Maggie's Journey (McKenna's Daughters) Read online

“Margaret, come along.” Mrs. Caine turned her smile toward them. “We have a lot to accomplish today.”

  Charles reached for Maggie’s hand. “I’m glad we got to see each other again.”

  “I am too.” With those quick words, she flitted out the door behind her mother.

  Just before she was out of sight, she gave him one last glance. A glance that warmed him somehow. Her concern for him touched him deeply.

  Mr. Caine returned to his chair. “Now where were we? Oh, yes. Harvey, prepare to serve as witness.” Mr. Caine dipped his pen in the ink pot and signed his copy with a flourish. “Now let me see your document. I’ll sign it, then you can sign both.”

  Charles pulled out the contract and handed it to him. His heart swelled as he watched his new partner make it official.

  “I believe the ink is dry now, Charles. Why don’t you sit here while you sign?” Mr. Caine rose, walked to the front window, and stared out toward the Sound. “It’s a mighty fine day when two businessmen can make a deal that will profit both of them.” He clasped his hands behind his back and rocked up on the balls of his feet. “A mighty fine day.”

  Charles agreed completely. He turned to the task of finishing the deal. He hoped he wouldn’t make an ink smudge on either document. He carefully dipped the nib into the ink and signed his name. Get a hold of yourself, man. He didn’t want to seem like a fumbling idiot in front of these men.

  After affixing his signature to the second document, he moved from behind the desk, a feeling of accomplishment thrilling him. “Your turn, Harvey.”

  The lawyer settled into the chair and took even less time to sign both documents. “All finished, gentlemen.”

  Striding across the thick carpet, Mr. Caine held out his hand. “I’d like a handshake to seal the deal.”

  When Charles thrust his hand toward the man, his new partner applied a strong grip and pumped his arm several times. Charles welcomed the strength, knowing it was indicative of the man’s character and ideals. An honest man, just like Grandpa would have chosen.

  Mr. Caine smiled. “I’ve always wanted a son, but never had one. If anything were to happen to me, I believe I could trust you to make sure my wife and daughter are taken care of.”

  “Thank you, sir.” Charles couldn’t help letting a smile split his face. For the first time he really felt like a responsible adult sitting here with two other businessmen.

  The three men parted ways, and Charles headed toward the cemetery. He knew his grandfather was in heaven, but he felt close to the beloved man at his grave site. Today, Charles needed to talk to him.

  The cold wind stinging his cheeks brought understanding why some men grew sideburns in autumn, but he didn’t mind the cold. And he never had wanted facial hair. He walked between the headstones, trying to gather his thoughts. First he stopped beside his parents’ graves. Standing with his head down, he paraded memories of them through his mind.

  “I miss you both.” He glanced at the clouds hovering low. “Please, God, let them know I love them and that they raised a good son.”

  A few feet over, the twin headstones of his grandparents stood sentinel beside their graves, the stark whiteness of Grandpa’s stone beside the gently weathered one that marked the resting place of his wife.

  Charles smoothed his gloved fingers across the engraved lettering. “Grandma, you’ve been gone a long time, and I still miss you.”

  At least she’d lived a few years after his parents were gone. He’d needed her compassion while he fought against his loss. Without her calming influence and love, he might be an angry man today. Grandpa wouldn’t have entrusted the business to him if he were.

  Then he stepped closer to his grandfather’s grave. “Grandpa, I hope you know how much you meant to me. Now that you’re gone, I still want to make you proud.” He stopped and stuffed his hands deep into the pockets of his overcoat. “Before I make any decision, I ask myself what I think you would do about the matter. Then I make my choice based on that assessment. That’s why I agreed to this merger with Mr. Caine. I believe he is an honest man and that the merger will benefit both of us, helping the store grow and prosper.” He rested one gloved hand on the frigid stone. “I wish you could really tell me what you think about the way I’m taking care of the business you entrusted to me.”

