Free The View from Prince Street by Mary Ellen Taylor

the address I gave the boy’s parents, and to leave risked him not being able to find me. “It’s a big house and it’s only me here.”
    â€œPart of the house’s foundation dated back to the mid-1700s when the McDonalds arrived. That means there’s been a McDonald on the property for nearly three hundred years.”
    â€œYes. Though I’m the last of the line.”
    She ran a callused hand over the top of a box. “Adopt me, Rae. I’ll become a McDonald and continue the legacy with pride and glory.”
    With a slight grin, I replied, “We McDonald women live a long time.”
    â€œHow old are you?”
    â€œThirty-two,” I replied.
    â€œI’m thirty-six.” She beamed. “If you never marry or have kids, can I have the house?”
    â€œCheck back with me in sixty years.”
    â€œIt’s a date. Looking forward to it.” She glanced out the window toward the raw patch of land. “So why get rid of the hearth? I mean, I’m glad we excavated the site for you, but why?”
    Deep inside me, fear whispered:
Because every McDonald before me insisted it stay.
Logic said, “I’d like to have a garage and that’s the last available land.”
    She visibly shuddered. “When I think about all the history that has been lost because people need parking.”
    I’m tired of carrying the weight of the past.
“My practice is expanding, and I have more clients coming and going.”
    â€œIf it were me, I’d make them park at the end of the street and hoof it in before I’d get rid of the hearth.” She held up her hand, realizing her candor was not her best asset. “But if you’d not pulled apart the hearth, then I’d never have found the witch bottle. Thank you.”
    â€œIf you consider finding that old bottle lucky, I’m glad for you.”
    Margaret moved to the first box. “The question is, why did a McDonald, whom I’m guessing was Patience, feel the need to create a witch bottle?”
    â€œSuperstition was common in the days when death was never far and families had little control over their physical environment.”
    â€œSo you don’t believe in spells and curses?” She contemplated the box marked
Eighteenth Century
and then carefully removed the lid.
    â€œAre you saying that you do?” I asked.
    Margaret grinned as she reached in her pocket and pulled out a pair of white cloth gloves. “Hell, yes.”
    â€œThat’s not logical, is it?”
    â€œSpoken like a psychologist. ” She tugged on the pristine gloves and removed an old leather-bound ledger from the box. She moved her hand reverently over the worn, cracked surface. “When I hold pieces of the past like this, I believe there’s a lot we could learn.”
    â€œIt’s a journal,” I said. “An artifact.”
    â€œTo me, it’s a voice from the past reaching out to me.” She eased open the pages, wincing when the spine creaked. “I believe that there’s more to this planet, this life, than the physical world.”
    â€œAh, you believe in ghosts, spirits, and goblins and all creatures that go bump in the night.”
    â€œDo I detect a bit of disbelief, Rae?”
    â€œI’m more science minded.”
    â€œBut you’re a psychologist. The mind and thoughts are not exactly a tangible science. More art than science,” she said.
    â€œBehavior can always be traced back to a specific source. We may not be able to identify the source, but it’s there.”
    Margaret pulled out a straight-backed chair upholstered in a light cream fabric and sat, never looking up from the page. A frown furrowed her brow as her fingers moved over the page. “So my obsession with the past can be traced back to a specific event.”
    â€œOr events.”
    She raised her head, considering what I’d said. “I had a pretty normal