The Chesapeake Bride Read online

  “Did you ask Jared about bringing his boat around to the bay side to check the water depths?”

  “I’m sorry. I forgot.” He grimaced. “That was bad. I should have remembered. We all were so excited about the dive. But no excuse. I’ll ask him tomorrow. I promise.”

  Damn. Cass had held off calling her father because she thought she might have other news for him. She was annoyed that Owen had forgotten, but as long as he followed through tomorrow, it would be okay. Of course, he’d promised yesterday, too. . . .

  “So on to the history lesson. Where to today, Professor Parker?”

  “I thought we’d start at the beginning.” He turned on the car and circled around the parking lot to the driveway. “Well, not the very beginning. For that, we’d go back millions of years, and who has the time for that? Besides, I think James Michener covered all that when he wrote Chesapeake. From my schoolboy days, I remember that there was a sort of comet that hit the region, then later there was some glacier activity, and that takes us to the 1600s. John Smith. The local Native American population.”

  “That’s quite a leap, millions of years ago to John Smith and Jamestown.”

  “Yeah, well, if there were written records left at the time of the glaciers, we’d have something to talk about. For me, and then there were glaciers is sufficient to cover that time period.”

  “Fair enough.” Cass rolled down the window and leaned toward it slightly. The air was cooler and crisper than it had been earlier in the week, and just beneath the light breeze she caught a scent of impending autumn. It made her think of walks in the woods with leaves crunching underfoot, cozy sweaters, pumpkins and apple cider, apple pie and pumpkin pie.

  “Hey, are you listening?” she heard him say.

  “Sorry, I got caught up in a thought,” she admitted sheepishly.

  “What thought was that?”

  “Mostly baked stuff with apples. Like apple pie. Apple crisp. And pumpkin pie. Pumpkin-spice coffee. Actually, pumpkin-spice anything.”

  “You’re psychic, right? Because I make a killer pumpkin pie. Only thing better might be my apple pie.”

  “Tell me the recipes are in that folder of family recipes.”

  “Could be. Maybe I’ll let you look at my folder someday.”

  “I’d be honored.”

  “You should be. It’s been carefully guarded through the ages.” He made a turn onto the highway and headed north. “Now, back to today’s lesson. There were a number of Indian tribes living in the bay area. There are something like a hundred thousand Native American archaeological sites throughout the bay region, a lot of them not even documented yet.”

  “So are any of those campsites on Cannonball Island?”

  “Sure. That would be the area that runs along the river out to the point. Back in early times, the whole area was mostly woodlands. You can still see the signs if you know what to look for.”

  “And I suppose you know what to look for?”

  “Of course. Island boy, born and raised.”

  “So are we going to see a Native American site today?”

  “Not today, but the history is all around you. A lot of the names on the Eastern Shore are Native American. Like the rivers. Choptank. Nanticoke. Wicomico.”

  “Do you know what any of that means?”

  “I know that Nanticoke means ‘people of the tidewater.’ That’s about all I remember. My granddad knew a lot of the names and what they meant. He collected a lot of pottery shards and things he’d find along the shore and dug up in his garden.”

  “Isn’t it illegal to keep those sorts of things?”

  “I guess it is now, but back sixty, seventy years ago . . .” Owen shrugged. “I haven’t seen any of it in a long time, so I’m guessing Ruby might have given it all to the library in St. Dennis when they opened their little museum wing. I remember hearing some talk about it.”

  “So where are we going?” They were on the highway, headed northeast. “What’s this tour we’re going on?”

  “I thought since you’re so interested in Cannonball Island and St. Dennis, it would be logical to start with an 1812 tour, since the war played so significant a role in the history of both, but then I thought, nah, it’s too extensive. You can’t do that all in one day.” He looked across the console. “That story began in Baltimore, but since you’re from there, you’re familiar with the whole Fort McHenry, ‘Star-Spangled Banner’ thing. And I’m guessing you already know about how St. Dennis was shelled by British warships a couple of times around 1814, but how no house was ever hit, right?”

