Had He Been a Stranger

By Sue New

Powell OKellys strict, narrow upbringing in Ireland was always with the expectation of a religious life in the ministry, so when his parents became suddenly ill and died, his world seemed to collapse. Nevertheless, just as he had been successful in his academic studies, he was equally effective at incorporating self-control and acceptable behavior as the primary traits of his character. In 1897, after the deaths of his parents, he left the ministry and Ireland for America. To his profound dismay, his lifelong friend pressured him to bring his motherless daughter to live with her uncle and aunt in Dallas. But when Powell left Ireland, he also left any thought of serving God. That choice ruled every other decision in his life, causing pain and tragedy to him and the ones he most loved. Left alone and devastated, he finally faced his own duplicity in denying Gods place in his life. He knew the catastrophic pain he had suffered, as well as that inflicted on his only daughter and the woman he loved, was inexcusable. Why had he been able to love his precious daughter with all his heart, yet destroy her, her baby, and her marriage? Finding the answer to that question opened a whole world of love and happiness that heretofore had been a mystery to his closed mind.

• Language: English
• Publisher: WestBow Press
• Release date: Jun 14, 2013
• ISBN: 9781449795337

Sue New

Sue lives near Dallas and has a large family in different parts of the country. She wrote the book twenty years ago, but due to illness and deaths of loved ones, her manuscript was passed around with thoughts of publishing remaining a dream. A few years ago, a newly found cousin asked to read it and encouraged her to work on it again. With his help and the help of a minister friend, the possibility of publishing became alive once more.

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Copyright © 2013 Sue New.

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ISBN: 978-1-4497-9534-4 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-4497-9535-1 (hc)

ISBN: 978-1-4497-9533-7 (e)

Library of Congress Control Number: 2013908739

Scripture taken from the King James Version of the Bible.

WestBow Press rev. date: 6/13/2013

HAD HE BEEN A STRANGER CONTENTS

DEDICATION

The Letter

In The Beginning

Complications

The Child

The Face of a Stranger

Adam Speaks

And Then The Wedding

The Reckoning

A Prisoner

Peggy Leaves Pecan Cove

Legacy of Love

Peggy Alone

Together

Going Home

Postscript

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

A BOOK IS SELDOM COMPLETE WITHOUT THE HELP o f others. First and foremost, I thank Ed New, my dear husband (now in Heaven), who was surprised and excited over every page I finished. Next, I thank my oldest son, Evan New who believed against all odds that I could use the computer, and in addition, he was convinced I could write the book. I would like to thank my granddaughter, Rachel Sue. After reading the manuscript, her enthusiasm was contagious and it gave me faith to continue. During the following years, my third son died suddenly with a massive coronary, my husband died and my oldest son had a massive coronary. That was in a matter of nearly 6 years time. Many family members and friends read the manuscript, but it remained of little interest to me during that time.

My newly found cousin, Don Parrish asked to read the manuscript. I sent it and he said it was worth the effort to work on it and get ready to market. Not only that, but he edited it and enlisted the help of others, including his talented wife and sister. Without Don’s interest, the manuscript would still be in the closet. I sincerely thank you, Don; and of course, Cathy and Maryann, for all the time you spent in helping me with a dream.

Danny True, minister, former military, worked at NASA, and teacher has been ‘there’ day and night at the end of the phone, or an in e-mail, he never fails. He generously established a web site and then posted my book as a PDF. Not only that, but he helps me with this thing called a computer that is much more complicated than my mind can comprehend. When I call, he is so kind to lend his expertise in helping find a solution. Thank you, Danny.

HAD HE BEEN A STRANGER

DEDICATION

D EDICATE THIS BOOK TO CHARLES E. NEW is an honor. He was a minister of the Gospel, my husband and dearest friend for 57 years. His patience, encouragement and excitement gave me the courage to keep on keeping on. His confidence that I could do it gave me hope that maybe I could. He went to be with the Lord in 2004.

This story was born out of an experience of my ancestor, Peggy. Her brief, sad life never entirely left my thoughts and over the years, I created and discarded dozens of beginning ideas for a book in her memory. Using one incident of Peggy’s life and building a purely fictitious narrative using her name, the story took wings when my husband purchased a computer and told me to write.

HAD HE BEEN A STRANGER

The Letter

P EGGY STARED OUT THE KITCHEN WINDOW; HER thoughts as scattered as the snowflakes drifting aimlessly in the air. Her father’s letter today had not been too surprising considering the incredible events of the past two weeks.

Peggy turns from the window and her thoughts to prepare her family for bed. When at last she hears the soft breathing of sleep, she slips off the bed to glide noiselessly into the parlor. The fire was dying but its glowing embers still made the room cozy. She laid another log onto the fire before curling up in the wing chair by the window to stare into the glistening, vaporous moonlight. The wispy snow that fell all evening had finally ceased, its melting moisture blending into the rain-drenched ground. Winter was bone chilling here in New Orleans unlike the brisk cold of her childhood home near Dallas.

