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Chapter Twenty-One
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.
