The Wish Collector
Page 73
Not only were they interested in preserving the plantation, but also the stories of those who had lived there. The brand new gift shop on the first floor—opened only the year before—sold books about the Chamberlain family and also about the story of Angelina Loreaux and John Whitfield, a book that was already a bestseller in the shop and frequently sold out. Inside was the true tale of John and Angelina's love and the resulting tragedy, including a picture of the note that Jonah had found, the original now encased in glass in an upper room of the revitalized home. Their light, their truth, would forever shine for all of the world to see.
The society had researched Timothy Mansfield, the man mentioned in John’s letter, and found that he was a Northern soldier well known as a spy who’d funneled information from Southern soldiers working in secret with the north.
They found many documents known to belong to him that referenced the initials JW and now were believed to stand for John Whitfield, a Southern soldier who had gone to great personal risk to deliver secret information to the North so that they might win the war and free the woman he loved.
If only she had known. If only . . .
Timothy Mansfield had been killed several weeks before Angelina took her own life. It was presumed that, among other things, he had been delivering John’s mail home and that the letter to Angelina had been mistakenly included in correspondence to his family.
What had John done when he discovered that his friend had been killed? When he found out that his family betrayed him and lied to Angelina? Or feared that’s what might happen? There was no way to know for spies kept few records of their missions or detours home. But Jonah couldn’t get the sound of those thundering hoof beats from his dream out of his head whenever he considered it. Don’t be too late . . .
And being in love himself, Jonah understood more than ever, why John had refused medical treatment when his life was at risk, instead hurrying to join Angelina and be given the chance to love her again.
The tragedy of it all—the ways in which different choices, alternate paths, might have changed the outcome—nearly took his breath.
The garden where Jonah and Clara stood—the very garden where it was said John and Angelina first met—had been re-invigorated as well, with new, elegant pathways, stunning rose bushes, other flowers that attracted birds and butterflies, and a repaired fountain that provided the calming sound of splashing water.
Jonah imagined it looked just as it had so long ago when John and Angelina walked through it, a love blossoming in both of their hearts that the world was not yet ready for.
The weeping wall had been repaired as well, the cracks and holes filled in with new mortar, the stone cleaned, sealed, and replaced where necessary. It no longer wept. Maybe it was because of the work that had been done to it, or maybe it was because it no longer had reason to weep. Maybe it was science, or perhaps as his wife liked to believe, it was simply magic.
As for Jonah’s own story, the corruption scandal that Savannah Hammond had uncovered brilliantly, relying on her contacts both in journalism and the justice system to find evidence and seek out the truth, had rocked New Orleans to its core.
All of these years later, Jonah was still floored at how far-reaching it’d turned out to be, at the number of defense attorneys, prosecutors, judges, and businessmen in practically every corner of the community who had been involved.
They’d all been a part of the club Jonah had been witness to, all part of a network bent on keeping secrets for one another, operating on favors and bribes and who knew what else.
Savannah Hammond, who’d been kind to him once upon a time when he’d needed it desperately, had done a damn fine job with what he’d given her, and subsequently she’d won award after award for her stellar journalism work.
But as stations everywhere pontificated about the Murray Ridgley case and the things that had been uncovered on his victim’s phone, Jonah had chosen not to listen.
He’d told his story to Savannah, discussed his role in the tragedy and the betrayal by those around him. His account was all on the record and that was all he needed.
Some might criticize the fact that he’d been blind to what was going on around him, others might hail him a hero, but he didn’t care anymore what strangers said. The truth had been revealed, and he kept his gaze trained solely on his wife, and the other people who loved him and knew his heart.
He still patrolled with the Brass Angels on occasion, but he’d resumed his work as an attorney, sometimes taking pro bono cases from victims of crimes whom the men referred to him. He did it for his brother. He did it for himself. It was his small contribution to justice.
And every so often . . . he granted a wish. Or two.
“Jonah,” Clara said, stopping and sitting on the edge of the fountain. Jonah had a flashback to her sitting that way another time as he’d watched her longingly from the shadows of the trees beyond.
He sat beside her, the lights of the fountain glowing softly behind them. He tilted his head as she pulled her lip between her teeth, her expression uncertain.
“What is it?”
“I’ve been thinking.” She paused, using her finger to trace an invisible path over the stone on which they were sitting. She met his eyes. “What would you think if I opened a ballet studio?”
