Broken Branches

By Virginia L. White

Cassie Ramseys nightmares are ruining her life. She left her birthplace of New Orleans and moved to Washington State in an effort to escape the mysterious past that has haunted her all her life. Abandoned as a child, she knows nothing about her parents. She knows only of her dreamsdreams that forcefully tug her away from her husband and daughter. Cassie cant fight it any longer. She has to go back.

Forty years before, a cruel shipping magnate named Bernard Moody raised two daughters, Margaret and Esther, in New Orleans. The sisters were bound for tragedy. When they fell in love with the same man, one sister was willing to do anything to get what she wanted, but what she wanted threatened to rip the already fragile Moody family apart.

When Cassie finds out about these women and their unloving father, she is driven to uncover the truth about them. As she watches her own family fade away on account of her morbid obsession, the Moody familys past could turn out to be her future. Is digging up the past worth ruining the future? Cassie must make this decision on her own as she searches for her heritage and the ghosts that haunt her dreams.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Abbott Press
• Release date: Apr 3, 2012
• ISBN: 9781458202932

Virginia L. White

Virginia White is a writer, wife, mother, and grandmother. Born and raised in Indiana, she now lives in Texas where she pursues her love of writing. She also enjoys spending time with her newest grandchild, Aaron, and vacationing in New Orleans.

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Contents

I

The Dreamer

II

First Love

III

Revealing Secrets

IV

Echoes of Heartache

V

Looking for Answers

VI

A Place to Hide

VII

Recovering

VIII

Breaking the News

IX

Coming Home

X

A Wedding at Moody Mansion

XI

The Gift

XII

Telling Stories

XIII

Christmas Celebration

XIV

A Sibling’s Revenge

XV

A Night of Chaos

XVI

The Loss

XVII

Onerous Infliction

XVIII

A Time for Healing

XIX

Looking Back

XX

Home Is Not Always where the Heart Is

XXI

Memories

XXII

The Visitor

XXIII

Seeking Help

XXIV

Saying Good-bye

XXV

Uncommon Encounters

XXVI

Hidden Agenda

XXVII

One in a Million

XXVIII

The Voyage

XXIX

The Locket

XXX

The Means to an End

XXXI

The Call

XXXII

Past Shadows

XXXIII

The Black Hole

XXXIV

A Secret Box

XXXV

Imaginary Trouble

XXXVI

Profound Revelation

XXXVII

The Move

XXXVIII

Matters of the Heart

XXXIX

The Blue Rose Room

XL

The Diary

For my family, especially my son Timothy,

who believed in me and never failed

to encourage me at just the right time.

And for my nephew Rudy,

who was always willing to lend an ear.

There is a haunting in the wind,

That rides the rolling waters in,

And weaves a web in secrecy,

Of hidden things beneath the sea.

I

The Dreamer

November 22, 1980

Cassie Ramsey rushed out of the house and into the cool, crisp morning, paused on the porch, and turned to shout orders to her husband, Richard. Watch out for Trisha! Make sure she doesn’t forget her homework, and make sure she wears a warm coat! She let the door slam over her last words. In no time at all, she was in the car and was on her way to work.

Cassie and her husband lived in Mason County, Washington, with their six-year-old daughter, Trisha Marie. Their home stood at the southwestern tip of Puget Sound, with the Cascade Mountains on the horizon. Puget Sound held water from the Pacific Coast to provide a port for oceangoing ships from Seattle, Tacoma, and Olympia. This peaceful waterfront had been home to the Ramsey family since their move from New Orleans before Trisha was born.

This particular morning, Cassie could not concentrate on the beauty of her surroundings. Her mind was wandering as she drove to the local high school where she taught English. She recalled the reason they had moved here from New Orleans because that reason still haunted her very existence. I miss the old place, she said aloud, heaving a sigh as she thought about the place where she had grown up. Her life, as far back as she could remember, had been riddled with the unrelenting persistence to learn about her heritage, and recurring nightmares continued to plague her restless nights.

You’re obsessed with digging up the roots of your past! Richard often accused her. I thought moving to Washington would solve everything—the constant nightmares that leave you empty and tormented … and what about that insane desire to claim your biological identity? You’re obsessed with your biology! Why can’t you just appreciate who you are, Cassie? Maybe then your nightmares would stop.

You’ve always known how I feel about that! she would argue.