  He put his hand back in the warmth of his pocket and bowed his head. After standing there for a few minutes, peace poured through his heart and soul like a soothing warm bath, cleansing him from all his doubts.

  With a light heart, he made his way back to the mansion he’d inherited, the only home he remembered living in. He whistled Grandma’s favorite song all during the brisk walk, and memories of the wonderful woman surrounded him with warmth.

  He had just proven that he was man enough to make sensible decisions. Satisfaction filled his heart, giving a jaunty new swagger to his walk. Life is good and is going to get better. I can feel it.

  Chapter 3

  After lunch with his wife, then the meeting with Charles Stanton, Joshua Caine worked on several projects. Finally, he swiveled in his chair and peered out his window toward Puget Sound. A train loaded with long logs chugged its slow way across the Columbia and Puget Sound railroad bridge, a sign of progress and the growing economy in Seattle. Joshua welcomed the changes that would benefit him and his new partner. People migrated to Seattle in record numbers, and the construction of houses signaled the growth. New inhabitants would need clothing, accessories, and the furniture that the soon-to-be-expanded store would offer under one roof. A very progressive prospect.

  He turned toward his desk and looked at the neat stacks of papers. He knew what was in each stack, and he realized which ones needed immediate attention. Since nothing really was pressing today, he mulled over the new partnership. After moving to a worktable against one wall of his personal office, he pulled a large piece of paper from the shelf under the table and started drawing with swift strokes. Before long, he had re-created on the paper the exact layout of the store below and the one on the other side of the connecting wall.

  With an eye for detail, he erased and redrew several lines on the drawing, being careful to brush off any residue that might mark the sketch. Then he studied the changes from three angles, making a few more adjustments. When the floor plan was finished, he grinned like a schoolboy with a new toy.

  He didn't know how much planning that Stanton boy had done, but this schematic was the best way to make the improvements in both stores and probably the most cost-effective way to connect them. He could hardly wait to show the drawing to Charles. He felt sure the young man would agree with his assessment.

  Always glad to get home to his two favorite women, Joshua left the store earlier than usual. At the house, he thrust the door open and called out, "I'm home."

  A movement on the stairs caught his attention, and he watched Florence descend like a graceful swan. She didn't look a day older than she had when he married her. Ever since that rough time on the wagon train, he'd wanted to make her completely happy. Sometimes he felt he'd been successful. Sometimes he didn't.

  Today, she gave him a brilliant smile and leaned up to plant a quick kiss on his cheek.

  "Was your shopping trip successful?" His words brought a slight cloud to her expression.

  "Not exactly." She headed into the parlor and he followed, settling beside her on the divan. "We started a bit late and didn't find much we liked."

  Mrs. Jorgensen stopped in the doorway. "Erik told me you were home, Mr. Caine. If you'd like, I can have dinner on the table in two shakes of a lamb's tail, for sure."

  Joshua grinned at her humorous sayings. They always amused him, but Florence didn't like them much.

  His wife stood. "That would be fine, Mrs. Jorgensen. We'll dine as soon as you have it ready."

  Just then Maggie descended the stairs. His daughter had turned into a beautiful young woman. God had blessed him in so many ways.

  Maggie came to the open doorway. "Did I he
ar Mrs. Jorgensen say we are going to eat soon?"

  Her mother looked at Maggie and smiled. "Yes." She moved toward their daughter. "I was just telling your father that we didn't find much today. I thought we should go shopping again tomorrow."

  He noticed Maggie's expression sink a little before she answered. "Could you go without me, Mother? I'm still working on writing out the invitation list and other plans for the party. I could stay home and finish them."

  Florence just stared at her a minute. "I guess I could go shopping without you."

  Once again, he sensed tension between the two most important people in his life. How he wished he could understand women better. If only there were something he could do to smooth over the troubled waters.

  ‚Ä¢‚Ä¢‚Ä¢

  The next morning Maggie's mind was on her grandmother's legacy. Her mother left soon after they shared breakfast, but without much conversation. Evidently Mother was still miffed that Maggie didn't want to spend another day shopping. She had other things she wanted to do today. Not the least of these was to finish the dress design. She wished she could consult her grandmother and get her ideas.

