Page 76 of Lightning in a Mason Jar

Bailey Rae filled Skeeter’s water bowl and left a dish of dry kibble out for good measure. As much as she enjoyed having him with her, this Fourth of July market day promised to be a long one. Skeeter wouldbe better off here at the cabin using the doggie door and resting up for the big move. He’d had enough upheaval with all the boxes, then most of the furniture sold or put into storage. She’d even slept on a mattress on the floor last night.

Not that she’d slept much, second-guessing her conversation with Martin. She still wasn’t certain why she’d decided to give him Russell’s fishing quilt. Chalk it up to another awkward farewell, except she didn’t have Russell to guide her through it anymore.

Better to stay busy. She drained her cup of morning coffee and tugged her scrunchie tighter around her freshly washed hair before hefting up her insulated bag full of frozen water bottles and snacks to carry her through the day. Even though there would be food booths, she couldn’t count on having time to leave her station.

Firecrackers popped in the distance, no doubt people getting into the Fourth of July spirit early. Or perhaps emptying their stash in case the forecast for thunderstorms came true.

All the same, she intended to err on the side of hope and head on over to the market. She swung open the front door to whistle for Skeeter.

“Hello?” A masculine voice carried across the yard, from a tall, slim man in his twenties, with a headful of dark hair and clothes that spoke of understated wealth. He stood beside a luxury SUV.

She didn’t recognize him, but at least he didn’t resemble Gia’s husband. Still, he was a stranger, and she was out here alone. After the past few weeks of turmoil and strangers lurking around her property, she wasn’t letting down her guard.

He held up a broad hand with some kind of college ring. “I didn’t mean to startle you. I’m looking for the lady who lives here. Winnie Ballard? I’ve written her a number of letters and even spoke with her on the phone around four months ago about helping me with my search for my grandfather’s wife.”

Search for a missing wife? Bailey Rae’s skin prickled like her nerves were on fire now that she knew about Winnie’s help with the networkto relocate at-risk women. She thought of all those letters she’d scanned in, planning to read them later. What had she missed? Could this guy have been the stranger who had been spotted around town and the lurker on her property?

Even though this wasn’t Ian Abernathy, was this some other abusive husband in search of a spouse Winnie had helped to escape? How many more people like this would land on the doorstep? Since her phone was already in hand, she typed out a text to Martin.

Stranger at the cabin. Please come.

She hated how scared she felt in her own home. Although that made her think of all the women Winnie had helped, women who’d felt deeply afraid in their homes on a regular basis.

The echo of more firecrackers snapping carried on the wind, each gust picking up speed and swirling leaves. Flinching, Bailey Rae clutched her cell phone tighter. “Sir, unfortunately I can’t help you. Winnie passed away three months ago.”

Would that be enough to send him on his way?

“My condolences. She seemed like such a nice lady when we spoke. I came today to try one last time to find answers about my grandfather’s wife.” He started to walk away, but before she could so much as breathe a sigh of relief, he paused, then turned back. “Maybe you can help me.”

The nerves shifted into all-out alarm. “How about leave me your number and I’ll get in touch with you later. My friend Martin is due here to pick me up any minute.”

She hoped.

The man raised both his hands and moved no closer. “I didn’t mean to spook you. I should have explained myself better.” He tapped his chest. “My name is Phillip Curtis III. I’m from Mobile, Alabama. My grandfather’s first wife—not my grandmother—went missing back in 1971. I am almost certain Winnie Ballard is—was—that woman.”

Bailey Rae grabbed a porch post, her head swimming. “You must be mistaken,” she denied automatically. “Winnie was my aunt.”

Not really. But she felt like the Lord would forgive her this little lie.

“Just hear me out,” he said. “Please?”

If she told him no, would that make things worse? Anger him? Should she run into the cabin? Her gut told her to keep him outside while waiting for Martin. If this Phillip fellow was dangerous and they went indoors ... “I’m listening.”

“I came across an article in a publication discussing the history of paper mills in the United States and how they’re closing at a rapid rate. They ran a photo taken at the Bent Oak facility in 1972. The woman looks exactly like my grandfather’s first wife.” He picked up a manila envelope off the hood of his car, took slow steps toward her, and carefully placed it on the bottom step before backing away again. “Inside is the article, along with a photo of my grandfather’s wife—Eloise Carlisle Curtis.”

Curiosity got the better of her, and she snatched up the envelope. Her heart hammered hard in her chest as she pulled out the newspaper clipping first. The local paper mill was easily recognizable, as was the image of Winnie standing beside an oversize roll of paper. Bailey Rae tugged out the glossy picture next.

And that woman looked exactly like a younger Winnie.

Bailey Rae went dizzy again and blinked to clear her vision. Still, the truth was right there in front of her. A truth that would have made no sense a few months ago, but after learning about the way Winnie and her friends helped women at risk?

The identity of Eloise Carlisle Curtis—Winnie—was clear. Winnie had been one of those women escaping a dangerous homelife.

Yet for some reason when the man had questioned Winnie in their phone call, she’d denied it. She had wanted to keep her life, her name, and her history safe here in Bent Oak. That reason had been important enough for Winnie to hold her secret for decades.

Which made Bailey Rae’s response simple. “I’m sorry, but this isn’t my aunt.” She shrugged. “They say everyone has a doppelgänger.”

“I can understand why you may be cautious, your aunt too. My grandfather was not a ... kind man.” Wincing, he rubbed a scar on the corner of his bottom lip. “My grandmother was actually his third wife. His second wife killed herself. Which should have alerted my grandma, since he had his first wife—Eloise—committed to a psychiatric hospital before she went missing. She left a suicide note, but her body was never recovered. I think the odds of him having two wives die by their own hands are slim.”

---