All the same, he’d persist, you need to let go, Cassie. If anything, the problem has only intensified. You’re obsessed, woman, and even after we’ve been settled here in Washington for over eight years, nothing has changed. We know it just isn’t going to go away. Apparently I am helpless to do anything about that. Why can no one seem to help? Not any of those so-called doctors I keep dragging you to see. Your obsession with your past is going to destroy this family. It’s stealing precious time away from me and Trisha.

Cassie suddenly slammed on the brakes, interrupting her train of thought as she swerved to miss an oncoming car. Shaking, she pulled off the road. When the car came to a full stop, she rested her forehead against the steering wheel. She tried, but she couldn’t let go of the past. She could feel the goose bumps creeping across her flesh.

Henry Porter and his wife, Gwen, had adopted Cassie as an infant. Even though she had questioned her parents periodically about how she came to be adopted, they had always been reluctant to discuss the details with her. She could remember one afternoon—she was five years old at the time—when she walked in the house unexpectedly and saw her mother and father sitting at the kitchen table totally engrossed in a conversation, unaware of her presence.

Maybe we should have been honest with Cassie to begin with. Her father had sighed, taking her mother’s hand in his.

He looks so sad, Cassie had thought at the time. Without another word, they both turned to stare at her, looking a little frightened. Cassie couldn’t explain what was going on that day, but she could read the fear written all over both her parents’ faces.

Henry Porter was killed in a boating accident when Cassie was just six years old. She could remember very little about her father. He had been gentle and kind, and he had loved to play with her. He always made room for her, regardless of how busy he was at the time. He made her laugh with all kinds of silliness, such as letting her honk the horn until his nose turned red, or pretending he couldn’t see her and then looking surprised when she approached him. The thing she remembered most was his loud, hearty laugh as he swung her high in the air until she was dizzy and unable to stand on her feet when he finally put her down.

I’ll never forget the feel of those strong, safe arms holding me, and that hearty laugh, she repeatedly shared with her mother. Cassie and her mother were very close. Gwen had always been supportive, but she was also always equally evasive whenever Cassie questioned her about her biological parents. Gwen always turned a deaf ear and claimed to know nothing about them. Although Cassie had no reason to disbelieve her mother, curiosity would always rear its ugly head and get the better of her.

She started up the car and continued on her way to work.

Back at the house, Richard was pouring his second cup of coffee when the doorbell rang. I was on my way to the grocery store, Gwen greeted him. I thought you might need me to pick up some things for Cassie’s birthday party tonight.

Now, Gwen, he reminded her, Trisha has insisted on doing everything herself. So if it turns out to be a disaster, it’s no big deal. I promised to let her do all the planning and the decorating. But here is a list that I will swear I know nothing about, just in case! He grinned. I’m not saying the child can’t get carried away when she’s left on her own, but we both know how high-strung and sensitive she’s always been. It doesn’t take a lot to get her wound up, especially when she’s in cahoots with that imaginary friend of hers, Nomed.

No problem! My lips are sealed, Gwen said, placing a finger to her lips as a gesture of cooperation as she grabbed a chair and planted herself at the kitchen table. Now, how about a cup of that coffee? I didn’t come empty handed, she said, setting a grease-spotted brown paper bag down on the table in front of him. I got doughnuts! Just the kind you like—chocolate with raspberry filling. Although I never could understand why you like those mushy filled things. Give me the old powdered sugar–covered cake doughnuts any day.

That’s just because they remind you of beignets, Richard reasoned, reaching in the bag for a doughnut. He took a bite and uttered a sigh of contentment while the jellylike substance oozed from the corners of his mouth.

Gwen was a very outspoken woman. Cassie, Richard, and Trisha were the only family she had or needed. They were a close-knit family and spent a lot of time together. She never found it difficult to speak what was on her mind at any given time. Richard loved that about his mother-in-law and saw it as a positive trait. I always know where I stand when it comes to my mother-in–law, he was often heard to say.

While Richard poured more coffee, Gwen propped one elbow on the table, supporting her head with her hand as she crossed her legs and continued to chatter on aimlessly between bites of doughnut. Speaking of Trisha, you do spoil that child you know, she commented.

Listen to the pot calling the kettle black! he fired back.

