Chapter 18
UNLUCKY IN LOVE
On Saturday, Jude travels to Charleston to meet with his family’s legal team regarding matters of the estate.
Twig and I finish editing our latest podcast episode, then spend an additional hour planning the finale of our second season. Afterward, I meet Naomi and Harper at The Lucky Penny. We peruse the racks, try on a few things none of us need, then grab ice cream at Frozen Joy.
The whole time, they pummel me with questions about Jude. I keep the answers vague, which frustrates them to no end. It’s better than going into detail. If I did, they’d probably side with him, insist the portrait must have a logical explanation, and that would send me over the edge.
On Sunday morning, I go to church with Dad. I keep checking my phone, an annoying compulsion I can’t seem to control. I saw Jude return last night in their black Mercedes Benz. I stayed up for an hour later than I should have, waiting for him to text or call.
He never did.
I slide my hands beneath my knees as a gentleman in front of me yawns. Pastor Tim spent the hour talking about impossible things, illogical things—life through death, glory through suffering—and nobody scoffed. Nobody even batted an eye.
After the benediction, we filter through the exit—Mrs. Calloway and Kate in front, Twig and me in the middle, Dad and Mr. Calloway taking up the rear.
We shake Pastor Tim’s hand, then step outside to weather that’s cloudy and chillier than it ought to be in September.
I pull my jean jacket tight when Twig gives me a nudge with his elbow.
I follow the direction of his nod, and my breath catches in my throat.
Jude sits on a bench outside St. Oswald’s.
Not on the seat, but atop its backrest with his boots on the bench and his elbows on his knees.
He’s wearing dark jeans and a dark wool overcoat with a high collar.
He holds a book, and while he’s too far away to make out the title, I can tell he’s moved on from Crime and Punishment.
His eyes meet mine.
I run my hand through my hair, then excuse myself from Dad and the Calloways. As I approach—perhaps a smidge too eagerly—I can’t help but smile at his latest literary selection. The Turn of the Screw by Henry James. “I’m rubbing off on you,” I say, nodding at his book.
Jude looks down at it, as though only now realizing he holds a book at all, then gets right to the point.
He found another reference to the portrait.
“Is it the revelation?” I ask.
“No,” he says, glancing past me—toward Twig and my dad, who are watching us with varying degrees of wariness.
We decide to take our conversation inside The Cobbler, a retro diner with the best pie in town. It’s located on the square, between Hallowed Grounds Cafe and Flicker and Foam Emporium—too long of a walk from St. Oswald’s. And so, for the first time ever, I climb into Jude’s BMW.
He’s quiet on the drive, his hands tense on the wheel.
He opens the door for me at the diner, and I’m glad to step inside where it is warm and familiar. There’s a long counter on one side and a row of red leather booths on the other, with black and white checkered flooring in between.
A waitress named Gemma stands behind the counter chatting with the cook through the service-window. When her eyes land on Jude, they follow him like a hungry cat. We head down the aisle, toward the booth farthest in the back, next to the jukebox and a hidden hallway leading to the restrooms.
Gemma wastes no time.
She joins us, jutting her hip and clicking her pen as she asks what we’ll have to drink, her drawl thicker than usual.
I order a ginger ale. She gives me a clipped mm-hmm before turning her ravenous eyes upon Jude.
I resist the urge to roll my own. Gemma graduated from Foggy Hollow High two years ago, and I’m almost positive she lives with her boyfriend.
He orders a coffee without giving her a second glance.
“I went to the cemetery this morning,” he says once she leaves, grabbing a menu from behind the condiment caddy.
“The town cemetery?”
He nods. “I was looking for the Ludwigs.”
“And?”
“I found all of them but Molly.”
“Do you think she moved away?”
“If she got married, maybe. But why wouldn’t she or her husband be mentioned in her father’s obituary?”
“Maybe they left the faith, and he disowned them.” Based on the small amount of research we did on Friday, he seemed like the sort of guy who would do such a thing. “Or maybe she got pregnant out of wedlock. Or committed some other sin he considered egregious.”
“Like Elijah?”
The question hits hard.
I stare back at him, considering the possibility when Gemma returns with our drinks. Jude doesn’t order any food. I think about doing the same—my appetite still spotty—but then I’m struck by a sudden and profound craving for apple pie.
After I order, Gemma lingers. “Are you sure I can’t get you anything to eat? You strike me as a pecan pie kinda guy … rich, smooth, just the right amount of sweet. I could bring you a slice. Or I could bring you something better.”
This time I do roll my eyes. Her innuendo is as subtle as a sledgehammer.
“I’m not interested,” Jude says, his dismissive tone filled with innuendo of his own.
He’s not talking about pie.
Gemma blushes, but gets the point.
She leaves with a pout.
I take a drink of my ginger ale, not entirely sure what to do about his theory regarding Molly Ludwig.
A reverend’s daughter committing suicide in the eighteenth century?
Surely that would be an incredibly rare occurrence.
But then I have a memory. A very unsettling memory.
Because it’s not really a memory at all, but a dream I recorded in my journal.
A young woman hanging from a rope, wearing a yellow dress with a hoop skirt and a matching petticoat, her long hair in ringlets.
Just like Molly in Ezra’s sketch.
Unsettled, I tug at the sleeves of my jacket. “You said you found something about the portrait?”
Jude removes a letter from his coat pocket and slides it across the table. I pick it up and read the date at the top—March 9, 1833, addressed to Amos Vandenberg’s wife, Ida. The mother of Ruth Vandenberg, who died in an animal attack.
I take a reverent breath and begin reading.