Her thoughts returned to the letter and she recoiled as if dodging a ruthless blow. Nevertheless, her eyes close as she allows the past to unfold with all of its joys and sorrows invading every corner of her memory. The pain of eight years ago fills her senses and she wonders if she can bear this mental confrontation. Yes, she can. She must bear it to understand the mystery that had swirled around her all those years ago, even when she had been the most unsuspecting. So regardless of certain agony, she welcomes the memories of the past.

She grew up knowing that she must be the happiest girl in the world. Her father had made the small village of Pecan Cove into a charming, peaceful place and she used to feel like she was in the midst of one of the lovely fairy tales that someone was constantly reading to her. Peggy, even now looking back, saw her childhood with an aura of magic.

When she was fourteen, however, mysterious and frightening changes crumbled her secure world. Her entire existence had been a web of deceit. In addition, she knew something was very wrong and had been for a long time. From Powell’s letter today, she learned fears and silence had ruled the lives all around her.

After reading the letter, she realized that Powell O’Kelly was a man whom no one really knew. Outwardly, he was physically magnificent. Although he was quiet, his smile was warm and he was generous and loyal to his family and friends. Nothing, however, was obvious about his personality, about the man himself. His brilliance in academia was without question. His accomplishments in the law firm and his achievement in the bakery, which he founded in early 1900, had insured his success in life. However, his personality was as inscrutable as a closed book; no one knew how he felt or what he thought.

Suddenly, Peggy squeezes her eyes tightly, admitting to herself that she was putting off the inevitable. She has not seen Powell in eight years and now, before she saw him again, there must be an unraveling, an exploration of her life and his. Her fine black brows drew together. Should she add the letter to her journal? Yes, she would share it with Adam and then she would press it in among the pages that were the story of her life.

In The Beginning SKU-000641503_TEXT.pdf

A T THE END OF 1897, POWELL O’KELLY began a journey into many unknowns, when he and Catherine boarded the ‘Elizabeth’ in Ireland going to America. Although he was only twenty-four years old, he could speak four languages fluently and had achieved degrees in the arts, religion, and philosophy. For the first eighteen years of his life, he had worked diligently to be a priest according to his parent’s wishes. It was as if he had been born for it.

Although he was honest, single-minded, and brilliant, his profound ignorance of emotions produced a complex and inscrutable personality. Just as he had been successful in his academic studies, he was equally effective at incorporating self-control and acceptable behavior as the primary traits of his character. Whatever was ‘right,’ he did it regardless of pain or discomfort to himself. He was strict and narrow without the knowledge of love, forgiveness, happiness, or even grief.

As he laid his head on the pillow that first night on the ship, he wondered again how he could have ended up with young Catherine Langley traveling with him. True, she had been somewhat in his care the past seven years because of her mother’s death and her presence no doubt had prolonged the life of Abigail, his own mother. He had no trouble generously giving her credit for that. Still, when Alton Langley brought his daughter over the night before and pressed him into bringing Catherine on his journey, Powell was so stunned that his tongue seemed glued to the roof of his mouth. How could a man allow his daughter, his only child, to go across the ocean and perhaps never see her again?

Powell was entering a frightening part of life, one that he had never imagined when his elderly parents, after getting drenched in a downpour, became sick with pneumonia. He immediately discarded his plans of going to France for more schooling and cared for his parents instead. Timothy, his father, died a week after the onset of the illness, but his mother lived seven more years. Powell’s years spent in religious boarding school, church and monastery created a man of unusual emotional strength and ignorance of human relationships. However, staying with his mother even though she was ill, Powell learned a little about love, tears, and laughter. The problem was he did not learn enough for it to penetrate into his character; he did know how to handle such emotions as making mistakes and asking and giving forgiveness.

The first time he really laughed with abandon had been when he was grown. His mother was much better, but not well, from the pneumonia that had killed his father. Powell had been working with a friend and they had stopped at the village pub. At Powell’s expression of surprise, his friend’s reaction indicated shock.

What? Have ye’ never taken a wee dram of whiskey? It’ll do you good, man. The next thing he knew he was bumping into the door of his house. Stumbling into the room, he fell into the nearest chair with his face in his hands. What was he doing? Where was Colin?

Feeling a hand on his head, Powell focused his squinted eyes on Catherine’s small face.

What’s the matter? Does your head hurt? Miss Abigail is worried about you…, where have you been? She stopped on a long shuddering breath. Confused, he just stared at her in silence.

Powell, your eye is black and blood is on your hands and shirt.

Why is Mother worried about me? he asked, his voice sounding hoarse.

You were gone all night long, Powell, and you didn’t even ask Miss Abigail! she accused. Her fine brows rose into a deep frown over dark blue eyes that flashed indignantly. She wants you to join her for coffee. Powell, you really should have asked Miss Abigail!

