Chapter 21
Wes returned to the Sunrise Cove every morning that week to meet with Quentin and watch the television crew. They didn’t always need him, but Wes liked to be close to the action—listening to Quentin talk about the Sheridan family, interviewing the on-site historians, and showing off artifacts such as the photographs Matthew had taken and kept downstairs. Wes felt drawn deeper into the world of Matthew and Wendy, into their fears regarding the Underground Railroad and their family’s safety. So immersed was he in the past that he nearly forgot his Wednesday afternoon meeting with Dr. Hamilton to go over the results of his tests.
Wes tore through the doctor’s office door at ten past his appointment time. The receptionist greeted him happily and said, “We were just about to call Beatrice to see if you were with her.” Wes staggered to a halt and blinked at her. He had to bite his tongue from saying, No. I don’t want to tell Beatrice about this drug. I don’t want her to know that I’ve gotten so much worse.
He wanted to start taking the drug without her knowledge and immediately transform into a healthier and happier individual. He wanted it to seem like magic.
Dr. Hamilton studied a clipboard as Wes entered the office and sat down. Wes wondered if Dr. Hamilton was looking at his results again. Perhaps he was preparing himself to tell Wes just how bad the situation was. That the future was bleaker than he’d realized. That his memory would soon be only scraps.
Instead, he said, “We just have one more test for you before I feel fully ready to get you started on the medication.”
Wes straightened his spine.
“I know I said that last time,” Dr. Hamilton said, “but we have to be one hundred percent sure. Is that all right?”
Wes could wait a little bit longer if it meant getting approved. He smiled. “Thanks for taking such good care of me, Doc.”
“Thanks for taking such good care of yourself!” Dr. Hamilton said. “It’s every doctor’s dream.”
Wes left the doctor’s office with a skip to his step and returned to his home with Beatrice to make a turkey sandwich and sit outside. It was a clear-blue-sky day. Sparrows tittered across the sky and played, reminding Wes of the spunkiness of nature. Nothing ever took itself so seriously. And he shouldn’t, either.
Beatrice texted that she was out with a few friends and would be home after dinner. “There’s frozen lasagna in the freezer,” she said. “Just heat it up in the microwave if you want. Love you!”
Wes made a mug of tea and wrote a few things down in his ledger, including what the historian had told him over coffee that morning, that he wanted to create a photography exhibition for Matthew Sheridan’s photos of ex-slaves. He envisioned it in Manhattan of all places. Wes ached with excitement. He imagined himself in Manhattan as a representative for Matthew Sheridan. He imagined his sister Kerry beside him—the eldest Sheridan. When Wes had asked Kerry if she wanted to be featured on The HISTORY Channel, she’d wrinkled her nose and said, “Nobody wants to see an old lady on screen.” That wasn’t true, of course. The truth was that Kerry was camera shy. She had no interest in fame. She was happy as she was.
A knock on the front door took Wes out of his reverie. He walked to the foyer and opened it to find Quentin Copperfield. His eyes were rimmed with red. Wes’s immediate fear was that the show would be canceled, and they would have to return the money.
“Quentin, this is a surprise.”
“I hope you don’t mind me coming over like this,” Quentin said. “We tried your cell, but you didn’t pick up.”
Wes had turned off the sound on his phone so as not to annoy the birds.
“Come in!” Wes said. He glanced around as he led Quentin into the house and through the kitchen, cursing that he’d left out the plate from his sandwich. He didn’t want Quentin Copperfield to think he was a slob. “Sorry about the mess.”
Quentin waved his hand. “It looks fantastic. Really.” He sounded like he meant it. “Do you have a place to sit down? I want to tell you something. The network wanted me to spring it on you on-camera and surprise you again, but I couldn’t bring myself to do it. It feels too cruel.”
Wes’s heart dropped into his stomach. What on earth was this about? Quentin had already revealed the untimely death of Wendy Sheridan. He wasn’t sure he could take much more in terms of long-ago deaths and family secrets.
Wes led Quentin to the back porch and sat down across from him. Perhaps he should have gotten him a cup of tea? But it seemed trivial when compared to the aching look in Quentin’s eyes. Quentin folded his hands on the table and looked ahead. It made him look just as he had at his nightly news desk when he was about to give the day’s news to America. Wes took a breath.
“We’ve received word from the historian up in Boston. The one with the diary,” Quentin said.
Wes’s hands were clammy.
“It looks like the diary was written by an ex-slave named Martha,” Quentin said. “She took refuge in the basement, where she gave birth to a baby. The baby was very sick, and she stayed with the Sheridans while her husband and sister went north. It seems that the Sheridans and Martha struck a wonderful bond. They even brought her upstairs sometimes for real meals and to go outside to see the stars and breathe fresh air.”
