Chapter 27

Otis watched her blue dress sway as she left. She'd known about Elisabeth and not told him. The revelation left him treading

water, searching for land. He didn't know how to reconcile the woman he'd come to care for and the one who'd kept the truth

from him. Was she a fraud? A turncoat?

When the restless rumbling of uncertainty and confusion persisted, he went to the music room, sat on the hard wooden bench,

and played.

He played a triumphant song, declaring himself free of his father's chains.

He played a tumultuous song for himself, for Peter and Nina, and for Elisabeth.

And for Sadie, he played a song of ambiguity that soared and fell and soared again, not sure what it was or where it led.

There were no songs for Reginald. What he felt for Reginald could not be soothed by a song. Reginald's carelessness forced

Otis into the villain role. Because of him, Otis would have to take Bessy from Peter and Nina. Because of his brother, Sadie

was forced to have torn loyalties.

Reginald. Otis gritted his teeth, pushed away from the piano, and stormed to his brother's room. With each step he added wood to his already raging fire. Only moments before, when Sadie's hands had been on him, he'd felt free of his anger, soaring high above the past. But now it was there again, knocking at the door, begging to come in and take up residence and mark the future in the same way it had marked the past.

Ten years stolen from his life.

Wasted.

Otis yanked open the dresser drawers and rifled through them, throwing what was left of Reginald's belongings on the floor.

Then he let the drawers themselves fall to the floor, caring little for the chaos he left in his wake. He needed to find something,

anything, that explained why this was happening. His breath came fast and rapid. There had to be something he'd missed.

He turned the mattress over. Nothing was there save the driving force, the uncontrollable desire to understand why Reginald

had left such a disaster for him to deal with.

Sweat beaded his forehead as he yelled, "You did this!"

A childish urge to throw something took over, and he gave in. What was there to lose? Reginald had already ruined everything.

He grabbed the sides of the painting on the wall, ready to throw it on the ground, only to have it resist his pull.

Disarmed and confused, he stopped. He took a step back. What was he doing? There was no solace here. His brother would never

again set foot in this room. No matter how much he wanted to retaliate, it was too late.

"Dear God," he whispered, standing in the sea of disarray, a desperate plea for calm amid the storm. In crept a stillness that slowly pushed at the pain. His mind began to clear. Soon his breath and pulse returned to their steady rhythm.

The painting that had stuck tight and defied him now beckoned him. He pulled it again, not in a violent rage but with intent.

It held tight. He pulled from the left. Nothing. Then he pulled from the right and it creaked on stiff hinges, revealing a

hidden compartment. He inhaled sharply, staring at the discovery.

This was monumental, and he wanted to share it. Foolish though it may be, after only just learning of her betrayal, he wanted

Sadie beside him. Deep down he knew she was not a villain. She'd wronged him, it was true, but she'd also stood by him many

times, and he wanted her beside him now.

Without investigating further, he raced for her room and pounded on her door.

She opened it wearing a thin dressing gown over her nightdress, her eyes swollen and glistening with tears. Her hair was long

and loose.

"I'm sorry," he sputtered. "I didn't mean to disturb you."

"You banged on my door. I thought there was a fire."

"No fire." He looked away. "I'm sorry, I don't know what came over me. I wasn't thinking."

"You're here. What is it?"

"Well..." He grabbed her hand and pulled her down the hall. "I was in Reginald's room. I don't know what I was after. I

was feeling angry that he left so many problems... I was out of my head, but... well, I found something."

"You did? What?"

"A hiding place. I don't know what's in it. I didn't want to look without you. I did everything by myself for so long." He stopped pulling her along, let go of her hand, and rubbed the back of his neck. "I don't like that you kept Elisabeth's where abouts from me, but... I think I understand. I kept thinking about Peter and Nina—that's why I was so angry. I don't want to cause them pain." He rubbed his chest. It hurt. There was so much to feel. He couldn't keep up with it all. "Can we declare another truce? I want you to come with me, and later we can sort out who is at fault and who owes whom an apology. Will you come with me?"

"Yes." She wiped at the corner of her eye with the edge of her sleeve. "I want to come."

He held his hand out this time, letting her choose to take it. She didn't hesitate. Her small hand slid into his. With shoeless

feet they were nearly silent on the wooden floors as they scurried toward his discovery. Did all friendships make you feel

this way—vulnerable, infuriated, but drawn to each other in the very same instance? "We are a sorry pair, aren't we? Always

apologizing."

"Always... forgiving?"

Rather than say something he might regret, he kept her hand in his and silently led her through the rest of the house to Reginald's

room.

"You did this?" she asked after surveying the mess. He cringed, seeing the room through her eyes. Clothes spread about, limp

and disheveled. Drawers on the floor and the mattress askew.

"You once told me it was good to feel things."

"Not like this." She picked up a pillow and tossed it on the bed.

"I'm not proud of it. I just wanted to find something that would make it all make sense. I wasn't thinking."

"Sometimes I want to throw all the feathers at the factory at Alta. She makes me so angry."

"I think you should."

"And I think it's okay that you've struggled to make peace with Reginald's death."

He stepped to the painting and pointed. "I tried to throw this."

"It's a terrible painting."

