulder.
Behind them was the same rosebush where Annie had found the ring.
Arthur tapped the unfamiliar woman's face.
“My wife, Eleanor.”
I looked from the photograph to the ring.
“Mom knew your wife?”
“Very well.”
“How well?”
Arthur took a breath.
“Your mother worked here when she was young.”
That made sense.
Almost.
Grace cleaned wealthy people's homes too.
Maybe Mom had done the same.
But it didn't explain the photograph.
The women weren't posing like employer and employee.
They looked like family.
“Why do you have our address?”
Arthur's eyes lowered.
“Because I've known it for years.”
Annie stopped eating.
I felt anger rise through the confusion.
“You've been watching us?”
“No.”
“You knew where we lived.”
“Yes.”
“You knew Grace?”
“I knew of her.”
“What does that mean?”
Arthur didn't answer quickly enough.
I grabbed the grocery bag.
“Come on, Annie.”
Arthur stepped toward us.
“Caleb.”
I turned.
“If you knew us, why didn't you help before?”
That question landed harder than everything else.
Arthur's face changed.
He had no answer.
Or maybe he had one he hated.
We left.
Arthur didn't stop us.
A black sedan drove us home because the grocery bag was too heavy to carry several blocks. I hated accepting the ride, but Grace needed us quickly.
When we reached our building, a silver car was already parked outside.
A woman in her fifties stood beside it carrying a medical bag.
“Caleb Foster?”
I nodded.
“Dr. Rebecca Hale.”
She glanced toward Arthur's driver.
“Where's your sister?”
Upstairs, Grace was awake.
And furious.
“Where have you been?”
Then she saw the groceries.
Then the doctor.
Then her face changed.
“What did you do?”
“We worked.”
“For who?”
“Arthur Whitmore.”
The effect of that name frightened me more than anything Arthur had done.
Grace went completely still.
The blanket slipped from her shoulder.
“Who?”
“Arthur Whitmore.”
Grace stared at me.
“You went to his house?”
“You know him too?”
Her eyes filled with panic.
“Caleb, what did he say?”
“That he knew Mom.”
Grace closed her eyes.
That was when I understood.
Arthur hadn't been hiding a secret from all three of us.
Grace already knew part of it.
Dr. Hale stepped forward.
“We can discuss this after I examine you.”
Grace resisted.
Then she tried standing.
Her knees buckled.
That ended the argument.
The examination took twenty minutes.
Dr. Hale checked Grace's temperature, pulse, blood pressure and breathing.
She asked questions.
How long had Grace been dizzy?
Was she eating?
Any pain?
Any fainting?
When Grace admitted she'd nearly passed out twice, Dr. Hale's expression became serious.
“You need testing.”
“I can't afford a hospital.”
“That's being handled.”
“No.”
“Grace.”
“I said no.”
Dr. Hale lowered her voice.
“You're nineteen years old, dehydrated, exhausted, running a persistent fever, and you've been under significant physical stress. I'm not diagnosing you from a living room. You need proper tests.”
Grace looked toward me and Annie.
Fear entered her eyes.
Not fear for herself.
For us.
“If I go,” she whispered, “what happens to them?”
“They come with us,” Dr. Hale said.
Grace looked surprised.
“Mr. Whitmore was very specific.”
Her expression hardened.
Of course it did.
“What exactly did Arthur tell you?”
“That you needed help.”
Grace laughed bitterly.
“Seventeen years late.”
The room went silent.
I stared at her.
“What does that mean?”
Grace looked at me.
Then Annie.
Then away.
“Nothing.”
“Stop saying that.”
She flinched.
I'd never spoken to her like that.
But I couldn't help it.
“Everybody keeps saying nothing. Arthur knows our address. He has pictures of Mom. You know who he is. What's happening?”
Grace's eyes filled.
She looked suddenly older than nineteen.
And younger.
“I promised Mom.”
“Promised her what?”
Grace pressed both hands over her face.
Before she could answer, someone knocked.
Three slow knocks.
I opened the door.
Arthur Whitmore stood in the hallway.
No driver.
No assistant.
Just Arthur and his cane.
Grace saw him over my shoulder.
The color drained from her face.
“You shouldn't be here.”
Arthur's expression softened.
“Hello, Grace.”
“You need to leave.”
“I came because—”
“I know why you came.”
Her voice trembled.
Arthur stopped.
Grace pointed toward the hallway.
“You had years.”
“I know.”
“You knew where we were.”
“Yes.”
“You knew what happened after Mom died.”
Arthur's eyes lowered.
“Yes.”
“And you stayed away.”
“Yes.”
Annie moved behind me.
I couldn't breathe.
Arthur looked toward us.
Then back at Grace.
“I thought I was honoring Sarah's wishes.”
Grace laughed once.
There was no humor in it.
“No. You were honoring your guilt.”
Arthur absorbed the words without defending himself.
Then Grace said something that changed everything.
“Did you tell Caleb why Mom made you promise never to contact us?”
Arthur went silent.
I looked at him.
Then at Grace.
“What promise?”
Neither answered.
And suddenly the ring beneath the roses felt less like something Annie had accidentally found...
May you like
and more like the first piece of a story someone had buried seventeen years ago.
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