Standing unsteadily, Cathy caught his hand and held it, as they walked into the kitchen. At the sight of them, Abigail smiled, motioning him to sit in the chair she had pulled out. With uncertainty, Catherine eyed them, then turned and went through the back door to the stable and her horse.

Filling a cup with coffee, Abigail set it before him while she silently fought a battle with the old shyness. She stiffened with determination.

What happened last night, Powell? she asked softly.

His eyes clouded, trying to remember. At last, he said slowly, I don’t know. Colin and I went into the pub about two in the afternoon. I sat on the stool and ordered a drink of whiskey… His eyes dropped then rose to stare over her shoulder. I don’t recall what I did after that.

Powell, look at me. He hesitantly turned his eyes on her. Have you ever seen alcohol in this house? she asked. No…, his eyes widened at the unexpected question.

Your father was allergic to it, as his father was. Just a little alcohol caused a loss of memory for the time it was in their system. Her head nodded then suddenly her eyes gleamed with humor. Can you believe it? In this land of whiskey, the O’Kelly men could not drink it! A soft giggle sounded in the silence and Powell’s head shot up in alarm.

At first, he was sure someone else had made that pleasant sound but then seeing no one, he looked back at Abigail. Was his solemn mother…, giggling? Suddenly he was embarrassed because he was staring at her.

Well, she said defensively, your father had to go to Dunlee, not long after we married. She paused, absently smoothing the tablecloth and continued. His friends wanted to drink and he thought he would give it one more try, hoping it would not react on him again. He knew he shouldn’t but…, well, as I said, this is Ireland; everyone drinks. Would you believe it…, he got it in his mind that I was there and that his friends had hidden me. Again, she gave a soft giggle and chill bumps stood out on him. He had spent his life away from her, living in institutions since he was 3 years old, with the exception of a few months at age 6. His father was determined he received the best of education, so in a sense, he did not know his parents. The few months he was there, his father taught him to milk cows.

Sitting with his mother, he noted her beautiful sparkling eyes and shaking his head, he thinks he must be dreaming. Nevertheless, it was no dream and he watches her as if he had never seen her before. Their time together had been brief, indeed. She was lovely…

Your father became violent when his friends tried to convince him that I was not there. It was a fight that turned violent before the men restrained him and by that time he was so tired, he fell across the bed. Within minutes, he was sound asleep. And wouldn’t you know he slept until morning! Yes, he could see the bruises and his eyes were black and blue, but he never remembered the fight.

Staring at his skinned knuckles, he suddenly felt sore.

You were in a fight, she explained. Again, his mouth fell open. Mr. Dawson came by early this morning and related to me the events of your night, she continued. You accused a stranger of trying to steal your money belt. The other men restrained you but on release, she smiled broadly, you began fighting with a young man from Greenly farm."

She sounded as if she were warming to the subject! She found it amusing, did she, that he had stooped to use his fists for the very first time in his life? He peered at her with narrowed eyes…

Abigail smiled wryly, knowing his lack of laughter was only reasonable since she and Timothy had created that lack. The loss of five babies had been so heartbreaking; they were convinced he might not live. Timothy thought dedicating him to God and letting the Church have him, educate him, would somehow be expressing their thanks.

My boy, she said, her Irish brogue thickened, wanting him to laugh, can you not see it? Sure, it must have been a sight. Men who’ve known you all your life, seeing you goin’ off to school, comin’ home Christmas, workin’ with your Da that while. They saw you serving in church…, working in the pasture, bringing salmon to the village since your Da died. Here she leaned toward him, pointing her finger at him. And then, there was yourself, trained for the priesthood, no less, fightin’ like a wild heathen. Shocked they were, but I ask you now, who could blame them? She was actually proud. His face was a study in horror as she, wide eyed, with a glowing look of pleasure, continued.

Son, it took three men…, yes, yes, she nodded, as if he were disputing her. Yes, it was three men it took to hold you. Your Da and I didn’t bring up a coward.

His face twisted in shock but looking at his mother’s pursed lips and self-righteous expression, a bellowing roar escaped his throat. He stopped in sharp surprise but with laughter bubbling from Abigail, he begins howling in earnest. His unemotional, timid mother, taking pride in his ability to fight, and the ludicrous thought of his staid, unemotional father accusing his friends of hiding his mother and.., fighting? It was too much. It was also the first real laughing he had ever done. He gasped to a stop, staring at Abigail. Wiping mirthful tears from his eyes, he became embarrassed…, ill at ease. He kept his face down, not looking back at his mother.

I heard you laughing, Cathy said walking in from the back door. She had gone riding down the lane in the futile hope her father’s carriage would be home. Powell looked up and Abigail waited for him to answer.

