1929

1929

M.L. Gardner

Copyright M.L. Gardner 2008

Published at Smashwords

The characters and events in this work are
fictitious. Any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is
purely coincidental and not intended by the author.

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With special thanks to Monica

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Reading the series in order:

1929 Book One-Jonathan’s Cross

Elizabeth’s Heart Book Two

1930 Book-Three Aryl’s Divide

Drifter Book Four

M.L. Gardner Works in Progress include:

Purgatory Cove Book Five

1931 Book Six-Caleb’s Err

Simon’s Watch Book Seven

Reclaiming Katie

Other books by M.L. Gardner:

A Homespun Christmas

Simply, Mine

Short Stories from 1929

A note to the reader:

Generally historical fiction is defined as:
“the genre of literature, film, etc., comprising narratives that
take place in the past and are characterized chiefly by an
imaginative reconstruction of historical events and
personages.”

While 1929 is set within a real era in
American history, I have taken creative liberties in this
imaginative reconstruction with some details of daily life. Not to
detract from the hardship of the day or the tenacity of the people,
but to enhance a scene or better develop a character.

Prologue

Is ea, is cuimhin liom go maith é

Yes, I remember it well.

June 1972

“Wake up, lazy-bones.” With the chess board
tucked under her arm, Maura walked into the room with a slow, tired
gait. She tapped the bedpost as she passed.

Jonathan stirred, grunted, opened his eyes a
crack and closed them again.

“I didn't think you were coming today,” he
said, struggling in vain to sit up straight.

“I wasn't planning on it, but Ian kicked me
out fer the afternoon.” She set the chess board at the foot of the
bed. “Apparently, I'm bein' a bother.” Her eyes crinkled with her
mischievous grin. She got a good grip around Jonathan's chest and
brought him out of his sharp slump to the right.

“You? A bother? I can't imagine,” Jonathan
said with heavy sarcasm. Maura picked a pillow off the floor and
wedged it under Jonathan's right arm; lame and lifeless.

“Besides, I wanted to see how yer settling in
here,” she said as she worked.

“I'm a bother,” he said, not entirely
joking.

“Ye know yer son doesn’t see ye as a bother,”
she said and sat on the side of the bed, placing the chess board on
Jonathan's thighs. She opened a richly engraved drawer and began
pulling pieces out. She raised her eyebrows as she held up a
marbled piece and a red piece.

“I don't care.” Jonathan's left side
shrugged. Maura chose marble for him and set up the pieces.

“He has his own family now.”

“Aye. But yer his father. He doesn’t mind ye
livin' with him one bit,” she assured. “Can I get ye somethin' to
drink before Mr. Caleb gets here to lose another game o’ chess?”
she asked as she made her way to the door.

“Scotch,” he said, eyes closed, resting his
head against the wooden headboard. She returned a moment later with
a tall glass of lemonade and set it on the bedside table.

“That doesn't look like Scotch.” He gave an
indignant huff as she opened the bedroom window to let in a cool,
refreshing breeze.

“Have ye no faith in me after all these
forty-odd years, Mr. Jonathan?” She pulled a flask from her dress
pocket, unscrewed the cap, and handed it to him. He took a deep
drink and paused with eyes closed to enjoy it. He took another
before handing it back. He let out something between a sigh and a
growl before opening his eyes.

“Have ye been able to talk to him then?”

“I tried,” he said. “He isn't listening.” He
rolled his head toward the window. The summer sun drenched the
ornate chair and hardwood floor below it.

“Give it time, Mr. Jonathan. Keep tellin' him
yer life's lessons and one day, he'll see his way to them,” she
said while fishing a rag from the lower drawer of a bureau.

“What are you doing?” he asked, craning his
neck. She straightened, smoothing down her hair, mostly gray with a
few remaining threads of red throughout.

“I'm cleanin'. Since I'm here and all.” She
began to dust knickknacks and picture frames, talking as she went
of memories that each piece stirred. She held a deep shadow box,
admiring the flag inside which was surrounded by medals and awards.
She had made the box herself; a memorial for one of Jonathan's
sons, who had died in World War Two. Maura went slowly across the
chest of drawers, smiling at each framed picture as she wiped off
dust only she could see.

“When was this taken?” she asked, holding one
out for him to see.

“That was on a trip we all took to Europe,
before–” The door swung open and hit the wall with a thud.
Jonathan's son, Robert pushed a small but heavy desk into the
room.

“Hello, Maura,” he said. “Here's the desk,
Dad. And I found that old typewriter in the attic. It's really
dusty―” Maura held up her dusting rag in an offer to clean it.

“I don’t know why you won't just let me buy
you a new one,” he grumbled as he pushed the desk against the wall.
Jonathan said something under his breath as Robert left the room.
He returned shortly with the promised typewriter. A thick layer of
dust completely obscured the letters on the keys. Maura gravitated
toward it and set to work.

“I picked up that other stuff you wanted,
too, Dad.” He ducked out and back in with a large bag, pulling out
boxes of paper, ribbons, and pens.

“Thank you, Robert.”

He patted his father’s dead right arm and
gave a wave to Maura as he left.

“He's a good boy and the spittin' image of
ye, Mr. Jonathan,” she said. He nodded in agreement but still held
a look of worry.

“An’ he’s smart,” she added. “Keep talkin' to
him. He'll listen.” Jonathan gazed out the window looking past the
yard and fence, to a place only he could see.

