The Family Tree. Barbara Delinsky

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      ‘It’ was a hand-knit quilt, with the baby’s full name and date of birth worked into designated squares. The women had already made squares in yellow, white, and pale green. Now, with the sex of the child known, the remaining squares would incorporate pink. Each piece would be eight inches square, in a fiber and shade of the knitter’s choosing, with those closest to Dana and Ellie Jo doing the lettered squares.

      ‘We’ll need them by noon tomorrow, so that we can stitch them together,’ Nancy advised. ‘Juliette, can you call Jamie and Tara? I’ll call Trudy. Gillian, want to call Joan, Saundra, and Lydia?’

      One of the women, Corinne James, had taken the camera from Gillian and was viewing the picture close up. Corinne James was Dana’s age. Tall and slim, she had stylish shoulder-length hair, wore fine linen pants, an equally fine camisole top, and a diamond-studded wedding band. Although her friendship with the knitters hadn’t spread beyond the shop, she was there often.

      ‘What an interesting-looking baby,’ she observed. ‘Her skin is dark.’

      ‘Not dark,’ argued another, ‘tan.’

      ‘Who in the family has that coloring, Ellie Jo?’ Corinne asked.

      Ellie Jo was suddenly warm.

      ‘We’re trying to figure that out,’ Gillian answered for her and caught Nancy’s eye. ‘What do we know of Jack Jones?’

      ‘Not much,’ replied Nancy.

      ‘Jack Jones?’ Corinne echoed.

      ‘Dana’s father.’

      ‘Does he live around here?’

      ‘Lord, no. He was never here. Elizabeth knew him in Wisconsin. She went to college there.’

      ‘Were they married?’

      ‘No.’

      ‘Was he South American?’

      ‘No.’

      ‘Is “Jack Jones” his real name?’

      Ellie Jo fanned herself with the invoice from the yarn box. ‘Why wouldn’t it be?’ she asked Corinne, not that she was surprised by the question. Corinne James had a curious mind and, surprising for a woman her age, something to say on most every topic.

      The younger woman smiled calmly. ‘“Jones” is a good alias.’

      ‘Like “James”?’ Gillian asked pointedly. ‘No, Corinne. “Jack Jones” is his real name. Or was. We have no idea if he’s still alive.’

      ‘Doesn’t Dana know?’

      ‘No. They’re not in touch.’

      ‘So where is the dark skin from?’ Corinne persisted, as though involved in a great intellectual dilemma. ‘Hugh’s side?’

      Gillian chuckled. ‘Hardly. Hugh’s family is your basic white-bread America.’

      ‘Then your husband, Ellie Jo?’

      Ellie gave a quick headshake.

      ‘Earl Joseph was ruddy-cheeked,’ Gillian told Corinne, ‘and the kindest man you’d ever want to meet. He was a legend around here. Everyone knew him.’

      ‘He was soft-spoken and considerate,’ added Nancy, ‘and he adored Ellie Jo. And Dana. He would have been beside himself with excitement about the baby.’

      ‘How long has he been gone?’ Corinne asked.

      Gillian turned to Ellie Jo. ‘How long has it been?’

      ‘Twenty-five years,’ Ellie Jo answered, fingering the new wool. Yarn was warmth and homespun goodness. It was color when days were bleak and softness when times were hard. It was always there, a cushion in the finest sense.

      Kindly, Corinne asked, ‘How did he die?’

      Ellie Jo felt Gillian’s look, but the accident was no secret. ‘He was away on business when he fell in his hotel room and hit his head. He suffered severe brain trauma. By the time help arrived, he was dead.’

      ‘Oh my. I’m so sorry. That must have been difficult for you. Something like that happened to my dad – a freak accident.’

      ‘Your dad?’ Ellie Jo asked.

      ‘Yes. He was the head of an investment company that he started with a group of friends from business school. He was on the corporate jet with two of his partners when it went down. My brother and I were in our twenties. We still think it was sabotage.’

      ‘Sabotage?’ Juliette asked.

      ‘We were skeptical, too,’ Corinne confessed intelligently, ‘until things got weird. The company didn’t want an investigation. They said it would hurt business, and sure enough, the FAA investigated, blamed the accident on faulty maintenance, and the business tanked. My dad was made out to be responsible. And then—’

      Ellie Jo had heard enough. She raised a hand. ‘While Corinne tells her story, I have to run to the house. I’ll be right back, Olivia,’ she called, heading for the door just as the bell dinged.

      Jaclyn Chace, who worked part-time at the shop, came in, eyes alight. ‘Congratulations on the baby, Ellie Jo! Have you seen her?’

      ‘I have,’ Ellie Jo said as she passed. ‘There’s another new box on the table. Open it for me, like a good girl?’

      With the door closing behind her, she went down the stone path to the house. Over one hundred years old, it had dove gray shutters and a veranda front to back. Now, climbing two wood steps, she crossed the back porch and entered the kitchen. Her tabby, Veronica, was sprawled on a sill in the sun. Ellie Jo went on into the front hall and up the stairs, through the rising heat, to her bedroom.

      The windows were open here, too, sheer curtains letting in only the slightest movement of air. Ellie Jo ignored the heat. Taking a scrapbook from a shelf in the rolltop desk, she opened it and looked at the faded black-and-white snap-shots. There was Earl, in a shot taken soon after they met. He had been a Fuller Brush salesman, shown up at her door intent on charming her into a sale, and, yes, she did buy several brushes. She smiled at the memory of those happy days. Her smile faded when she turned to the loose papers tucked behind the photos. She took out several.

      Closing the scrapbook, she put it back on the shelf. Holding to her heart what she had removed, she went down the hall to Elizabeth’s old room. It still held the bed, dresser, and nightstand Elizabeth had used. The closet was another story. The clothes were long gone. The closet now held yarn.

      Sliding the center stack of boxes out of the way, Ellie Jo pulled on the cord to unfold the attic ladder. Grasping its frame, she climbed up. The air was still, the heat intense. Little here was worth noting – a carton filled with chipped china from the earliest days of her marriage to Earl, a hatbox holding her short wedding veil, the old steamer chair that Earl had loved. Of Elizabeth’s things, there was a single box of books from her last semester of college.

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