Lass…, he began…, well, Cathy…, he looked at Abigail and when he saw the humor on her face, it was his undoing. Laughter bubbled up without volition. Abigail joined in, while Cathy’s eyes blinked in delight, then she too, began giggling. At last, he gasped, Have we all suddenly cracked, then? Is that it? No one answered…

Powell, Abigail finally said timidly, still wiping her eyes. You won’t forget? Alcohol is dangerous…, for you.

I just missed being hauled off! he exclaimed. I’ll not forget, Mum. He was unaware of the tears that sprang into Abigail’s eyes; he hadn’t called her ‘mum, since he was seven years old.

He looked up. What happened to Colin? he asked.

He drank his shot of whiskey and told you he was ready to go but you very calmly told him, ‘go on. I’ll be there later.’ And he did.

From that day, Abigail laughed with Powell and requested his company often. She hugged him, touched him, she even kissed him on the head and called him ‘love’. She told him she loved him, even as she did little Cathy. Powell felt as if he had had scales on his eyes and they were falling off, allowing him to see. He felt almost breathless at times…; he basked in his mother’s love. When she died, he could not remain in Ireland and after his plans were made Alton had asked him to allow Catherine go with him to his brother in Dallas, Texas.

As he and Catherine had waved goodbye to Alton, Powell could see tears on Catherine’s cheeks, and he made a vow, a commitment to care for her and to protect her. Only eleven years older than she, he could not take Alton’s place as her father, he was not qualified. However, Alton’s words, you’ll treat her as I would, would be a barricade to any other direction. Honesty and integrity was the foundation of his life. It was the man. He was familiar with difficult tasks. She had far too many partings in her very short life and he made a vow that she could depend on him. He felt a burst of resentment toward Alton for sending her from him to let another raise her. He made a pledge to stand by her. That silent vow would rise to haunt him.

Catherine had been growing up since she was five; the day her mother died had been the last of her childhood. First, her father had drawn away from her and then Abigail, Powell’s mother, was too ill to care for her. In reality, Cathy helped Abigail in many ways, running errands, sometimes bringing soup to her bed when she was too ill to be active. Abigail helped Cathy from her bed in the only way she could, by teaching her, reading to her, teaching her to crochet and other fine sewing. Still, Catherine grew up without benefit of being a child. Alone in her grief, she accepted the fact that she had no one to depend upon but herself. She had an unusual grace about her that revealed more maturity than other girls her age showed. Her carriage was proud and aloof, and her silence was broken rarely except with Powell. Only with him, did she laugh and chatter, though that cool reserve never entirely disappeared. It was as if something of her childhood had been lost, and truly, it had. In spite of the love she and Abigail shared and the fact that Cathy had committed her life to Christ at the age of ten, she gave the impression of independence and loneliness. Nevertheless, regardless of her lack of outward show of esteem, she was talented in art and music and smart in housework, baking, and fine sewing.

On this day, however, he and Catherine began the journey that would take them to America. His world seemed to be the ocean and an adventure of its own. It was dull mornings, wet, cold winds, billowing waves, and strange noises in the nights. It was Catherine retching, miserably seasick, while he blotted her pale face with a damp cloth. At the slightest noise from her adjoining cabin, he rushed to attend her, even as she restlessly slept. Moreover, day and night was alive with the sounds of birth, merry making, and the chilling sound that proved death was in their midst.

The ship took on the feel of a dream-like existence that was sweeping Powell and Catherine onward in their search for a new beginning, a new world. The creaking wood of the ship sounded during the night hours as well as distant sounds of mirth at times, anger at times. Catherine soon recovered from the terrible seasickness, allowing her and Powell to spend the rest of the ocean journey exploring their surroundings.

They were profoundly glad when the ‘Elizabeth’ docked in New York. It was in the middle of February 1898 and Powell was surprised at his mingled fear of a strange world and elation at a chance to start life again. An emotional race seemed to be in progress. On one side, he felt old and weary as if he had lived two life times while on the other side there blossomed an innocent, unspoiled beginning of youth.

A thin, fashionably dressed woman came running after Cathy’s shouted, Aunt Alice! Powell was vastly relieved. Immediately, he could better appreciate Alton’s plan to have his brother and sister-in-law come up from Dallas to wait for their arrival. James and Alice lived in Dallas, and that is where Catherine would live. However, he would stay with James and Alice only long enough to get his own life started. He again appreciated the financial fortune that his parents had worked so hard to establish.

Cathy, dear Cathy, Alice cried, embracing the girl and then holding her away to examine her. She continued, Let me look at you. Why, you’re grown and so beautiful. Alice smiled while Cathy blushed.

Watching the loving greeting, Powell mused that he would never have recognized them in spite of seeing them in Ireland when they had last visited Alton.

Gleaming snow blanketed the city and they were glad to board a train to escape the bitterly cold weather.