“I don't know if I have enough time,” he
said. She slowly turned to him, her face first concerned, then
fierce.

“Fer the love of God, Mr. Jonathan! You've
had a stroke, but yer far from yer death bed! I won't hear ye
talkin' like that!”

He rolled his eyes, full of love for her and
the scolding, and smiled. He knew there was no point in arguing.
She spun back around with a huff.

“Would you do something for me, Maura?”

“An' what would that be?” she asked, cleaning
the typewriter keys viciously.

“There's a box under my bed. Will you pull it
out for me?”

She tossed the rag down on the desk and
turned to the bed.

“What is all this anyway?” she asked, pulling
one thick book after another out of the box and stacking them by
his legs.

“My journals.”

“Taking a stroll down memory lane, are
we?”

“No. You are,” he said. She looked at him
curiously.

“I don't need yer memory books, I've a memory
sharp as a tack.”

“Exactly,” he said with a smile.

“Exactly what?”

“That's exactly why I need you to do
this.”

Maura's eyes flashed and she set her jaw,
growing irritated. “Do what, Mr. Jonathan, would ye just spit it
out already? I've no time fer games.”

“I want you to take these journals, add to it
what you remember, talk to the others, and write them out.”

“Write them out . . . like a book?”

“Yes. A book. For my children.” He looked
down at his useless right arm. “I can't anymore. I was going to,
but I never got around to it.”

“Well.” She looked down at the stack of old
journals and took a step back. “I wouldn’t even know where to
begin!”

“Begin anywhere you want. There are so many
stories to tell,” he said, smiling fondly. “And you were there. I
know you remember.”

She ran her hand over a dusty journal.

“Is ea, is cuimhin liom go maith é,” she
whispered. She looked down at the books and paper set around his
legs. “How can I possibly put everything we've done and seen and
been through in one book?!”

“Then write as many as it takes,” he said and
laid his head back. She studied his face, deciding.

“Please, Maura?”

“Don't try to be charmin’,” she snapped. “Ye
still think ye can get yer way with those eyes o’ yers, don't
ye?”

He grinned. For a moment he looked very much
like the young man she remembered from a lifetime ago.

“All right. I'll do it for ye, Mr. Jonathan,”
she said softly. “But first, I need to clean that old thing.” She
went back to the typewriter and began distractedly cleaning it.

“Thank you, Maura.”

“What on earth do ye want me to call it?” she
asked. He didn’t answer. She turned to look at him and followed his
eyes, fixed on the straw cross above his bedroom door.

Black Tuesday 1929

5pm

Jonathan still hadn’t found the courage to go
home. He finished another Scotch and held his head in his hand, his
broad shoulders slouched. He pushed the empty shot glass away and
ran his fingers through his dark hair, sighing deeply.

“Looks like you’ve had one helluva day,” the
barmaid said with a sympathetic look as she refilled three glasses.
“Least you can drink easy for now. All the cops are busy with the
riots and the jumpers. Not likely to get raided today.”

Jonathan’s eyes flickered up and he nodded,
barely hearing her. He pulled a bill out of his wallet and tossed
it on the table.

“Leave the bottle.” He was by no means done.
He didn’t have the words worked out just right in his head, but he
would stay here with his Scotch until he did. He stared blankly,
trying to comprehend the incomprehensible. So many people that day
were wiped out; riches to rags in a matter of hours, and he was one
of them. How could I have lost everything? He grimaced, unable to
wrap his mind around it. A wave of desperate panic washed over him
when he thought of Ava. He dreaded her reaction and wondered
briefly if she would leave as some wives tended to do when their
comfortable lifestyles disappeared. He glanced to his left and
right at his best friends and business partners who were sitting
with similar shell-shocked expressions.

The brokerage firm he owned had suffered
devastating losses since the slide began in September. Even as each
trading day worsened, the collective thought was that it could not
get much worse. The firm had continued to operate as a functioning
brokerage, until today. Those who refused to recognize that the ten
year binge of prosperity was coming to a climactic and explosive
end, rode the purge to the very bottom. What remained of his firm
had been decimated in a matter of hours.

Everything he had ever worked for was
gone.

Aryl Sullivan and Caleb Jenkins had joined
the firm to learn the nuances of the financial world. They were
impressed with the wealth Jonathan had amassed, and each had a good
reason to take him up on his offer to bring them on. He took them
in, taught them well, and the three quickly gained the reputation
of being some of the most powerful players on Wall Street. They
worked hard and achieved a ridiculously comfortable life in an
alarmingly short amount of time.

The three men had grown up together in a
little town on the coast of Massachusetts and had been friends for
as long as any of them could remember. Jonathan had been the first
to leave, drawn to the fast-paced business world of New York City.
The next time his friends heard from him, he was making money hand
over fist as a broker and owner of his own firm.

Aryl came from a lineage of lobstermen. He
worked during his late teens and early twenties for his uncle who
owned a small fleet of lobster boats. He liked it well enough and
never really gathered much of a plan for his life, quite happy to
go along with whatever adventure life presented. He would work long
enough to make what money he needed to travel and explore for a few
months then return to Rockport to work with his uncle. His fate had
been determined by a combination of impeccable timing; Jonathan’s
invitation to New York and his falling in love with Claire. If not
for that timing, he would most likely be involved with neither one
today.