Free Tomorrow's Sun by Becky Melby Page A

kids scrambled closer. A tiny gasp came from Adam. “That’s like Grandma’s quilt. The one she put over Mom’s casket.”
     
    Jake nodded and looked up at Emily, his eyes faraway and glassy. “It’s the same pattern as the quilt in the attic.”
     
    Adam peered over Lexi, whose face had paled. “The rose wreath is a symbol.” His expression mirrored his uncle’s. “It means someone died on the journey.”
     

     
    “The shovel would be faster.” Lexi banged the broom handle on one side of the opening in the porch and then the other. Dust billowed out of the square hole.
     
    “Be careful. Go slow.” Adam chewed his thumbnail. “The wood might be rotten.”
     
    Jake stood back from the three people crowding around the excavation site. He leaned on a post, took a picture with his phone, and tried not to appear as impatient as the kid gnawing his thumb to the bone. He studied the ceiling. Bead board, identical to the wood used for the sliding door below, painted pale blue. In the corners, dirty cobwebs dotted with shriveled egg sacks swayed in the warm breeze. He tried to imagine sitting in a rocking chair sipping lemonade on a swept-clean porch, acting natural while a runaway slave slept in the room below, waiting for cover of night.
     
    Emily’s doubts seemed to have vanished. There was no other logical explanation for the trapdoor. No one would place the entrance to a root cellar under a porch. But it wouldn’t take much to turn an existing cistern into a secret hiding place.
     
    “I see it.” Adam stepped into the foot-deep hole. He brushed the remaining dirt from the door. “Give me the broom.” With the care of a trained scientist, he brushed away debris then threw the broom onto the porch.
     
    Lexi dropped to her knees. “Pull it up.”
     
    Adam looped two fingers into an iron “U” hook. One end of the square stone lifted then tipped. “Ouch!
Man!”
He stuck his finger in his mouth and looked up at Jake. “It’s too stinkin’ heavy.” He stepped out, face pale but focused on the stone.
     
    “Let me see that.” Emily held out her hand.
     
    Adam pulled his finger from his mouth and held it up. A right-angle tear in the skin quickly outlined in red. “It’s nothin’. Jake, can you lift that?” A drop of blood splashed to the floorboards.
     
    “I’ll get something.” The screen door whined as Emily opened it.
     
    Wrapping his finger in the bottom of his shirt, Adam pressed his lips together and glared. “I’m fine!”
     
    Jake stepped into the opening and hefted the stone. The underside was scraped and scarred. He flipped it out of the way.
     
    Adam pulled his flashlight out of one of his numerous pockets. He’d just flicked it on when Emily returned with a washcloth and a Band-Aid. With a look of impatient resignation, Adam let her wash his wound.
     
    Jake’s gaze lingered on her fingers, on the almost artful way she tore open the bandage. “You’re very skilled at that.”
     
    “I ran a preschool for three years. Before that I taught art at a junior high.” She aimed a smile at Adam. “We did wood carving and stained glass.”
     
    Adam’s frustration seemed to morph into mere impatience at her touch. The contrast of Adam’s rough, reddened skin against the ivory smoothness of hers transported Jake to a fantasy world where his life wasn’t on hold. What would it feel like to—
     
    “What’s that?” Lexi pointed to something stuffed into one corner of the recess.
     
    With slow, careful movements, Adam pulled it out with his left hand. A frayed strip of cloth, once blue or purple, now faded to a pinkish gray. Tiny, discolored flowers, just barely discernable, dotted the fabric. “Wow. This could have been part of a dress worn by a slave.”
     
    Lexi nodded. “Maybe it belonged to Mariah.”
     
    “Can I see that?” Emily slid her hand under the strip of cloth. “Wait here.” She flew down the porch stairs faster than Jake had seen her move yet.