When Time Stands Still
Chapter 2
The twenty-five-minute peaceful drive had turned into an hour and a half of pure stress. It was Friday evening, and Thomas scolded himself for not leaving earlier to avoid the rush hour traffic.
The last few days had been a whirlwind of wrapping loose ends at the office, rescheduling a non-refundable conference to California, packing for the move to the ranch, and preparing for Grace's funeral, which Thomas found out she didn't want.
Yet, when he pulled down the familiar, quiet country drive that led to the McCloud Ranch, something within him allowed him to relax, and for a moment, he thought this change of pace felt right. It felt almost natural.
The centuries-old trees lined the entire length of the pebbled drive, providing a beautiful, yet somewhat eerie canopy over his head. The fact that these trees had once witnessed the sights and sounds of Fredericksburg's bloody battle in the Civil War was enough to raise the hair on his arms. Still, the soft sounds coming from the trees acted like whispers welcoming him back.
Thomas was surprised to find how comforting coming back home was.
The split rail fences, the pastures, even the quiet alone served as a balm to his spirit. Thomas thought maybe for the first time in his life he was starting to appreciate this place that had been the backdrop for much of his childhood. Now, he was beginning to see its particular beauty in the sacrifices Grace had made to give him a happy, stable childhood in this place of fresh air and freedom.
His car emerged slowly from the trees, passing under the large, black gate that yielded the recognizable 'McCloud Ranch' brand. Like a hidden gem that appeared out of nowhere, he saw the familiar old, white colonial home, the anchor of the McCloud Ranch itself. The house had seen better days, but bathing in the sun's last remaining rays it appeared as a beacon for his lost soul.
Thomas stopped the car when he reached the stables and parked it under the big maple tree. He grabbed his bag sitting in the passenger's seat and got out, looking around for any sign of life, but the gentle breeze rustling through the trees provided the only sound and movement. The ranch was mostly untouched and steady as always. He didn't recognize the steadiness when he was growing up here—the quiet solitude the country had to offer Thomas found boring back then, he would relish in now.
As he walked towards the house, he expected to hear Grace's boisterous voice greet him, just as she always did. It was strange how the absence of something could sometimes be louder than the presence of it.
A small path—stepping stones with grass laced between them, traveled around the house where the friendly wind chimes by the front bay window welcomed him, and Thomas's mind allowed him to drift back to the day he became a permanent resident at the McCloud Ranch with Grace.
His parents were headed to Denver for a week-long seminar and had dropped him off with Grace on their way to the airport. It had rained hard that whole day. Thomas remembered curling up in that bay window seat in the downstairs sitting room, tracing the raindrops that trailed down the window with his finger, when someone knocked on the door.
Thomas expected to hear movement within the house, but when no one came, he rose from the seat and walked over to the front door's sidelight window. That's when he saw Sergeant Melrose, Fredericksburg's Chief of Police, standing on the porch, shaking the water off his cap.
When he settled the cap back on his head, he noticed Thomas peering through the glass. The man's eyebrows scrunched together, and the lines on his forehead deepened.
When Grace appeared behind him to open the door, Sergeant Melrose asked if he could speak with her privately. Thomas knew right then something terrible had happened.
A little while later, she had found him sitting in the same window seat, tracing the raindrops as he had done before. Tears rolled down her face as she explained the details: The unseasonable snowstorm, the plane crash, all people on board had perished...
Thomas remained on the front porch as a light breeze fluttered the leaves again, and the colder air hit him with a rush that caused goosebumps to creep up his arms. He found it ironic how death now brought him back to the same place where life as he knew it began.
Not wanting to waste any daylight, he had spent the better part of the next hour walking around the house and grounds with a pen and writing pad in his hands, trying to get a sense of what a ranch renovation would entail. Of course, he'd seen the house each time he'd come back for visits, but he had never taken a hard look at it with a critical eye. He sighed, realizing this was not going to be a simple project.
Much of what he saw remained precisely as it had been for as long as he could remember, and despite its old age, the house had great bones. There was no doubt about it, though, bringing the home up to date and within code would take a lot of time, patience, and money. He shook his head, knowing this house would make some designer's dream come true.
Standing in the middle of the living room, he looked around. It was challenging to get a sense of space in the house because of the clutter. Most of the rooms were overstuffed with furniture as if each person who had moved into the house over the last hundred and fifty years had added a treasured chair or table to add to the mix. It was apparent that Grace had a hard time parting with the things she held dear.