Yeah, but that’s my job, Richard. Your job is to make sure she grows up to be a responsible adult. And mine is to make your job harder and enjoy just being Grandma. She grinned over at him, wiping her mouth with a paper napkin. Richard was about to sit down with another cup of coffee when they heard a loud crash from the living room.

It’s okay! Trisha shouted from the next room. I just up-dumped the box! A few minutes later, she appeared in the kitchen dragging a huge cardboard box behind her. It was filled with an assortment of decorations. She paused for a moment to catch her breath. It’s for the party! she proudly announced.

Looks as if you’ve got everything in there but the kitchen sink, honey, Gwen noted, peering down into the box.

Trisha glanced toward her grandmother, frowning. I’ve got a bunch of ideas in my head—but not in the box, she boasted.

I’ll just bet you have, honey, her grandmother said, trying hard to keep a straight face.

How about we all sit down and have some breakfast? Richard suggested. I made enough food for an army.

Trisha wrinkled her nose, looking a bit puzzled.

It’s just a saying, honey, he assured her. Now get busy and eat. You’re going to be late for school and get me in trouble with your mother.

Don’t touch my box while I’m gone, she told him.

I wouldn’t touch it with a ten-foot pole, he promised. Again, the troubled look came over the little girl’s face as she tightened her lips in puzzlement. Never mind, Richard said, shaking his head as he looked over at Gwen’s smug reaction.

Some people never learn! She smiled, draining the last of her coffee. After a quiet breakfast with Richard and Trisha, Gwen got up to leave. I have to be going. I have a lot of shopping to get done. I’ll see the two of you tonight, she said, hurrying toward the door.

You run upstairs and get your books, Trisha, Richard urged his daughter. You don’t want to miss the school bus. After much urging, he finally managed to get her safely on the school bus, only to have to chase it down to give his daughter her coat. He drained his last cup of coffee, cleared the table, and left for his job at the local bank.

Tall and slim, Richard was a gentle and easygoing man. He was as patient as he was intelligent. His family always came first and foremost in his life. He was well liked and had few anxieties, except for his distress over Cassie’s nagging dreams and the endless torment that haunted his family. He often compared Cassie’s nightmares to a troublesome sore that couldn’t be healed.

It was late that afternoon when Cassie arrived back home. It had been a long, stressful day at work. She pulled into the driveway tired and worn out, the stress she felt exacerbated by the lack of sleep from the night before. She put the light-green Ford Mustang convertible in park and stumbled out of the car. Somehow, the stack of books she was carrying spilled out all over the driveway. While she bent down to retrieve the scattered books, the neighbor’s big, gray-and-white cat Caesar jumped up onto her back, leaving a little parade of wet, muddy, telltale paw prints across the back of her coat.

She grabbed for the cat, but he slipped through her fingers and streaked his way across the front lawn toward the house next door. Come back here you little demon fur ball! Defeated, she let herself into the house. Lord, it’s good to be home! She heaved a sigh of relief, dumped the books and her purse on the kitchen table, and kicked off her shoes. Finally beginning to settle, she put some water on the stove to heat for tea.

Is anyone home? she called out. No answer. She sat down at the kitchen table to review the day’s events while she waited for the kettle to boil. It had been a rough day. Although she was an English teacher, a good many troubled students persisted on approaching her for personal advice. She loved her work at the high school. She was comfortable with her job, though the principal, Mrs. Tuttle, would sometimes tend to take advantage of her good nature. All in all it worked out very well. She knew her hard work was appreciated. It keeps me from thinking and dwelling on my own problems, she often told herself. It was hard for her to believe she had turned thirty-two years old today. She heaved another sigh as she reached for the steaming teakettle. After a relaxing cup of herbal tea, she made her way upstairs to take a bath.

Cassie had no sooner stepped into the bathtub than her thoughts were interrupted by the sound of the front door slamming. Hi, Mom, Trisha shouted. It’s me and Daddy! We’re home! Grandma’s here too!

Your loved ones are home! Richard added.

I know what this means, she said. Party time! They always made a big fuss over her birthday. She would keep insisting they not do that, because she preferred not to advertise the fact that she was another year older and didn’t need to be reminded of that fact. But they knew she always appreciated all their efforts.

