Free Scrapbook of Secrets by Mollie Cox Bryan Page B

Baughman, or Mary Jenkins—people of substance. The settlers of the area were of sturdy stock; they fought off harsh winters, survived droughts, and raised families. Of the three founders of Cumberland, of course, Beatrice liked to tell the story of Mary Jenkins. Damn, she wished she could go back and time and chat with her.
    When Mary arrived in Cumberland Creek, she was with her husband and three children and expecting her fourth. After a year of settling—house built, land staked, first crops planted—her husband died, leaving Mary and her children vulnerable in this small community.
    They settled the farthest out—close to the mountain—and so Mary didn’t have much comfort of community as she raised her children, tended her crops, took care of her home and land. Many different stories—legends—existed about her. One claimed that she shot down a Native American whom she found lurking around her property. Another claimed that she later fell in love with a Native American, mothered more children by him, even though they never married. Beatrice liked both stories—though, as with a lot of personal history, nobody could prove a thing.
    One thing for sure was that the hills were full of Jenkinses. At one point in time, the Jenkins family owned most of one mountain and the hollows around it. One of Mary’s younger sons, Samuel, married a Scotch-Irish girl, who was part of the next wave of settlers in the area. Bridget O’Reilly Jenkins populated the mountain with fifteen children. Hence, Jenkins Mountain and Jenkins Hollow.

    “Are you ready to go, Mama?” As she pushed in a wheelchair, Vera spoke up and interrupted Bea’s thoughts.
    Bill picked up his mother-in-law’s bag.
    Well, at least he was good for something.

Chapter 12
    After Vera and Bill situated Beatrice at home, they took off for Cumberland Creek Episcopal Church, which was where Maggie Rae’s memorial service was being held.
    “I didn’t know the woman,” Beatrice had said earlier that day. “But I wouldn’t mind going to pay my respects to her family.”
    “Oh, Mama, you just had surgery, and the doctor said for you to stay in for about a week. Besides, it’s okay for you to miss a memorial or funeral once in a while,” Vera said, with a grin, reaching in her bag for a chocolate. Funerals and memorial services were one of Beatrice’s favorite events. Not that she liked to see loss and grieving, but she loved the spectacle of them—everybody wearing their best clothes, beautiful music and prayers, sometimes poetry. A good funeral would entertain Beatrice for weeks. She could talk about the strange hat Ellie Pickering was wearing: “I mean, what was the woman thinking?” Or about the fact that some women weren’t wearing panty hose or stockings in the church. She wasn’t a churchgoer anymore. “But it’s the principle of it,” she’d maintain.
    The best part of any service was the reception, where families laid a huge table filled with food that neighbors, family, and friends brought to them. It was also a cause for Beatrice to mull over for weeks. “I think those deviled eggs went a little bad. I was sick for days.” Or “Lord, that red velvet cake was the best I’ve ever eaten. Who brought that? I need the recipe.”
    But today, Beatrice was staying home, and Vera would report back to her mother, answering the many questions she was sure would be asked of her. So she planned to pay particular attention to clothes, hats, poems, and songs. But she ached in her heart and in her guts. This memorial service would be like no other, she knew. Nothing like this had ever happened before in Cumberland Creek—a young mother killing herself, leaving behind four children and a husband. Maggie Rae’s private burial just took place two days ago. What could a preacher have to say that would make sense of any of it? Provide any comfort to any of the family—especially the children?
    Bill placed his arm around Vera’s waist as they walked