It became obvious to the two newcomers that America was not small as they rumbled their way over the course of several days to Dallas. It was exciting, as well as tiring, as they passed through different states with their changing terrain, sights, and sounds. Arriving in the Texas town, they were astonished to see the sprawling, muddy, noisy place. It was exciting; the ambiance was jolly, even boisterous.

His household furnishings, which came before he arrived, were stored in a Dallas warehouse. Powell had already made the decision to find work and settle somewhere near the Langley’s in order to be near Cathy … and them too, of course. He was not clear yet how he would find a place but he had hope.

The Langley’s big house surprised Powell. James told him that they had expected a large family but even though the babies did not come, they still enjoyed the house. They made their two guests feel very welcome, telling them they were ‘home.’ The black couple who lived in the small cottage at the rear of the house seemed in charge of everything from cooking to cleaning; they were more in charge than James and Alice. Guthrie and his wife, Calla, treated James and Alice as if they were beloved children and the two adults happily accepted their diligent care.

Their first weeks with James and Alice seemed to fly; it was a time of wonder and awe as they became acquainted with the new world that they had entered. Guthrie drove them to the Vaudeville House where Powell laughed more than he had ever laughed in his life. Another day, Guthrie slowly drove them around the town while James and Alice pointed out the different stores, hotels, and other things of interest, even the meat packing house on Alamo. He took them to the famous Dallas Zoo established in 1888, making it the first zoological garden in the state.

We are fortunate in having such a large depot here in Dallas. The Missouri Kansas Texas railroad is a blessing for all people living in and near Dallas. Trains arrive and depart through all hours of the day and night. The amazing thing is that the town is growing steadily. It’s not as if we have a body of water and a port for ships, James told them on one of the outings.

He leaned toward Powell as Guthrie turned the buggy toward home. You said you were going to search around for a place to settle. Well, this depot is where you should begin. It travels to all the surrounding towns and even farther, of course. You could probably work at the paper with your education, and we would love for you to settle in Dallas.

I appreciate that, Powell replied, but I need space and a place of my own … a farm … some land.

True to his word, within a few days, Powell stumbled upon the winding Shady Lane road and an old house by Crosslake. As he looked at the property, a feeling of peace fell over him. It was in the small town of Foley, halfway between Terrell and Dallas. After hitching his horse to a tree, he walked down along the banks of the wide lake and looked out at the thick mist hovering over the water. He walked out on a finger of land that stretched toward the middle of the lake. Never having seen anything like it, his face reflected pleasure as he stood under a willow tree at the end of the natural causeway. Suddenly he knew that this was where he would love to live and grow old, but then a vague sense of foreboding fell over him and the pleasure changed to doubt. Looking up, he saw gaunt, leafless tree limbs lifted toward the cold, blue sky as if in supplication. Silver moss dangled from the trees to the water in snarled, interwoven clumps. The layer of mist over the water reminded him of those mornings in Ireland when he had walked through the meadow to milk the cows in the glistening dawn. Turning slightly, he saw the shimmering, sun dappled patches of water between the tall trees. The sunlight playing on the water changed the dreary atmosphere, and a smile lightened his somber face. A duck swam out from behind decayed and withered tree stumps, and across the lake, a fawn dipped down for a drink of water.

Laughing aloud, he put his hands in his jacket pockets and jogged rapidly back up the hill to the old, graceful three-story house. The long, wide porch stretched across the front and back of the house. The roof extended over the driveway, on the left side, where one could step up on a smaller but adequate side porch to enter the house without going through the more formal front entrance.

The second floor was a mess of many small rooms, but the third floor surprised him. The landing was a short hall with a door at either end. Opening one, he entered the attic as expected. Quickly going back on the landing, he went into the second door and stepped into a huge circular room. The facade of the house offered no clue to this phenomenon. He had assumed that the top floor was a huge attic since it was a full story high. Nothing indicated that such a round room was included in an otherwise long rambling attic. The builders must have had a great sense of humor, or some past owner added the strangely shaped room for their own use. Feeling the cold air, he looked up to see vents very near the ceiling with handles that could open or close them. Without windows, the need for them was obvious. In a state of bemusement, he slowly walked around the room, just looking at it, and then he opened the door to step out on the tiny balcony. He soon realized why he had not seen any sign of the room. The roof almost met the top of the balcony’s banister. He could only see the causeway and lake, and to his left, the tops of the out buildings. He stood there a few minutes. Then turning, he ran back down the stairs, out to the causeway, and looked up to the house. As he expected, he saw nothing to identify the room. The balcony was so narrow and the overhanging roof so close to the banister, it blended in with the house. The color of the house and roof helped with the camouflage, but at any rate, seeing it was not possible. Again laughing aloud, he ran back up the hill to give the house another inspection. At last, he rode the horse back to the stable in Foley, where he had rented him, and took the train back to Dallas.