Wes’s throat was very tight. He clenched his hands into fists to try to keep himself from crying.
“As we discussed that first time, Wendy died of Scarlet Fever in 1864. Martha was terrified she’d have to leave after that. But Matthew kept her in the basement until after the war, when she moved upstairs and took on a role as a sort of live-in maid and nanny. By that time, her baby was a year and a half old, and the Sheridan children were between the ages of two and eight. There was a great deal to do.”
“Wow. So she really stayed on Martha’s Vineyard!” Wes said happily. He was pleased as punch that she’d been allowed this second chance of life on his island, with his family.
Quentin folded his lips. “There’s more to this story. The diary indicates that Martha became pregnant again in 1867. That was two years after the war ended.”
Wes’s jaw went slack. Quentin’s eyes were filled with questions.
“It doesn’t say who the father was?” Wes asked.
Quentin shook his head. “No. Martha explains she’s pregnant, and the diary ends shortly after that.”
Wes’s heart pounded. “Did she die?”
“We don’t know,” Quentin said. “It’s certainly possible. As forward-thinking as the North was back then, they weren’t so forward-thinking as to keep wonderful records regarding ex-slaves. If Martha did die—either due to pregnancy or another illness, it’s unlikely that Matthew lingered on the event for very long. He would have had five children in his house. Or four, if he sent Martha’s daughter off to live elsewhere. That isn’t recorded anywhere that we’ve discovered yet, either.”
Wes wrinkled his forehead. He couldn’t imagine this; he couldn’t fathom what would bring someone to throw a very young child out of the house. He wanted to insist that Matthew had raised Martha’s child as his own. But he also knew how naive that thought truly was. Times were far different in 1867 than in 2024. Racial tension was still high in America to this day. It was unfathomable to think back that far.
Wes cleared his throat. “Is it possible that Matthew was the father of Martha’s second baby?”
Quentin didn’t flinch. “It certainly is the most likely case.”
Wes thought that, too.
“But something like that wouldn’t have played well in the community at that time,” Quentin explained. “If they learned Martha was pregnant by Matthew, it’s possible they turned their backs on the Sheridan family.” He cleared his throat. “Is there any mention of that in family lore? A story about the Sherians needing to work their way back to good social standing on the Vineyard?”
Wes racked his mind for answers. Again, he pictured his grandmother hovering above him, combing his hair and telling him stories. None of them were applicable.
“I don’t think so,” Wes said. “I certainly don’t know any.”
Quentin placed his hands on his thighs and turned to gaze out across the water. Wes wondered if they were both thinking the same thoughts about imagining a poor ex-slave woman who’d found refuge in the Sheridan House—only for everything to go awry just a couple of years later. What had happened? Where had her child wound up? And was it possible to ever peel back the layers of history to learn the truth?
Quentin left a few minutes later. He gave Wes a firm handshake on his way out the door and said, “If you think of anything, give me a call.” He also said they had an entire team of historians up in Boston poring over the diary, looking for more clues about Martha and what might have happened to her. “We won’t leave a stone unturned,” he promised.
Wes sat on the back porch until the temperature plummeted and rain splattered across the windowpanes. Shivering, he went inside to heat more water and put on a big fuzzy sweater, a gift from Susan last Christmas. As the water kettle roared, the front door opened, and he listened as Beatrice performed all the duties after her short walk through the rain, such as removing her coat and shaking it out, coughing out the chill in her lungs, and putting her shoes by the door.
“Wes?” Beatrice called.
Wes felt achy and very old. “I’m just in here,” he said. He poured the hot water into a cup and tried to smile as Beatrice entered.
Beatrice’s face fell when she saw him. “What’s wrong?”
How could Wes fully translate the brevity of his emotions? How could he say that one woman’s diary and lost future had reminded him of his own memories that slipped through his fingers? How could he explain his fear that Matthew Sheridan hadn’t been as tremendously kind and good as someone in 2024 might have been—only because of the nature of time and public opinion?
Wes explained what he knew about the diary, about Martha, about her first baby and what they knew of her second pregnancy. He half expected Beatrice to say something like, I know it’s upsetting, Wes, but this has nothing to do with you. It all happened almost two hundred years ago!
Beatrice wrapped her arms around him and held him as he swayed. A few minutes later, they abandoned his tea on the counter and retreated to the bedroom, where they dressed in pajamas and lay in the warmth of each other’s bodies. The rain had intensified, and Wes felt cocooned. Eventually, he drifted off to sleep.
But later that night, he again found himself out by the water, drenched to the bone. He’d sleepwalked to the edge of the shore as though he was hunting for something in his dreams. He put his hand over his mouth to keep himself from screaming with panic and frustration. If the new medication didn’t come through, he would have to make peace with locked doors. He wouldn’t be able to trust himself again.