My Dearest Sister Ida,
Your last letter was both a comfort and a sorrow, for it assures me of your well-being, and yet, the news of dear Gabriel grieves me beyond expression.
To have lost, in that single, dreadful attack, both his cherished twin and the young lady to whom his affections were so tenderly bound, oh, Ida!
How much sorrow can one heart endure? Young love is a most violent affliction, and few recover from it unscathed.
But this new distress, his departure for Winchester!
I can scarce comprehend it. That he would leave everything familiar, everything dear, to cross the sea in such a fragile state.
What business could possibly require his presence in England now, in the midst of his grief?
Pray tell it is not the painting that compels him.
Ezra’s portrait was lost in the fire, was it not?
How strange for Gabriel to insist otherwise.
Stranger still is his belief that Raphael the younger stole it.
Does he truly insist Amos laid forth such a charge at the end of his days?
I was ever under the impression that your husband and his cousin were of the best accord, despite the old quarrel between their fathers.
Could Ezra’s madness have unsettled Amos’s mind, and now poor Gabriel’s as well?
I do hope I do not trouble you with such talk.
Forgive me if I have been too bold in my musings.
My concern for you and your son weighs heavy upon my heart, and I should very much like to hear from you soon.
If you should hear from Gabriel, pray urge him to write as well.
Until then, know that you are ever in my thoughts and prayers.
With steadfast love,
Your devoted sister
By the time I’m finished, Gemma has already come and gone with my pie.
I stare down at the looping cursive on the page. I’ve studied Jude’s family tree enough by now to connect several dots.
Ezra was the father of Amos, and Amos was the father of Gabriel, whose twin sister, Ruth, starred in Episode 8, Cryptid Craze, along with a girl named Violet Underwagon. According to this letter, Violet was more than Ruth’s friend. She was the girl Gabriel fancied.
Raphael the younger would be Raphael II, Amos’s first cousin.
Despite the feud between their fathers, they must have gotten along.
So perhaps it wasn’t hatred all the way down, after all.
But then something must have gone south between them, because Amos made accusations in his final days, and whatever he said was enough to convince his son, Gabriel, that Raphael II had stolen Ezra’s portrait before the fire.
After the vicious death of his sister and the girl he loved, Gabriel set sail for Winchester, England. Which is also on the family tree. Raphael married in Winchester. Raphael II was born in Winchester. He married there as well and had his three children.
It’s a lot to keep track of, and I make a mental note to write everything down when I get home. I unwrap my silverware and pick up my fork. “He must have gone to Winchester to get the portrait back, right?”
Jude hands me a second letter, this one hastily written and much shorter than the first. “I found them together.”
Dear Mother,
I write only with tidings of disappointment. My errand has come to nothing. Raphael II was nowhere to be found in Winchester, nor any account of the Vandenberg name. The journey has been fruitless and I shall return home at once.
Your loving son,
Gabriel
“No account of the Vandenberg name.” I look up. “What does that mean?”
Jude’s leg starts bouncing under the table. “I have no idea.”
“I wonder why he stole it,” I mutter, cutting off a bite of pie with my fork.
I read the letters again, frowning as I go.
Struck anew by the tragedy of it all. The animosity between Raphael and Ezra is described like some sort of hereditary disease, an inevitable infection passed from father to son.
But what caused the original rift between Ezra and Raphael to begin with? Could grief have been a trigger?
Ezra lost Molly, possibly by suicide.
Gabriel lost Violet and his twin sister in an animal attack.
After him, the misfortune only deepened.
Isaiah lost Helena Piesel, the girl he was privately courting, along with his entire family in a train crash.
Enoch lost his betrothed, his parents, and his left eye in a bank robbery.
“The Vandenberg men weren’t very lucky in love,” I mutter, cutting off another bite.
Jude takes a drink of his coffee, his brow tightly knit, like he’s spent the past twenty-four hours thinking the same thing.
“Hey,” I say.
He drags his hand down his face, then looks up at me. “Rafe keeps talking about you.”
“What?”
His leg bounces faster.
“What do you mean?” I ask.
“I don’t know. It’s like he’s baiting me. Saying things.”
“What kind of things?”
Jude drums his finger on the handle of his coffee mug, clearly agitated. I try not to press, but morbid curiosity rises like flame on the tip of my tongue. If Rafe is talking about me, I want to know what he’s saying. But then I look at Jude—really look—and he’s clearly miserable.
“Just ignore him,” I say.
“That easy, huh?”
“It’s the best way to handle a jerk. Seriously, he isn’t worth your time.”
It’s true.
Rafe is a giant jerk. And while I may have thought the same about Jude a few weeks ago, I couldn’t have been more wrong. “What is worth your time, however, is pie from The Cobbler.”
I lift my fork, waving it back and forth with a perfectly-sized bite on the end. “Do you want to try some? It’ll cheer you up. Pie from The Cobbler cheers everyone up.”
“I’m good, thanks.”
I scoop the bite into my mouth, lifting my eyebrows in an attempt to entice him.
He chuckles softly, then rotates his coffee cup. “I’ve been thinking about your idea the first time we met.”
“You’re gonna have to refresh my memory. I have a lot of ideas all the time, and they sorta jumble together.”
He smiles a little, the crease between his brow losing some of its edge, and it’s the most tortured, beautiful smile I’ve ever seen. If I were Ezra Vandenberg, I’d paint it a thousand times over until I captured it perfectly. My own personal obsession.
“To carpool,” he says.
“Oh.”
“I’d be up for it, if you still wanted to—you know—decrease your carbon footprint.”