The realization of the work that lies ahead had hit him hard. He couldn't think of hiring anyone for a renovation before sifting through every single book, documents, and other relics that Grace had accumulated within the house.
He smiled, knowing he could probably finance the whole job with the money Grace had hidden throughout the house over the years. She was notorious for stashing small bills in hollowed-out books, old coffee tins, or even rolled up and pinned on the lampshades' underside. He supposed it was just how her generation grew up; Save everything, repurpose everything.
He scribbled on his pad of paper:
"Rent Dumpster"
"Call Virginia Historical Society"
One thing is certain, though, this old house had a lot of charm. Most of the rooms had built-in bookshelves, each overflowing with age-old novels, dictionaries, and encyclopedias, most from the 19th century. Thomas had inherited Grace's love of history, but he never seemed to appreciate the books she housed on these shelves.
The distinct combination of dust, old hardwood, and a hint of Grace's favorite lilac water began to overwhelm him, giving him a headache and causing his nose to become stuffy. He silently cursed himself for not packing his allergy medication.
"Allergy Medication/Nasal Spray"
Thomas looked down at his feet, taking a step in the direction of the stairway. He was by no means a flooring expert, but the home's creaky hardwood floors appeared original. Every step he took felt like the house was speaking back to him.
Kneeling, he allowed his fingers to slide along the grain of the wood.
"Man, I would love to hear you talk."
He could only imagine the history beneath the ground he was walking on. He thought back to Grace's letter, wondering what exactly she had meant by 'deep secrets' this house had kept, and maybe more importantly, whose secrets was it keeping?
The house was calm, almost like a clam in its shell, a stark contrast to the whirl of activity he remembered growing up. He sensed this quiet peacefulness was how the house had been for much of the time since he'd left those years ago, even more so since Grace had left.
Thomas walked over to the stairs, putting his hands on the banister's railing, paying mind to the intricate scrollwork displayed on the balusters. His hand traced the carvings, wiping off thick layers of dust. The craftsmanship and skill that went into this work wasn't something that you see in today's modern homes.
"With a good polish, you'll be good as new." He said, rolling his eyes at himself as he talked to the railing like an old friend.
He continued up the stairs, each step careful and deliberate. The stairs themselves seemed sturdy, but the poor lighting in the stairwell cast dim shadows giving the illusion that something was lying on the stairs when, in fact, it was not. Thomas blinked his eyes hard, considering maybe he was entering a time in his life where he needed to get his eyes checked regularly.
The stairwell's length was lined with older photographs that mostly consisted of people he didn't recognize. Thomas suspected that they were all part of the McCloud family at different points in time. He stared intently at faces in the photos, noticing key resemblances in most of the women; those dark, wide eyes that were full of life, petite stature, and even the faintest hint of mischief hidden within their smiles.
It made him realize just how little he knew about the McCloud family, and if he were honest with himself, it made him realize how little he knew about Grace. Thomas always knew she was a feisty, self-sufficient, and determined woman, but he never gave much thought to what made her that way. His head bowed in disappointment. He had nearly thirty years to ask questions, and now, he knew he had missed his chance.
The backdrop of peeling moss green wallpaper caught his eye. His nose scrunched in disgust, as his hands brushed over the elaborate, yet outdated pattern of orange and golden yellow flowers that, if he had to guess, was from the 1960s.
"Stairway wallpaper, first thing to go."
The stairwell grew darker as he climbed the steps. His fingers fumbled along the upstairs hallway wall until he found the switch plate, repeatedly toggling until he realized the hall light burned out. It wasn't surprising. The old house had always seemed to have one electrical issue after another over the years, burned-out light bulbs, blown fuses, power outages, to name a few.
"Electrician."
Thomas walked slowly, trying his hardest to remember what objects might lay in front of him as he navigated down the hallway, stopping short when he saw a soft glow of wavering orange light creeping underneath Grace's bedroom door.
He thought back to all those times growing up when Grace would scold him for leaving a room without first turning off the lights.
Nerves stalled his hand when he reached the bedroom door, feeling as though it was an invasion of privacy to be entering Grace's room; the room she had always forbidden him to go in. He had only been in there one time before, and as he recalled, it was the only time in his life that someone had 'tanned his hide.'