I’m upstairs in the bathroom! she yelled back, taking a deep breath as she slid slowly down into the warm, sudsy water, feeling the slick surface of the smooth, white porcelain against her wet back. The sweet vapor of lilac-scented bath salts drifted lazily across her face. She couldn’t help smiling to herself, thinking about Trisha downstairs. The little girl would be so excited getting ready for the big birthday party. It took so little to get the child all worked up; she was very excitable. She could brighten up the gloomiest day with just a tilt of her pretty little head and a flash of that innocent smile she carried so well.

Trisha was a delightful, mischievous little girl who was as carefree and happy as only a young child can be. She was petite, and her hair was the color of pumpkin. She had a healthy appetite for life. She had a low level of understanding for the English language but made up for it with her incredible talent for the art of drawing. She loved to sing, but sad to say, her voice never realized that love. She could not carry a tune, and anyone who had heard her sing could certainly vouch for that fact. But it never discouraged her. At every opportunity, her voice would ring out with enthusiasm while listeners cringed in rebellion—but not enough to discourage her from singing.

Hurry up, Mom! Trisha yelled upstairs a short time later, her voice once again piercing Cassie’s solitude.

I’ll be down shortly! she shouted back as she continued to linger in the luxury of her warm, silky bubble bath. Her thoughts immediately turned to a recent conversation with Richard concerning her nightmares. The visitors are so real, she had explained to him. Sometimes it seems as if I can almost reach out and touch them. When I wake up in the middle of a dream, I can still feel their presence. Why me, Richard? What do they want of me? I’ve been having nightmares since I was a child; they keep getting more and more intense as I grow older. I keep trying to talk about my dreams with Mom, but she’s so touchy about the subject. Every time I reach out to her, she just clams up, leaving me even more anxious and confused. She reacts the same way when I approach her with questions about my adoption. I have a hard time understanding why she is so secretive about the whole thing.

Enough of this! she mumbled to herself, grabbing a towel from the round brass ring on the wall next to the tub as she reluctantly stepped out of the water and pulled the chain to release the bath water. Its party time! she voiced, wrapping the soft, wooly, red towel around her wet body. (She didn’t like plain white linens. She complained that they were too sterile looking, and she bought only colorful towels and sheets.) She padded down the hall in her bedroom slippers, her straight, ebony hair still dripping down across the towel that covered her back and shoulders. Cassie was tall, and her eyes were remarkably blue. She was a natural beauty with her long, shapely legs and the easy way she carried herself.

Back in her bedroom, she slipped into her favorite outfit—a soft, pink, silk flowered blouse with a V-shaped neckline and a short, pink skirt with a matching jacket. She was about to go downstairs when her mother stopped her on the stair landing. Don’t go down there yet, honey! she cautioned. Trisha is trying to surprise you. But as your mother, I thought it only fair to warn you what’s going on. The child has truly outdone herself this time. I don’t need to tell you to look surprised—that will come naturally! She chuckled quietly. Just try not to look too shocked. I think Richard has had a hand in this whole scheme. He even looks guilty. It’s a little bizarre down there!

Gwen turned away from Cassie’s puzzled expression, but not before Cassie realized her mother was struggling to keep herself from breaking out in laughter.

Good Lord! Her expression forced her mother to turn and look at her. If Richard is involved in this, we’re probably in a lot of trouble. You know how that man allows Trisha to wrap him around her little finger. He gets tongue tied whenever it comes time to say no to the child. We should go down there before they get carried away with this party. She marched down the stairs, stopping a few steps from the bottom, and peered into the living room.

To Cassie’s shock, the downstairs was alive with color, flavored with every conceivable holiday design all rolled into one. I—I don’t believe this! she stammered. She turned to face her mother, who had followed right behind. It looks like a drunken, runaway carnival! she gasped.

There were strings of colored lights everywhere, and there were some Happy New Year streamers and Japanese lanterns stretched across the living room. They had blotted out the words New Year and added Birthday. Everything was covered with ghosts and bunny rabbits. There was even a plastic Santa Claus! Cassie paused long enough to catch her breath.

There’s a baby Jesus in an Easter basket sitting on my coffee table, she added, grabbing onto her mother’s arm for support. I don’t think the child has left out a single holiday!

Does Valentines Day ring a bell? Gwen asked. Look over there at the big red heart stuck to the mirror above the buffet! She pointed to a large, lopsided, glittering red paper heart blazing with sparkle.

Suck it up, Cassie, her mother suggested in a whisper. Your daughter is just a chip off of the old block, and by the old block, I am referring to Richard.