  “No, I don’t know that story.”

  “Here’s how it went. The British would sail up and down the bay at night, and they’d aim their cannons on the lights in the windows of the houses onshore. So the people in St. Dennis took to hanging lanterns in the trees and kept their homes dark when ships were sighted approaching the town.”

  “So the cannons were aimed at the trees instead of the houses? Clever.”

  “Only one house was ever hit, and the cannonball is still in the wall. Of course, a lot of trees went down, but it was a small price to pay. I’m surprised Grace hasn’t told you about it. It’s one of her favorite stories.”

  “It’s a good one. So, since we’re not going to Baltimore, and we just left St. Dennis, where are we going?”

  “We’re going to Chestertown, a very old and very beautiful town on the Chester River. Colonial times, the Revolution, the War of 1812, the Civil War—Chestertown’s seen it all.”

  “What are we going to see there?”

  “A little bit of everything, and then a surprise.”

  “What kind of surprise?” Her eyes narrowed.

  “One you’ll probably remember for a long, long time.” His smile and his eyes held mischief.

  “Should I be scared?”

  “Not if you brought your sea legs with you.”

  “I don’t like the sound of that.”

  “You’ll love it.”

  That smile again, those eyes.

  He glanced down at the tennis shoes on her feet. “I see you remembered I told you to bring a sweater and to wear sneaks. Smart move.”

  More than smart, it turned out, because Owen had planned a walking tour of the old city. He’d downloaded and printed out an annotated map from the Internet and handed it to her before they got out of the car.

  “You being an architect and a history buff, I thought you’d find this interesting.” He turned off the engine. “It’s a sort of self-guided architectural tour.”

  Cass glanced at the map. “This is perfect. And very thoughtful. Thank you.”

  “Sure.” He got out and closed his door, then walked around to her side of the car. “Unless you’re chilly, you might not need the sweater now. We can stop back for it later before . . .”

  “Before what?”

  “Before we embark on the second part of our adventure. Now, where would you like to start?”

  “The map has places numbered, so let’s just follow that. We can start down near the river.”

  “Good thought.” He glanced at his watch. “We have time.”

  “Time for what?”

  “Time to see a few places, walk a few blocks.”

  “And then what?”

  “Then the surprise.”

  “I’m not sure I like surprises.” What does he have up his sleeve?

  “I bet you’ll like this one.” He reached for her hand. “Come on. Let’s get on with the architectural tour.”

  They walked a block before Cass stopped in front of a handsome large brick structure.

  “This is number one on the map. It’s the old customhouse.” She glanced at the map again. “It says here this is one of the oldest such structures still standing in any of the thirteen colonies. Original section built in 1740. It’s been privately owned since the latter part of the eighteenth century. Oh, and it says here that Chestertown had its own tea party not far from here.” She glanced towa
rd the river. “I guess there might be a marker down there somewhere.” She looked up at Owen. “Are you sure you’re interested in all this?”

  “Oh, sure.” He nodded vigorously. “Why else would I have planned this?”

  “Just checking. I’d hate for you to be bored.” She looked at the map again.

  “Me, bored? Heck no.”

  “Let’s move on to number two, then.” She tugged on his hand and read as they walked. “Italianate in style, built in 1857 by a man named James Taylor.”

  “Wasn’t he a songwriter, singer, back in the sixties, seventies? ‘You’ve Got a Friend’?”

  “Ha ha.” She smacked him with the map. “The house is on the next block.”

  When they arrived, Cass studied the front of the building. “Beautiful, and perfectly proportioned and symmetrical. Check out the brackets on the porches and the eaves. Perfect.”

  She took a photo with her phone.