He looked closer at it, seeing for the first time the muted colors. It featured a woman with a broad face, small eyes, and

a mouth too large to seem real. In her arms she held a baby in a most dangerous fashion. "It is quite awful. But look." He

pulled on the side of the painting and the hinges creaked. "Come and see."

Inside the frame was a wooden box, ten inches tall with no remarkable markings. "It's locked," he said when the top would

not open. "Wait here."

He left, returning in a hurry with the once hidden key in hand. "I found this but never knew what it went to."

"What do you suppose he was hiding?"

"Something that will right all his wrongs." Sarcasm laced his voice, but in his heart, he hoped.

"That won't be found in a box," she said.

"You're right. I know you are." He slid the key into the opening and twisted. "It fits."

Their heads came together above the box. Neither spoke as he lifted the lid, letting the contents see light for the first

time in at least a year. There were letters, a jar of buttons, and a bag of marbles—trinkets.

"I didn't picture your brother as a sentimental man," Sadie said. "I imagined him as a cold businessman who did whatever pleased

him."

He picked up the bag of marbles, loosened the string, and poured the colorful glass into his hand. Blue, red, green. They clanked together, playing the tune of childhood. "These were mine. Reginald and our school friends used to trade them. I couldn't find them the day I left. Reggie helped me look for them, but they weren't anywhere. He said he'd keep them for me when he found them. Playing marbles..." He choked on his words. "It was mindless—frivolous if you will—but I missed it when I was alone."

"And the buttons?"

"They were my mama's. She would accompany our father when he traveled for business. When she returned, she would show us the

buttons she'd found. I never understood why she enjoyed them, but for her, finding buttons was like digging for gold. She

was always looking for unusual ones."

Sadie took the jar of buttons and rolled it back and forth so she could look at the myriad colors. "These are beautiful. Look

at this one." She held the jar toward him. "A hand-carved horse. It's a work of art."

"I didn't know you had an affinity for buttons."

"My time at the duster factory has made me more aware of how things are created. Take a duster, for example. It's made of

feathers and wood, which seems simple enough, but effort is put into each one. The hub and the handle are lathed and sanded,

and the feathers are sorted. Some feathers are dyed, and they're all wound with care. Someone made these buttons too."

"And now I will never look at a duster or button the same." He'd waited to examine the letters last. With Reginald dead, these

letters may very well be the last clue he ever had to his brother's character. "Read these with me?"

"Yes."

He looked around the room. Sitting on the disheveled bed seemed wrong. "Let's go to the music room."

"It's my favorite room." She followed him away from the chaos he'd made of Reginald's room.

Once settled on the piano bench, he tore open the first letter, only to find his name written on the top. "It's to me."

"Does it have a date?"

He nodded his head. "He wrote this right after my father died."

"What does it say?"

Otis read aloud.

Dear Otis,

Father wouldn't let me write you. I should have written anyway, but you know how father was, always in command. He said my

writing you would only make you want to come back, when what you needed was to focus on your music. I don't know whether that's

true. I don't know what to think anymore. I don't even know how to go about my life without him. I have made a few decisions

to spite him, to prove to myself that I am my own man, but even those have come back to torment me.

We were brothers once. We still are, but I don't know you anymore. It doesn't seem right, our being apart for so many years.

The factory is still making wheels and bicycles. I'm running it now. And managing all of father's investments. It's what I've

always known I would do, but it feels hollow now. I'm like a puppet, but now I have no puppeteer.

"That's all." He stared at the blank bottom of the paper. "He didn't finish it."

"His words make him sound lonely and full of regret." Sadie took the letter from him. "He missed you. He kept the marbles, and he wanted to write you."

"I only knew of my father's death because Leon wrote. If only Reginald had mailed his letter..."

"It might have all been different." Sadie finished his thought. "But he wrote this much of a letter, and even though he never

sent it, you can choose to accept it as an offering of reconciliation." She scooted closer. "He made mistakes—Lord knows he

made a great many. But look," she said, touching the marbles. "He was not all bad. Your brother thought of you. That means

something."

"It does mean something," he said softly. "And now it is up to me to take care of his daughter and settle what he left unfinished."

He looked at the other letters in his hand, torn between wanting more and wanting to sit with Reginald's words.

"Another?" he asked, wanting her to carry the burden of choice.

"Do you want to read another?" she asked, giving the decision back to him.

"I'm not sure. These letters are the last of Reginald's words. Once I read the contents... that will be all."

She pulled something from her pocket. Paper. The moment she unfolded it, he knew it was the song he'd composed. "Save the

letters," she said. "Take your time with them. Play this instead."

He didn't want to play it. It'd been composed when everything felt simpler and blossoming feelings of love blinded him. But he nodded, and soon the air rang with hopeful, joyous notes. A melody that so perfectly captured the feelings of affection grown during their time together. He closed his eyes. As he played, he saw their first encounter in the old factory, them skating arm in arm, exploring the attic, walking her family's land. A bouquet of little moments. With the last note still hanging in the air, he turned to see her, but she'd gone.

Silence and emptiness filled the place she'd been.

***

... I have never witnessed so much in one night. I heard tales of bravery in the form of a man telling the crowd the truth,

knowing they might cast him out. I saw tears of loss and pain. I saw love played into the notes of a song. My heart is full,

and yet I wonder if this could ever be mine or if it will all be something to remember as what might have been....