He frowned, taken off guard. She’d talked about doing that someday but . . . not yet. At twenty-seven, she still had years of performing ahead of her. “Won’t that be a lot? With your practice schedule and—”
“I’d quit the ballet.” She shrugged, giving him a small smile.
Quit the ballet? It was such a big part of her life. She’d moved swiftly up the ranks to principal ballerina, and Jonah loved to watch her dance. He still brought a red and white rose to every local performance, or had them delivered when she was traveling, and he’d expected that he would for years to come.
“But it’s your dream.”
“It was. And I lived it. To the hilt. But the truth is, I have a bigger dream.” She put her hand on her flat stomach.
Jonah frowned, confused and then . . . oh. He released a breath. “You want a baby?”
She laughed softly, shrugging again. “I do. Very much. And good thing because we did.”
“We did what?”
“Made a baby.”
Jonah blinked at her, his eyes moving between her face and her hand still splayed over her stomach, realization dropping over him, along with a tingle of joy that buzzed beneath his ribcage. “How—?”
“That rainstorm . . .”
Yes, the rainstorm. The power had gone off for four days and there had been flooding everywhere. Clara hadn’t been able to get out to refill her birth control and well . . . it had been dark and stormy and they’d lost themselves in each other, not leaving their small but beautiful, historic home in Uptown New Orleans for days. Jonah hadn’t been able to help himself.
He ran a hand through his hair. “This is my fault.”
Clara laughed. “It absolutely is.” She grinned, clearly happy about the news and Jonah laughed too, standing and sweeping her into his arms, turning her around as he kissed her.
He leaned his forehead against hers and for a moment they just breathed together as Jonah digested the news.
So much happiness swirled within him—hope—but a thread of worry wove through him as well. “Will he or she—”
“Yes,” Clara breathed, bringing her hand to his scarred cheek, reading his concern before he’d even voiced it. “This baby will be proud to have you for a father. Lucky and proud.”
Jonah released a breath, keeping his eyes on her as he’d done so many times over the past five years.
He pulled his wife closer, taking a moment to glory in the feel of her, the knowledge that together, they’d created life. A miracle. God, but he would try to be the best father he could. A father like Clara had had, the man Jonah had only met briefly when he flew to Ohio with Clara the Christmas after he’d found John’s letter. The man who had passed away only a few months after that, but whose legacy was a beautiful, loving woman who made the world a better place. In the end, what more could anyone hope for?
“We should get inside,” Clara whispered, kissing him again before pulling away. “Dinner and the presentation will be starting. And Myrtle will be putting on her glasses to come looking for us.”
The society had researched Timothy Mansfield, the man mentioned in John’s letter, and found that he was a Northern soldier well known as a spy who’d funneled information from Southern soldiers working in secret with the north.
They found many documents known to belong to him that referenced the initials JW and now were believed to stand for John Whitfield, a Southern soldier who had gone to great personal risk to deliver secret information to the North so that they might win the war and free the woman he loved.
If only she had known. If only . . .
Timothy Mansfield had been killed several weeks before Angelina took her own life. It was presumed that, among other things, he had been delivering John’s mail home and that the letter to Angelina had been mistakenly included in correspondence to his family.
What had John done when he discovered that his friend had been killed? When he found out that his family betrayed him and lied to Angelina? Or feared that’s what might happen? There was no way to know for spies kept few records of their missions or detours home. But Jonah couldn’t get the sound of those thundering hoof beats from his dream out of his head whenever he considered it. Don’t be too late . . .
And being in love himself, Jonah understood more than ever, why John had refused medical treatment when his life was at risk, instead hurrying to join Angelina and be given the chance to love her again.
The tragedy of it all—the ways in which different choices, alternate paths, might have changed the outcome—nearly took his breath.
The garden where Jonah and Clara stood—the very garden where it was said John and Angelina first met—had been re-invigorated as well, with new, elegant pathways, stunning rose bushes, other flowers that attracted birds and butterflies, and a repaired fountain that provided the calming sound of splashing water.
Jonah imagined it looked just as it had so long ago when John and Angelina walked through it, a love blossoming in both of their hearts that the world was not yet ready for.
The weeping wall had been repaired as well, the cracks and holes filled in with new mortar, the stone cleaned, sealed, and replaced where necessary. It no longer wept. Maybe it was because of the work that had been done to it, or maybe it was because it no longer had reason to weep. Maybe it was science, or perhaps as his wife liked to believe, it was simply magic.