Later that week, James, Alice, and Cathy accompanied him to view the place since he wanted James’s opinion before he made up his mind to purchase the property. After touring the house and grounds carefully, James grinned at Powell. They were standing on the causeway. You couldn’t find a better place than this. If you want land for cattle and a farm, this is it. Besides, he said, looking up toward the house, with that hidden room and this unusual finger of land into the lake, you’ve got yourself something of a mystery; haven’t you, now?

Powell laughed. Well, I had thought the room a bit puzzling, but the causeway struck me as only … well … different but an added attraction.

I love it, Catherine said while they hurried back to the carriage to get out of the cold wind. It is the most beautiful place I’ve ever seen.

Would you be saying it’s even prettier than our Meadly Hall in Ireland, then? Is that it, lass? His face held a glint of teasing as he grabbed her arm and linked it through his. I seem to remember your words. Didn’t you say, ‘Meadly Hall is the most beautiful house in Ireland?’ And you’d compare it then with this rambling, falling down heap of an old house?

Now, now, Alice broke in, don’t be so hard on it, Powell. That house shall be beautiful when it’s repaired and remodeled. She turned to her husband. What do you think, James?

No doubt, no doubt, the house has good wood and is built solidly. It has more potential than one would first think. But, yes, Alice, the house could be a show place if Powell so desires. It has grace and charm.

I agree, Powell laughed. I was just trying to see if this girl of ours sticks to her stories. He grinned down at Cathy. Are you still saying this house is the most beautiful?

Her lilting laughter floated, along with smoky breath from her mouth, into the cold wind. Taking her eyes off the path they were following, she gazed up at him, trusting him to lead her through the brown, thick growth of weeds and brambles. Yes, I think it is much prettier than Meadly Hall. But, she paused, looking back at the house and then up at him. I’d like any place best if you were there. That’s what makes the difference, Powell.

Her words puzzled and silenced him as he stared at her briefly. Still it pleased him that she liked it because he had a deep desire to rush to the agent in charge and buy the place, lock, stock, and barrel. That was how sincere that he was about the house. Arriving back in Foley and getting on the train, he let them know his intentions.

That settles it. I will be getting the house with 2,000 acres. I’ll need a large crew, perhaps two crews, to begin the repairs and remodeling. There is much to do.

After some silence, he said, James, I spoke with an architectural engineer at a construction company yesterday who said that I could have water in the bathrooms with a steam pump. There is water from the lake but he can also dig a well and sink an underground tank for refuse. He studied sanitation back east and has been doing this for some time. The man, Mr. Abrams, will erect two cottages for me, too.

At James’s questioning expression, he explained. You see, I want families living there to take charge of the farm and animals. My dream is to have a bakery and at this point, I am seriously considering studying law to become an attorney. Do you think it’s possible to find two or three families who would want to make it their home or at least work there?

Surprised to hear such detailed plans, James stared at Powell. You’ve given this much thought, obviously. And those are long-term plans, I must say. But, yes, I’m sure it will not be difficult to find families who want to raise their children in a stable environment.

Before the ink was dry on the title, Powell had crews working on the property. As he labored with them, Mr. Abrams exclaimed that he had never had a man work harder. And you are not even on the payroll.

They both laughed, but Powell said, Perhaps they weren’t as happy about their place as I am with mine, Mr. Abrams.

One night, getting off the train a bit earlier than usual, he walked to James’s house from the depot. Normally they were all sleeping when he finished for the day but Cathy was waiting for him.

Surprised to see her, he said wearily, What are you doing up at this time of night? You’ll be tired in the morning. She had adjusted so well, it was a relief to him. He worried that she would not like attending the nearby private school because her former education with the priest or Abigail, or other home or church situations. Now she was among other young people. Back home, even her art and music instruction took place in Meadly Hall with Abigail overseeing her lessons and practice.

After she had put his plate of food before him, she said, I want to live with you when you get everything ready. I think I should be there. The tone of her voice made him jerk his head up to stare at her.

Why, Catherine? I thought you were happy here.

I am happy, but that is where I’m supposed to be. I came with you and you said we would take care of each other. I need to be there to help you with the work, she explained. He took a bite of food in silence while she pulled out a chair and sat down with her arms propped on the table, never taking her eyes off him.

Finally, he looked at her. Catherine, you can’t live there. I am going full speed every minute of every day. In addition, I am going to enroll for summer classes. Even when the house is ready for habitation, you will still be better off with Alice. You need her and she needs you. He bit back a smile at the fierce look of denial that spread over her face.

That is not to say you won’t be there most of the time when you aren’t in school, he added quickly. Every holiday and summer, you will be expected to be there. We must let it be that way, love, but you will still check out the place now and then to help me with decisions and even with the work at times. You shall certainly lend a hand when we establish the bakery.

Her eyes grew wide, gleaming as if with tears, but she was not the sort to weep. Bake … bakery, she whispered brokenly. with you, Powell? You want me to help?