  “On to number three. That would be . . .” She consulted the map. “The Hynson-Ringgold House. Built in 1743. So different in style from the last one. See the difference in the roofline, and the portico is Greek Revival. Now owned by Washington College.” She studied the house from different angles, aware Owen was watching her, though he hadn’t bothered to follow when she walked from one side of the house to the other, stopping to take photos now and then.

  She rejoined him on the sidewalk at the corner, where he waited patiently. “A US senator lived here once.”

  “It’s a nice house. I bet he enjoyed it.”

  “More than you’re enjoying this little expedition, I bet.”

  “No, no. I’m good. History guy here, remember?”

  She slipped her hand into his. “The next place on the tour is on the corner, one block down.”

  “Great. Let’s go take a look.” He sounded perky enough, but Cass sensed that his heart wasn’t in it. That his eyes were glazing over gave him away.

  What did it say about this guy who spent a beautiful, crisp September day looking at buildings he had absolutely no interest in, simply because he knew she’d love it?

  “Now this place is pure Georgian,” she said when they arrived at the fourth house on the tour. “And a beautiful example of the style. Built a little before the Revolution.”

  And so on through numbers five through eleven. As she started toward number twelve, Cass noted Owen once again looking at his watch.

  “Are you supposed to be back soon?”

  “No, why?” He stuck his hands in his pockets.

  “You keep looking at your watch.”

  “Well, there is something else. I guess we should be headed in that direction pretty soon.”

  “The big surprise . . . ?”

  He nodded. “We should stop at the car so you can pick up your sweater.”

  “Okay.” Curious, she followed him back to the car.

  “I would definitely come back to this place,” she told him as he handed her the sweater. “I love how so much of the town has been preserved. I could stay here all day.”

  “Some other time.” He grabbed her hand and headed toward the water.

  Minutes later they were standing on a crowded dock, at the foot of which was tied what looked like an old-time schooner, all its sails rolled up.

  “What . . . ?” Cass’s eyes widened.

  “Cass, meet Contessa.” He guided her by the elbow to the end of the dock.

  “What . . . ?”

  “She’s a replica of a 1768 British schooner. Beautiful, isn’t she?” Owen’s eyes were shining excitedly as he gazed upon the ship.

  I must have looked like that, Cass thought, taking in those fabulous historic houses on our walking tour.

  “Can you believe that volunteers built this baby? The original was a merchant ship that the British used to patrol the coastlines after the tea tax was enacted. So from around 1768 till the early 1770s, she sailed up and down the coast from Boston to the Chesapeake looking for smugglers. After they retired her, she was taken back to England and later sold to a private owner. When it was decided that a sailing ship would be a great educational tool, she was chosen as the prototype.”

  “She’s . . . quite something.” Cass stared at the ship as some others on the dock moved forward to board her. “Why did they need a ship?”

  “The Contessa Education Foundation sponsors trips for schoolkids, sails them around the bay so they can see its vastness, maybe appreciate it a little more, acquaints them with the history and the ecology of the Chesapeake. Its uniqueness, its culture.” Owen had taken her elbow and steered her toward the ship. “They also offer paid cruises to raise money for the foundation.”

  Wait—did he expect her to go on board?

  Apparently he did. He led her across a metal-mesh bridge and stepped onto the deck and held out a hand to Cass.

  “No, no, I don’t think . . .” The words stuck in her throat.

  “Come on. She’s beautiful. And she doesn’t bite, I promise.”

  “But I don’t like . . .” Panic arose as she found herself standing on the deck.

  “You don’t like boats?” he leaned over to ask.

  “Water,” she whispered sheepishly. “I don’t like to be on the water.”

  “Seriously?” He took her arm and led her to one side of the deck, away from where the others were boarding. “Are you afraid or what?”

  “I just feel uneasy. Like it’s not natural. I think we were meant to keep both feet on dry land.”

  Before he could reply, someone—apparently the man in charge—began talking about booms and gaffs. The next thing she knew, some of the passengers were working alongside the crew amid cries of “Heave ho” and “Drop the line” and “Haul away” as a huge sail rose above the deck.