Thomas was a quick learner. From then on out had always complied by staying far from the room. His adult self, however, was curious. With no one there to scold him, he felt like a child at Christmas, and temptation quickly won over as he slowly pushed open the door and walked into the room.
The amber light flickered from what appeared to be an antique oil lamp atop a corner desk, casting a soft, glistening glow off the walls. The light was warm and inviting, almost mesmerizing, as it danced off the shiny objects around the room.
"What the...?"
"It's a miracle this place hasn't burnt down." He said, shaking his head, knowing exactly what Grace would have done in this situation.
"Terminate maintenance crew for leaving burning oil lamp unattended."
Thomas stood still in the doorway, eyes panning the bedroom, absorbing every detail his mind could soak in. The hand-stitched quilt draped neatly over the floor poster bed, the braided rug over the worn hardwood floor, the wooden rocking chair with frilly pillows propped up in the seat, even the cloudy haze in the antique mirror hanging on the wall, all transported him back in time like he was standing in a room preserved by one of those pioneer settlement museums.
He inhaled deeply, bringing about a sudden fit of coughing. His throat became thick as the stale air presented a smoky, musky, even earthy smell about the room. He didn't know what the 1800s smelled like, but this would be it if he had to guess.
Thomas crossed the room's length, opening the window to allow the summer night air to flow in. The white, silk-like curtains billowed softly past his form as he stood staring out the window. The barn was dark, and its edges were sharp against the navy sky.
The fence that separated the corral from the pasture had stood firm for over a century now. Thomas thought back to when he was a teen, remembering how he used to ride along with some of the ranch hands, helping them search for rotted, cracked, or damaged wood, and replacing it when necessary.
On the whole, it was the same fence that had been there from the very beginning, and the same could be said for the main house and parts of the barn.
When Thomas thought of the longevity of those wood boards, bricks and mortar, and joists that held the McCloud's lives in place here throughout the years, he felt so small. His problems seemed so insignificant.
The nighttime sounds could be heard in earnest—the crickets' thrum, the shrill vibrations of the cicadas, and somewhere close, a throaty croak of a tree frog all sung in unison.
The June night air was warm and still, but not uncomfortable. His tired body leaned against the corner desk while gazing out beyond the trees that lined the drive, allowing him to become lost in his thoughts, reminiscing not only about his life growing up on the ranch, but Grace, and those who came before her.
This property itself, he knew, had become witness to one of the bloodiest battles in the Civil War, a huge turning point for the Confederate South. He silently wondered if this is what Grace had meant by the 'deep aching losses' she described the house being witness to in her letter.
Growing up, Thomas had heard bits and pieces about the Battle of Fredericksburg from Grace, all passed down from her grandmother, Louise, who had lived on this land during the battle. Grace's admiration and respect for her grandmother were undeniable, and Thomas knew by the way Grace spoke that she had loved and missed Louise dearly over the years.
Grace herself was a character and a storyteller in her own right. The people who knew Grace well — her friends, folks in town, all respected her as a successful businesswoman. Still, if you ask anyone, her claim to fame around these parts was her homemade peach cobbler, and her legendary tales of how her grandmother, Louise McCloud, and her grandfather, whose funny name Thomas had forgotten, were both riders of the famed Pony Express.
Admittedly, his recollections of Grace's stories had grown fuzzy over the years. Still, the stories of their Pony Express adventures had always involved varying degrees of danger, as Thomas recalled, often ending up with one of the riders getting shot. Many of the tales included their friend Wild Bill...or was it Buffalo Bill? Thomas couldn't remember. For all he knew, Jesse James could have been thrown in the mix too. As far-fetched as her stories were, people would gather all around to listen to Grace bring these larger-than-life characters to life.
Thomas remembered these stories being a reprieve after his parents had died, his small escape from reality. But as time passed and he came into his teenage years, he only saw Grace as his strange little grandmother who seemed to always go out of her way to humiliate him in one way or another. Grace being her own woman, never cared what others thought of her. He supposed that must be one of the perks of getting old, just not caring what people think.
Thomas found it hard to be close to someone who seemed to try to be as eccentric as possible, so he did what most other teenagers would have done; he pushed her away. When the time came for Thomas to leave for college, Grace's mental health started to decline.
Grace fought hard to keep her independence and even harder to stay on the ranch. Thomas had arranged for her friends to check on her and even got her to consent to selling off most of the horse stock and shutting down operations. He hired a crew to maintain the land and grounds, and when the affairs seemed to be sorted out, that is when strange things began to happen.