Startled by her emotion, he stopped eating and leaned toward her in concern. Catherine, you don’t have to help me, I just thought …

Oh, no, she said softly. She bowed her head, her face hidden by her hair. You misunderstand, she continued in a muffled voice. I want to help … oh, Powell, I want to help. At last, she raised her face to look at him and with a small giggle, she repeated, I want to help.

Relief swept over him. He could not bear it if she cried. Still, he could not help but ask, Why did you cry? She stared at him for a second, and then turned her eyes to stare down at the table. He, taking a drink of tea, watched her closely. After all, he was not familiar with emotions.

At last, she smiled slowly, cheekily. Would you be reprimanding me then for wanting to help with the bakery? Do you not know how much that I miss the things we used to do? The rides in the meadow, her smile grew broader while her eyes shone more brightly with her thoughts, baking bread together, and the picnics. I even helped you milk the cows. And now, I never see you. She paused and took a long breath. And I wasn’t crying, so don’t accuse me, please.

Mesmerized, as she recalled the old memories, but pleased with her saucy manner, he felt a lump in his throat for he, too, remembered and missed those days … and Abigail. No, Cathy, he said gruffly. I’ll not be accusing you, but I don’t want you to weep. As for missing those fun times we had together, I miss them, too.

Straightening his tired back and standing, he said, But you have to understand that it is important for you remain with Alice until you go to college. You need to finish growing up with a woman around to help you. I don’t know a thing about ribbons and frills and all those things girls must know. He stopped speaking and grinned at her look of rebellion.

Taking the dishes to the sink, she kept her back turned while she said, That’s an excuse. I already know about ribbons and frills. Some girls have to grow up without a mother and they seem to weather it. Miss Abigail taught me all that I need to know.

He smiled because her voice was somewhat defiant and that was unusual. As she turned to face him, he said softly, I would like for you to be there, Cathy, but please realize that you will be grown soon. In the meantime, however, you really should be with Alice. She loves you, you know. Tell me you understand.

He stood to begin the walk up the stairs to their bedrooms. Hooking her arm through his, she said, I guess I understand, but I still want to stay with you. You need me. She suddenly raised her face with an impish smile and then stuck her tongue out at him.

Taken aback, he whispered loudly, Where did you learn that indelicate gesture, you little tomboy?

Tomboy, am I? Her reply pierced the silence and he quickly whispered, Quiet! You’ll wake everybody. He heard her lilting giggle as she disappeared into her room.

That week he directed his inquiries toward couples who were interested in living in the housekeeper’s quarters off the kitchen. Talking with several who came to apply for the job, he settled on Joe and Ella Potts. Tall and thin, Ella had sparkling brown eyes and brown hair that she wore twisted into a heavy bun. Joe was even taller but was definitely not thin, due probably to his wife’s kitchen skills. A big man, he had snow-white hair and gleaming blue eyes that seemed to see all the things that needed doing. Both were in their early forties. with only one son, who was married and lived in New York.

Eastern College, between Terrell and Foley, was perfect to begin the coursework to qualify Powell as a real estate lawyer. Credits from his years of education in Ireland helped to his great relief. He rode the ‘Daily Bug,’ a small train making several trips to the college daily. Though they were only short summer courses, they put him well on his way to achieving his goal. For the first time in Powell’s life, he was excited. He was living in his own house now and only went to Dallas occasionally. June was slipping by rapidly and work on the house improved its looks every day. Powell experienced joy he had never felt before. His past life of long years of study and dedication to the priest hood, felt more like a dream. He forgot, as well, his promise to read his Bible and serve the Lord

Coming in one day from school, he rushed up the stairs to begin work. He saw a carpenter squatting at the foot of the staircase that led to the third floor; however, the curious thing that made him stop in his tracks was the absence of the stairs. He stood for a minute with a blank look, and then his eyes widened in surprise. The carpenter, who had been repairing a baseboard, calmly stood up and pushed the panel back into the wall to reveal the stairs. Now would you believe this? Why hide the staircase? Powell wondered aloud.

The man turned at the sound of Powell’s voice and then looked back at the panel.

Well, sir, I don’t rightly know, but it’s easy to be suspicious in these parts. There are all kinds of tales here ‘bouts of stolen horses, stolen jewels, why, even stolen babies. He paused, looking at Powell, Then there’s been some proof of smuggling, too, you know. Who knows … could be one of ‘em lived here and used the stairs here to hide what they stoled. He squatted and resumed work as he chuckled at his own wit.

Gazing speculatively at the stairs, Powell thought it odd to hide a staircase. He walked up the stairs to look at the circular room. The engineer from New York had added a bathroom and the crew had paneled the walls. Noticing the two huge closets, he realized that the potential for the room was great indeed. French doors, with long glass panels on either side, allowed sunlight to flood the room. Walking across the room, he opened the doors and stepped out onto the small balcony. He wondered again, why conceal the room on the third floor? For some strange reason, he felt that the room would be more significant than he could even dream. He, who was ignorant of such things as premonitions, turned angrily and went back into the room. As he reentered the room, he considered widening the balcony and painting it a different color. Later, years later, he fervently wished that he had followed through on widening that small balcony.

