“I was born while a storm was raging, and they couldn’t get my mother to the hospital. Nanny Lucy delivered me right here in this room, and she said that she knew that night I’d be just like my mother. She tried to beat it out of me, shame it out of me, and even guilt it out of me, but none of that worked,” April answered. “She scared me half to death when she said that my mother’s spirit was still lingering in this room and that she would never rest in peace because she hadn’t been a good girl.”

The tone of her voice sent chills down Nessa’s spine that had nothing to do with the cold air blowing from the air conditioner in the window. “I thought you were born in the hospital over in Paris. Isn’t that where your mother died?”

“When the storm passed, Nanny Lucy took my mother and me to the hospital. Mama had got an infection and died four days later. I wonder if that’s what she meant when she said she had sinned. Did she feel guilty because she hadn’t battled the storm to get my mother the proper care? Maybe the storm wasn’t that bad, but she thought if Mama had me at home, I would die.” April frowned.

“That’s horrible. Do you really think she had that in mind?” Flynn asked.

“We’ll never know, but I’ve always wondered,” April answered.

“I’m so, so sorry,” Nessa said. “I wish we’d gotten together before she died—while she could tell us how she felt about things, like what April said and us coming every summer.”

“We’ll never know for sure about all that, but we will know what’s in that hope chest,” April said. “We’ll finish the quilt and open the hope chest. Who knows, maybe she left us a note explaining everything.”

“We wouldn’t be that lucky.” Nessa started toward the kitchen.

“She probably took whatever had upset her to the grave with her,” Flynn added.

“You’re both probably right.” April went into the bathroom and closed the door.

“Ready to go make bacon and eggs?” Flynn asked Nessa.

“Where were you with this magic cure when I had my first hangover?” Nessa asked.

“What did Uncle Isaac do when he found out his angel had been out drinking?” Flynn chuckled.

“By then I wasn’t his angel anymore, and I let him think I had the flu,” Nessa replied. “If he’d found out otherwise, I wouldn’t be standing here today. I’d either be six feet under or in a convent.”

“Uncle Isaac isn’t Catholic,” Flynn reminded her when they had reached the kitchen and he had gotten out a cast-iron skillet.

“Wouldn’t have mattered,” Nessa said. “He would have put me in one anyway.”

Chapter Nine

Chapter Nine