Cassie straightened her skirt, tucked in her blouse, regained her composure, and continued bravely on down the stairs, her eyes reflecting sparks of color from the array of twinkling rainbow Christmas lights bridging their way across the entire living room.

Gwen struggled to gain some measure of self-control, and then she lost it as she burst out laughing. I don’t know whether to go boil some eggs or set up the Christmas tree! she said, wiping at the teardrops trickling from the corners of her eyes.

Why is Grandma laughing? Trisha asked her mother, frowning and getting up from the floor where she had been sitting among a clutter of brightly colored packages.

She’s laughing because she’s happy, Cassie explained, hugging the little girl while trying to conceal her own amusement.

Daddy helped me with all the stuff! Trisha explained, grabbing her mother’s arm excitedly and pulling her toward the center of the living room. We have to sing ‘Happy Birthday,’ and we have red champagne and toast! she boasted. Trisha beamed with pride, her eyes sparkling, as the family sat around the coffee table sipping strawberry Kool-Aid from Mason jar glasses and munching on burnt black toast.

Did anyone even try to explain to the child what making a toast was all about? Gwen whispered to Richard, glaring at him accusingly.

Richard responded by lifting his glass of Kool-Aid toward her, and he remained silent, taking a hefty bite of toast as he smiled back at his mother in-law.

I didn’t make the cake, Trisha confessed later. Daddy said someone called Sara Lee made it. I don’t know her, but I really like her cake.

Later on that evening when the hype had settled down, Gwen patted her daughter on the shoulder. Cassie, honey, you need to sit still and rest while I gather up these dirty dishes, she insisted. After all, it’s still your birthday, and I desperately need something to occupy my mind while I try to erase the image of Richard dancing around the room like a big clown wearing that lacy, baby-blue nightgown I gave you for your birthday.

Cassie responded with a sigh of relief as she slumped down even deeper in the comfortable over-stuffed chair next to the sofa where Richard and Trisha lay sprawled out sound asleep. Richard was still wearing the tight-fitting, blue gown.

How much more can that gown stretch before it splits out at the seams? Gwen questioned. I swear I don’t know how you put up with that man!

Oh, Mom! Cassie laughed. Sometimes I think you love him more than you love me. He’s the least of my worries right now. Trisha is so hopped up on sugar, I was beginning to think she was never going to calm down. How much sugar do you think she added to that Kool-Aid?

I don’t know, Gwen admitted. It’s more like, how much Kool-Aid did she add to the sugar? I know that because these glasses are stuck like they’ve been glued to the glass top of this coffee table. And they’re leaving round, pink, sticky rings.

A short time later, Gwen finally tossed the broom to the back of the pantry and slammed the door shut. Cassie looked affectionately at her mother. I’ll walk you to the door, Mom, she offered.

The cool night air felt good on her clammy skin as Cassie and her mother stood on the front porch and surveyed the peaceful beauty around them. A long, steady row of lighted trees on both sides of the street twinkled their greeting as the two women stood quietly pondering the day’s events. The streets were lined with different styled homes—from contemporary to colonial in as many different colors. Even the well-groomed landscaping looked as though someone had thrown a handful of ideas about, all of which took root and grew into quaint eccentricity.

I can’t believe you talked all those neighbors into keeping at least one lit tree in the center of their front lawn after dark. Gwen yawned. At first it kind of freaked me out, but in time I grew to love the idea. Every time I come over here at night, those trees make the neighborhood seem sort of warm and friendly—as if I’m being greeted by a silent welcoming committee.

Well, the place was so uniform when we moved here, Cassie said with a grin. I thought the neighborhood could use a friendly touch. I could hardly believe it myself when all the neighbors agreed with me about the trees.

I don’t think Mom appreciated that thing you did with the toast, Cassie said later that night as she lay next to Richard. You know how she likes to eat, and taking a piece of burnt bread and calling it a toast—wasn’t that funny? I’m sure it wasn’t what she was expecting—or you parading around in my birthday gown and stretching it all out of proportion. Well, maybe that was a little funny!

Aw, your mom’s a good sport, he kidded. She can take a joke as well as anyone. Our little motormouth loved every minute. The kid was bubbling over with excitement. She was so proud of herself. I thought she would never wind down. I’ve never seen her happier. Now come here, woman! he demanded, tossing aside the book he had been reading and pulling her close to him.