  Just then Maggie remembered Aunt Georgia telling her that Mother brought on the wagon train some of the dresses Grandmother designed for her. Would she have kept them? If so, Maggie wanted to find them to study the lines of the garments. Perhaps they were stored in the attic. She knew the third floor of their home was unheated, so she went to her room and pulled on a heavy jacket before heading up the attic stairs.

  Even though the maids sometimes cleaned up there, dust motes danced in the sunlight streaming through the dormer windows. One end of the room that spread across the whole mansion was filled with cast-off furniture. Maggie studied the pieces. Most of them were beautiful. Evidently Mother had tired of them or found something she liked better.

  A rosewood writing desk sat pushed up under the eaves, with a matching chair beside it. Maggie went over and slid her fingers along the grain of the wood, disturbing the layer of dust. She would ask Erik to help her take it downstairs to her room when she was finished up here. It would fit neatly underneath her window that faced Puget Sound. She would enjoy drawing designs while sitting at the desk. But right now, she needed to find the dresses.

  Numerous chests were stacked haphazardly on the other end of the room, and some clothes hung across a rope clothesline. Old sheets protected them.

  Maggie removed the first sheet and looked through the garments. A green satin dress caught her eye. As she studied how it was made, she found her grandmother's name embroidered on the facing at the back of the neck. She held the dress up to her and moved over in front of the wardrobe that had a mirror on the door. Although the dress was far too long, it would fit her otherwise. Maybe she could get Mrs. Murdock to shorten it. She would like to wear something her grandmother had made. This could be her new dress for the holiday season. She could keep her own new design just for her mother. Should I ask Mother, or should I just do it?

  She draped the dress across the railing above the staircase. She'd take it downstairs when she went. Maybe Mother wouldn't even notice. How often did she come into the attic anyway?

  Going back to the clothing hanging on the line, Maggie moved the outfits aside to study the next design. The lines of these dresses awakened all kinds of designs in her mind. Her fingers itched to get them on paper, but this time she'd be sure her mother wouldn't find the drawings before she finished them.

  As the wind blew through the trees with some limbs scraping against the windows, streams of sunlight crept across the attic, almost like a lantern revealing more items. In the back corner on the end farthest from the stairs, a cluster of trunks and wooden crates made a large intriguing pile. Maybe some of them contained more clothing. Maggie's curiosity drove her to investigate.

  The first trunk held flower-sprigged, cotton dresses, something Mother would never wear. Differing designs in the sometimes faded dresses opened more memories in her mind. Mother had worn some of these. She could see her in the kitchen of the house back in Oregon, preparing meals for the three of them. How long had it been since her mother cooked for the family? Maggie couldn't remember her ever using the large stove in the kitchen far below. They didn't have a cook in Oregon, but Mrs. Jorgensen was in all her memories of this house in Seattle.

  After poking around in several trunks, she opened one containing handmade quilts. Had her mother made these or were they gifts from someone else? Did the women on the wagon train her parents had traveled west on make these covers? She'd never seen them on the beds on the second floor of the mansion. She picked up four or five of the quilts and set them aside. Faded clothing with tattered sleeves and worn places on the hems were folded neatly beneath them.

  Maggie lifted out the men's and women's clothing that smelled old and musty. Why did Mother keep all this? Without a doubt, she would never put on anything like this ever again.

  Just as Maggie was going to start putting the items back into the trunk, a stream of sunlight bounced off the corner of something white and hard. She pulled back the plaid flannel shirt covering it and revealed a small white chest.

  What's this? She lifted it out and set it on the floor. Made from painted wood, the lid had a carved floral design, and pale remnants of pink paint shadowed the blossoms. Faded now, this chest had to have been a thing of beauty when it was new. She wondered who made it. She'd never known her father to do any woodcarving, but he could have when he was younger. Maybe he created this beauty.