  “Oh, crap, get me off this thing.” Wild-eyed, she grabbed the front of Owen’s shirt with both hands.

  “Um, it’s a little late. We’re moving.”

  Cass closed her eyes, rested her head against his chest, and hung on to him with all her strength. “Tell me when it’s over.”

  “Cass, it’s a two-hour tour. If I’d known you had a fear of water, I’d never have bought the tickets. I swear, I had no idea you’d be afraid.” He sounded almost as distressed as she felt.

  “Well, now you do.”

  “You seemed fine when we were crabbing the other day. You never said anything.”

  “We were sitting firmly on a dock, not standing on the deck of a moving ship.”

  “What is it that you’re afraid of?”

  “Things that are out there that you can’t see.” Her voice lowered to a whisper. “Things underneath the boat.”

  “But if they’re under the boat, they stay under the boat.”

  “What if we got into an accident with another boat? Or hit rocks?”

  “Look around. Do you see any other boats in proximity to us? And I promise there are no rocks in the Chesapeake big enough to rip a hole in this baby.”

  “So you say.”

  “Cass, what do you do when you go swimming?”

  “I don’t remember reports of sharks in any pool I’ve ever been in.”

  “You’ve never been in the ocean?”

  She shook her head no.

  “The bay?”

  “The nearest I’ve come to the bay was the other day at the pier.”

  “Just pretend you’re back there, sitting on the pier at the point, okay?” He held her to him, one hand gently stroking her back as if to calm her. “Look, you just hold on to me, keep your face buried if that makes you feel better.”

  “I guess there’s no point in asking if they’d turn around and let me off?”

  “Not a chance. We’re in the middle of the Chester River heading out toward the bay.”

  “Oh, crap, don’t tell me.” She buried deeper.

  “Hey, you weren’t even aware we’d sailed out here, so it must be a pretty calm ride, right? Why not just take a look, Cass? The scenery is beautiful.”
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br />   “I don’t think I can. I’m sorry. I know you planned this surprise for me because you thought I’d enjoy it, and here I am acting like a frightened five-year-old.” Tears welled up and she was at a loss to control them. They tumbled down her cheeks and onto her shirt.

  “Everyone’s afraid of something.” He tried to soothe her.

  “I’ll bet there’s nothing you’re afraid of.”

  “That’s a bet you’d lose.” He changed the subject. “We have to move to the other side of the boat. The wind is changing and they need to move the sails.”

  One of the crew asked Owen if he’d like to help man the sails. He hesitated momentarily. “Not this time around, but thanks.”

  “Go ahead,” Cass told him. “I’ll be okay.”

  “I’ve done it before. Let someone else have a chance to see what it’s like.”

  “They let anyone, passengers, strangers, sail the ship?”

  “Under very close supervision and with instruction. It’s not that hard. Really.” He patted her on the back. “You’re not going to die, Cass.”

  “People die from fright. I’ve read about it.”

  “This is a side of you I’ve never seen. You’re always so together, so in charge.”

  “True, on dry land.”

  “I can’t tell you how sorry I am. How have you managed to live all these years on the Chesapeake without getting on a boat?”

  “I haven’t been living here for all that long. I lived in Rhode Island for a while.”

  “What did you do there?” He leaned against the side rail of the boat and took her with him. She knew he was just trying to keep her talking to take her mind off her being on a vessel that was sailing—sailing! Not even engine powered!—toward the open Chesapeake at a fancy clip.

  “I moved there after college. I was in grad school and my husband—” She felt Owen freeze.

  “What husband?” he asked softly.

  “The one I divorced not long ago. He was in ROTC in college, so he owed the government four years of active service. He joined the army, liked it a whole lot more than he liked living with me, so we got divorced.”

  “I’ll bet there’s more to it than that.”

  “That was the short version. It’s a story for another time.”