I’ve got a headache! she teased, struggling as she burrowed her way beneath the blankets, laughing hysterically. After grabbing her by the ankle just as she was about to slide off the edge of the bed, Richard held her firmly against him until she stopped struggling. Time stood still as their bodies melted together in a moment of passionate embrace.

Trisha is the best thing that has ever happened to us, Cassie said with a sigh later as she lay peacefully next to her husband.

I agree with you one hundred percent, he said, gently lifting her chin toward him and tenderly kissing her on the lips.

Cassie’s eyelids grew heavy as she slowly drifted into a restless sleep, leaving herself wide open and vulnerable for the all-too-familiar company of strange visitors destined to enter her dreams. It was as though her very essence were being spiritually transformed into another world … another time … while she lay helplessly asleep. The nightmares were void of any reasonable explanations. She was an unwilling participant in their gruesome purpose.

II

First Love

March 2, 1948, New Orleans

It was close to sundown as Captain Bernard Moody carried his weary body down the narrow beaten path that wound its way around the north side of the giant old plantation house he called home. The aged mansion had been home to several generations of the Moody clan. Today, the old captain was tired and in his usual foul mood after a long voyage at sea.

He slowly mounted the cement steps leading up to a small side door. He could hear the sounds of Ruby’s deep rich voice coming from inside the house, singing the words to Down By The Riverside, one of her favorite gospel songs. Dropping his baggage just inside the door, he began shouting. Ruby, you got any idea of the time? Is supper ready?

I surely do! she yelled as she came to meet him at the door. It’s on the table. What done took you so long? Supper’s gonna git cold.

With a disapproving glance, he hesitated a moment before following her toward the dining room, where he rudely brushed her aside as he sat down at the table. The long, highly polished wood tabletop glistened beyond the edges of the snow-white runner that graced the length of its beauty. His two daughters, Esther May and Margaret Ann sat opposite one another at one end of the table.

This table looks fit for a king! Ruby said. Then she hesitated before continuing to hum her old gospel tune. Got to love the Lord’s music, she said.

Yeah. Bernard scowled as he took his seat at the head of the table. He glanced at his daughters.

Ruby scurried back and forth from the kitchen to the dining room, busily serving the evening meal, all the while mumbling to herself as she flapped her long, white apron in disapproval after each serving. She was not a young woman any longer, and her work was taking its toll on her short, ample body. Ain’t no need! She grunted. All this room! It’s right silly, if you be askin’ me. Jist to feed three people, I like to run my legs off!

Nobody asked you! Bernard snapped back at her as Ruby set the last dish roughly down on the table and left the room still mumbling, her dark eyes flashing in frustration.

You run this household like you run that old ship! she accused him. But her words fell on deaf ears. Her opinions never seemed to impress the old man one way or another.

Bernard Moody was the captain on a freighter ship. He was well known, having led many a passage on the open sea from the Mississippi River where he lived with his two daughters and Ruby, his longtime housekeeper, at his fine old plantation home in New Orleans, Louisiana.

The stately Moody mansion had graced the banks of the Mississippi River, surrounded by bayous, for over a century. It was an awesome sight to see, lumbering high amidst a sprawling, lush, green background, etched with colorful seasonal blooms. A charming vision surrounded by huge aged oak trees draped with long lacy threads of Spanish moss, it created a peaceful yet mysterious, dream-like atmosphere.

Bernard was a descendant of the privateers who had operated south of New Orleans and throughout the Caribbean Sea. They had operated under the command of the Lafitte brothers, often smuggling slaves into the country. True to his pirate’s blood, Bernard was not above doing some shady dealings himself.

Both Margaret and Esther were unusually quiet at dinner that night. The silence was almost deafening. No one seemed to want to break the silence until Bernard spoke up. See that I’m not bothered, Ruby, he ordered, getting up from the table and wiping his mouth with his napkin. I’ll be in the library.

With a bottle a that ol’ Jack Daniels whiskey, I reckon, Ruby murmured.

This was Bernard’s usual routine after returning from a voyage at sea. He would retire to the library with a bottle of whiskey and a handful of good cigars. He was a harsh, proud man. He claimed to be of the Catholic faith and was noted for being hard to get along with, always giving the impression of being angry and aloof. He had little use for companionship, with one exception—his daughter Esther May. There was no rhyme or reason for his fondness toward her and no limit to how far he would go to see that she was happy. Needless to say, this made for a very spoiled and conceited young woman.