Grace started having conversations with people that weren't in the room, people in her past. She started seeing and hearing things that weren't there, forgetting things, important things like turning off her stove or faucets. Grace downplayed it as "losing her marbles," or "coming unglued," but Thomas knew it was bigger than what she would have liked to admit.
It was close to a year later when Thomas had received the phone call. Grace had been found by an old family friend, Mr. Maxwell, walking through the south pasture with just her nightgown on, tears running down her face, unsure of how she got there or where she was going. Mr. Maxwell had said it looked like she was searching for something she couldn't find. It was then that Thomas realized he needed to get Grace the help she needed.
Thomas remained thoughtful. It was evident to him now, more than ever, as he stood in Grace's bedroom, a room that appeared to be frozen in time, that Grace's mind somehow trapped her in a time that was not her own.
The familiar weight of sadness and guilt washed over him as he realized how Grace's mind had most likely taken her to a place she had longed to be the most, with her grandmother, Louise.
The words of her last voicemail rang in his head. Her words, her tone reflected the old Grace he knew.
As soon as the notion crossed his mind, a stiff breeze blew past him, slamming the door so hard it made him jump. He turned, expecting to see someone standing there, but the room was empty, and suddenly the night air grew cold. He could once again feel the sensation of his hair standing on the back of his neck and arms.
Thomas pulled the chair out from underneath the desk, sitting down as his heart rate slowly returned to normal.
He leaned forward, propping his elbows on his knees, sinking his face into his hands. His relationship with Grace was one of many things he would have done differently in his life if given another chance. He'd often wished he could go back in time with the added benefit of years of wisdom and hindsight.
He opened his eyes, and for the first time since walking into the room, had acknowledged the desk, Louise's desk, the one Grace spoke of in her letter. It was a large, heavy presence in the room, but it was beautiful and unique, standing apart from all the other furniture pieces in the house. Even with the room's poor lighting, Thomas could tell by the solid wood and ornate style, it was well crafted and every bit as old as the house. Maybe even older. It had a certain mystique about it, and he could see why Grace didn't want to part with it.
The desk appeared to be well taken care of over the years. It's luster cast a reflection of the lamp's light, giving off a soft glow. The scratches and markings of what Thomas assumed were from pens and pencils over the years were etched into the surface, making him think of all the joys and frustrations, heartaches, and losses that were absorbed right here into the wood.
Thomas's eyes appraised the items on the desk: a sterling silver letter opener, a peculiar-looking hairbrush with several bent metal bristles. He held the brush in his hands, his fingers tracing the 'L.M.' engraving on the handle.
The hutch atop the desk had many drawers, little compartments that begged to be explored. The brass knobs on the drawers themselves were tarnished and loose, making Thomas think twice before pulling them open. Although he wanted to see what other treasures he could find within, he didn't want to chance breaking something he couldn't replace.
One drawer was opened just enough so Thomas didn't have to use the knob. He pulled the drawer toward him, sliding it out all the way to peek in, disappointed when he found it was empty inside.
He grabbed a nearby cloth, attempting to remove the years' worth of dust his breath could not blow away. His fingers gliding along the long lines of the intricate scrollwork. He examined the craftsmanship, admiring it as he set the drawer aside. His attention turned to the now empty space, wiping out any cobwebs from within, cleaning the wood until the cloth caught resistance on something inside.
Thomas leaned down, peering into the dark space, feeling around for any possible obstruction until his fingers brushed against a metal object, a lever of sorts.
His brow furrowed as he pulled the trigger towards him, flinching when he heard the simultaneous sounds of a 'click' and a door opening to a secret compartment.
His eyes grew wide when he pulled out the old stationery paper, complete with fountain pen and inkwell — which still had liquid ink inside. He reached inside once more, grasping an envelope with two fingers, pulling it out to examine its contents. The seal was tucked into the envelope, and he could identify a letter within.
Thomas turned it over, observing no postage displayed on the front, no stamped date. His eyes fell on the only word that was written, but in that single word, memories came flooding back to him, finally remembering the name of Grace's granddaddy. A name so simple he couldn't believe he had ever forgotten it. Written in beautiful handwriting and underlined with emphasis was the word 'Kid.'
Without thinking, Thomas's fingers found the edges of the folded letter inside, careful not to tear the brittle pages, he pulled out the letter, opening it, and began to read.
June 1862
My sweet Kid,...