As for Jonah’s own story, the corruption scandal that Savannah Hammond had uncovered brilliantly, relying on her contacts both in journalism and the justice system to find evidence and seek out the truth, had rocked New Orleans to its core.
All of these years later, Jonah was still floored at how far-reaching it’d turned out to be, at the number of defense attorneys, prosecutors, judges, and businessmen in practically every corner of the community who had been involved.
They’d all been a part of the club Jonah had been witness to, all part of a network bent on keeping secrets for one another, operating on favors and bribes and who knew what else.
Savannah Hammond, who’d been kind to him once upon a time when he’d needed it desperately, had done a damn fine job with what he’d given her, and subsequently she’d won award after award for her stellar journalism work.
But as stations everywhere pontificated about the Murray Ridgley case and the things that had been uncovered on his victim’s phone, Jonah had chosen not to listen.
He’d told his story to Savannah, discussed his role in the tragedy and the betrayal by those around him. His account was all on the record and that was all he needed.
Some might criticize the fact that he’d been blind to what was going on around him, others might hail him a hero, but he didn’t care anymore what strangers said. The truth had been revealed, and he kept his gaze trained solely on his wife, and the other people who loved him and knew his heart.
He still patrolled with the Brass Angels on occasion, but he’d resumed his work as an attorney, sometimes taking pro bono cases from victims of crimes whom the men referred to him. He did it for his brother. He did it for himself. It was his small contribution to justice.
And every so often . . . he granted a wish. Or two.
“Jonah,” Clara said, stopping and sitting on the edge of the fountain. Jonah had a flashback to her sitting that way another time as he’d watched her longingly from the shadows of the trees beyond.
He sat beside her, the lights of the fountain glowing softly behind them. He tilted his head as she pulled her lip between her teeth, her expression uncertain.
“What is it?”
“I’ve been thinking.” She paused, using her finger to trace an invisible path over the stone on which they were sitting. She met his eyes. “What would you think if I opened a ballet studio?”
He frowned, taken off guard. She’d talked about doing that someday but . . . not yet. At twenty-seven, she still had years of performing ahead of her. “Won’t that be a lot? With your practice schedule and—”
“I’d quit the ballet.” She shrugged, giving him a small smile.
Quit the ballet? It was such a big part of her life. She’d moved swiftly up the ranks to principal ballerina, and Jonah loved to watch her dance. He still brought a red and white rose to every local performance, or had them delivered when she was traveling, and he’d expected that he would for years to come.
“But it’s your dream.”
“It was. And I lived it. To the hilt. But the truth is, I have a bigger dream.” She put her hand on her flat stomach.
Jonah frowned, confused and then . . . oh. He released a breath. “You want a baby?”
She laughed softly, shrugging again. “I do. Very much. And good thing because we did.”
“We did what?”
“Made a baby.”
Jonah blinked at her, his eyes moving between her face and her hand still splayed over her stomach, realization dropping over him, along with a tingle of joy that buzzed beneath his ribcage. “How—?”
“That rainstorm . . .”
Yes, the rainstorm. The power had gone off for four days and there had been flooding everywhere. Clara hadn’t been able to get out to refill her birth control and well . . . it had been dark and stormy and they’d lost themselves in each other, not leaving their small but beautiful, historic home in Uptown New Orleans for days. Jonah hadn’t been able to help himself.
He ran a hand through his hair. “This is my fault.”
Clara laughed. “It absolutely is.” She grinned, clearly happy about the news and Jonah laughed too, standing and sweeping her into his arms, turning her around as he kissed her.
He leaned his forehead against hers and for a moment they just breathed together as Jonah digested the news.
So much happiness swirled within him—hope—but a thread of worry wove through him as well. “Will he or she—”
“Yes,” Clara breathed, bringing her hand to his scarred cheek, reading his concern before he’d even voiced it. “This baby will be proud to have you for a father. Lucky and proud.”
Jonah released a breath, keeping his eyes on her as he’d done so many times over the past five years.
He pulled his wife closer, taking a moment to glory in the feel of her, the knowledge that together, they’d created life. A miracle. God, but he would try to be the best father he could. A father like Clara had had, the man Jonah had only met briefly when he flew to Ohio with Clara the Christmas after he’d found John’s letter. The man who had passed away only a few months after that, but whose legacy was a beautiful, loving woman who made the world a better place. In the end, what more could anyone hope for?
“We should get inside,” Clara whispered, kissing him again before pulling away. “Dinner and the presentation will be starting. And Myrtle will be putting on her glasses to come looking for us.”