The carpenter’s words brought up whispers among the town people of a gang of smugglers. He had heard of the kidnapping of babies, but it was unlikely in this tiny town. Dismissing the thoughts, he jogged back down the two flights of stairs and heard voices outside on the porch. A tall, wiry man with brown hair and a face spotted with freckles was inquiring for the owner.

I’m Powell O’Kelly, he said, extending his hand. What can I do for you?

I’m Henry Parker and this here’s my son, Barry. He shook Powell’s hand eagerly. We heard you’re looking for someone to live here and work on your farm. I got a wife and three other sons. We all know how to work and we need a house. We’ll do the job better’n anybody you can find. His clear brown eyes never wavered as he gave his story and then patiently waited for a response.

In the silence, Powell studied them for a moment. Well, if that’s the truth, and I have no reason to doubt it, then you’d best have a look at the cottage that you’ll be moving into. Henry Parker eased out the long breath that he had been tightly holding, and the two men smiled broadly at each other.

Henry’s wife, Katy, and the three other sons, Stephen, Allen, and Cory, came with Henry that week and they were indeed the family that he needed. They went to work with a vengeance. Henry began plowing, saying that he would put in some late vegetables and flower gardens. It was August 1, so school was out until the fall semester and work was in abundance. The Parkers and Potts worked well together and they all did some finishing work on the houses near completion. Both families were carefully putting out a great mixture of flowers as well as trees.

A week after the Parkers moved onto the property, James, Alice, and Cathy came in on the train and insisted that Powell take a few days of vacation with them. Bewildered, he wordlessly stared at them, not comprehending their words.

Powell, James repeated slowly, classes are out until next month. We want to take a train trip to New Orleans. We want you to accompany us.

But, there is so much to do! I can’t just take off like that, he said, astonished they could even ask.

Yes, you can, James insisted. That’s the only way one ever goes anywhere. There will be work to do the rest of your days but it is time for a break, time to rest before you start the mad rush of school again. This weather is hot and you’ve been running since you arrived!

Although he found it distasteful to leave and viewed the mountains of work with something like desperation, he, nevertheless, reluctantly packed a bag and left with them after giving Henry and Joe Potts detailed lists of things to do. He was silent most of the trip, keeping his head crammed in a book. Once they arrived, however, excitement from the others captured his attention. With James as their leader, they soon settled in a famous hotel in the very heart of the city.

After a day of rest and planning, they started out on a sightseeing trip in a carriage. Riding through the narrow streets, Powell leaned toward James, Is it permissible for us to get off the carriage and walk on our own?

James’s face showed surprise and then he leaned his head out the window. We’ll get off here if you don’t mind, he shouted at the driver. Noise, a trademark of the city, caused one to speak in a raised voice. After walking a short distance, the protuberant Mississippi River, with its robust odor, came into view as they drew near a sidewalk café.

Let’s sit down here and drink New Orleans’s famous coffee, James said, pulling out chairs at the wrought iron table. After the order came, Cathy and Powell made faces at the strong coffee but they were determined to drink it. Cathy finally said, I like it, but how did they ever come up with square doughnuts?"

These are called beignets, Alice said. Aren’t they tiny? Cathy agreed, happily licking sugar off her fingers.

Later, as they strolled closer to the river, they could see tugboats, barges, and ships in abundance, both coming and going. It was a beehive of activity. Before them curved the crescent shaped bends in the river that gave New Orleans its second name, The Crescent City. The heat was like a suffocating blanket that kept the moisture within its soft folds. He missed the gentle breeze of Foley, which would relieve the sweltering discomfort.

I was sure you said something about cooler weather, Powell remarked, wiping his dripping face.

James laughed. The weather here is humid all the time. If it’s not raining, it’s humid enough to soak your clothes, though the temperature is still lower than it is in Dallas.

Stopping at the St. Louis Cathedral, they gazed up at the soaring spires. Goose bumps popped out all over Powell’s arms. Would you just look, he murmured. Another lifetime burst into his memory; the towering building represented that life, that world from which he had fled.

They rode in a carriage through the Garden District, which bordered on St. Charles Ave. This place was settled by Americans who moved here after the Louisiana Purchase in 1803, Powell, James remarked. Some of the city’s finest homes are in this area. As you can see, they have classic architecture, mostly Greek, with numerous porches.

They are remarkable, Powell admitted. "One day, I am going to see the Vanderbilt home in North Carolina. It has bathrooms and battery operated lights like mine. Mr. Abrams, who helped me at Pecan Cove, is a friend with the designer of the Vanderbilt home. The Vanderbilt home, while much more valuable, is no more modern than Pecan Cove. That great house has imported many of its parts from England and France.