  She lifted the lid. The hinges squealed as if they hadn't been used for a long time. A soft knitted blanket, yellowed by time, spread across the top of whatever was in the chest.

  Maggie stared at the blanket. The thin yarn and tiny loops of the knitting made it appear to be for a baby, so it must have been hers. But Mother didn't knit. Neither did Aunt Georgia. So who knitted this? Her fingertips gently explored the texture, and a strange feeling tugged at her heart.

  She picked up the soft fabric and clasped it to her chest. Underneath was a tiny white dimity dress covered with pink embroidered roses. Mother occasionally worked on needlepoint, but not embroidery. Maybe her grandmother made the dress. Other dresses and gowns were packed together with a tiny sweater, cap, and booties. Maggie fingered each piece before she set it on the floor beside her. They looked almost new, as if they hadn't been worn much. Maybe Mother kept them for special occasions, but if so, what did she wear the rest of the time?

  At the very bottom of the trunk, she found a miniature portrait in an oval silver frame. Tarnish dimmed the glow of the metal but didn't obscure the intricate design of interwoven hearts all around the frame. With one hand, she dusted off the curved glass and turned the picture toward the sunlight.

  Maggie gasped. Staring back at her was a faded portrait of . . . herself. But that's impossible. The woman's face was the same heart shape as Maggie's. The woman's eyes held the intense expression that often stared back at Maggie from her own mirror. The same large eyes, the same pert nose, the same bowed mouth, and the same curls escaped from the woman's hairstyle, too. Who can this be? Why had Maggie never heard of someone in the family who looked just like her? A feeling of unease crept up her spine, making the hair on the back of her neck prickle.

  She peered deep into the small chest and noticed a sheet of yellowed paper with writing on it lying flat on the bottom. She picked it up and turned it toward the weak sunlight.

  September 19, 1867

  I, Angus McKenna, do hereby give my daughter, Margaret Lenora, to Joshua and Florence Caine to adopt and raise as their own child. I promise not to ever try to contact Margaret Lenora.

  Signed,

  Angus McKenna

  Joshua Caine

  Florence Caine

  Witnessed,

  John Overton

  Matthias Horton, MD

  The words leapt from the page and stabbed her bewildered heart like thin shards of broken crystal. Maggie stared at the note until
everything ran together. Then the paper fluttered to the floor beside her, and shock leaked from her eyes, making hot trails down her cheeks.

  Maggie wasn't sure how long she sat on the dusty floor weeping. Her body ached, her eyes felt gritty, and she was sure her face was swollen and blotchy. When she glanced up, the shaft of weak sunlight had made its way across the attic, leaving her in shadows. What if Mother finds me here?

  With the scrap of paper clutched in her fingers, she scrambled to her feet. They were tingling because she had sat on them so long they had almost gone completely to sleep. After she tapped them on the floor several times, the numbness began to recede, leaving pinpricks of pain behind. What should I do now?

  The small white chest beside where she had been sitting caught her eyes. Quickly she replaced all the items inside, trying to remember what went where. Did it really matter? Finally, out of anger, she just shoved in what was left and closed the latch. She wasn't going to put the chest back in its hiding place, so it wouldn't matter.

  A thought pushed its way into her shock-numbed mind. What am I going to do about what I found out? The idea of talking to Mother about the picture and adoption paper made her stomach turn. They weren't really mother and daughter. Not by blood anyway. No wonder Maggie couldn't please her.

  Maybe that was why Mother kept the secret from her. Maybe she was sorry she ever adopted her. What was it about her that kept the women in her life from loving her? First her real mother, whoever she was, then Florence. Both had rejected her in different ways. The pain from that admission radiated from her heart, burning a trail to her churning stomach.

  But if that was true, why was Mother always trying to change her, make her into the perfect daughter? Were her real parents terrible people? Was Mother afraid Maggie would turn out like them? Her head started to throb with all the thoughts bumping into each other. She couldn't make heads or tails of any of them. More tears slid down her cheeks.