Margaret quietly pushed her chair back away from the table.

I’d like to be excused, she said.

Margaret left the dining room and headed for the safe haven of her bedroom. Daddy hasn’t as much as said hello to me since he returned home, she mumbled to herself as she grudgingly ascended the long stairs.

Margaret had warm, green eyes and a pale complexion. She could not tolerate direct sunlight on her delicate skin. The sun’s harsh rays would penetrate her vulnerable skin to the point of causing tiny droplets of blood to surface. She was quite tall and had long, flowing, flame-red hair. She was a lonely, brooding young woman, quiet and reserved, who kept mostly to herself and seemed much older than her twenty years. Her sister Esther was a year older, but everyone mistook Margaret to be the older of the two girls.

The girl’s mother, Hattie May, had died suddenly while the family was on a trip at sea when the girls were very young. Their father had never remarried.

Back in her room, Margaret aggressively tugged at the stubborn bureau drawer until it gave way, nearly throwing her body off balance, spilling its contents across the floor. She gathered up the clothing, replaced the dresser drawer, except for her diary, then threw herself across the foot of the four-poster bed and began to write. I feel so alienated from my father. I know he favors Esther. After all, Esther is more like him, and I am more like my mother. In a matter of minutes the pen slipped through her limp fingers as sleep overcame her.

Margaret kept a diary, her most treasured possession. It had been a gift from her mother. Although Margaret had been very young at the time, she would never forget her mother’s words when she handed her the diary. She could still smell the sweet aroma of the gardenia sachet that she had become accustomed to whenever she was close to her mother. Keep this close to you always, child. It will capture in words just what is in your heart. It will hold the secrets that you must keep and fill those empty spaces of time that otherwise would surely be lost.

How could Daddy do this to me? Esther whined. Ruby entered the room and began to clear the table as Esther sat alone at the dining room table, sulking with her head in her hands. He’s never refused me before. She began pulling nervously at her right ear, a habit over which she seemed to have no control. You know I’ve been planning a party every day since Daddy left on his latest trip, she complained.

Ruby continued to clear the dining room table, making somewhat of a racket while stacking the china. Suddenly, Esther made her irritation more than obvious. Will you stop that dreadful racket? she shouted. I need quiet! I’m trying to think.

Is that what you be callin’ it? Ruby chuckled, clanking the dishes even louder as she passed by Esther. You don’t need no quiet to think, missy; you needs brains! She laughed. And if you was to have a brain, you’d jist take it out and play with it.

Esther jumped up from the table cursing angrily, knocking over her glass of wine and leaving the thin, burgundy liquid to flow smoothly across the thirsty, white, linen tablecloth as she stomped angrily out of the room.

What you be needin’, missy, is some that good ol’ red bar soap my mama done used, to wash out that potty mouth a yours, Ruby shouted after her.

Ruby and Esther often tangled, albeit without serious results. Esther’s petty tantrums never had impressed Ruby. The Moody family depended heavily on Ruby. She was the seam that held their family together. She loved what she did, she said what she thought, and she meant what she said. Her mother before her had been the housekeeper for the Moody family, and her mother before her had been their slave.

The next morning would find Esther up bright and early, her sulking now transformed into determination. I have to convince father to let me have a party, she told herself as she left the house to hurry down toward the docks where her father was busy working on the ship. If all else fails, she reasoned, I will have to turn on the tears as a last resort. I do have a lot of experience along that line. She smiled as she hurried toward the docks. Esther found her father in the captain’s quarters, bent over an old wood desk, shuffling through a huge stack of old, discolored papers.

Daddy! she interrupted. I need to talk to you!

Bernard grunted without looking up and went right on with what he was doing.

I want to give a party, she continued. It’s lonely when you’re away, and all I have are just Margaret and Ruby for company. You insisted we be tutored at home and you don’t want us to get a job, so I have no other way to make friends. It gets so boring around here except when I throw a big party, she argued. By this time she was desperately pulling at her right ear.

Bernard shoved the stack of papers toward the back of the desk, removed his glasses, and glanced over at his daughter, frowning. Why don’t you stop pulling on that right ear of yours and give it a rest? he suggested. "Try picking on the left one for a change. No use being partial to one. That way maybe they will eventually come out even. You