Jack Beale 00 - Killer Run

our destination. Nothing else was said. Then, as silently as he had arrived, he disappeared into the night. I remained there, alone, for some time before returning to my cabin.
C.

June 20, 1773
Sister dearest,
It is now clear that we have left the tropics. The ocean is different. Its color is no longer the deep vibrant blue that we see at home, but rather it’s less intense, darker and more cold looking. The breeze is cooler, especially at night. Today another sail was spotted on the horizon. That prompted a great deal of activity as everyone was on deck to see what ship it was …
    * * *
    “Mal … Mal.” He didn’t hear her voice until she touched his arm, breaking the spell. “Mal. I know what we should name the house.”
    He looked up. “Huh?”
    “I know what we should name the house.”
    “Oh, yes, the house. What?” It took a while for his brain to catch up to what she was saying.
    “The Quilt House. We can hang a quilt in each room and name the room for the quilt.”
    “The Quilt House. I like it.” Then he looked back down at the papers in his hand and continued reading. The final pages detailed that meeting at sea with another ship, Christine’s introduction to its master, and her subsequent discovery of the purpose for the rendezvous until the letter stopped abruptly. Frustrated, he read the last lines again.
… There was a letter on the table. I couldn’t help myself. I picked it up and began to read. The words tore at my heart and I gasped. I fled the room before finishing the letter, but I had read enough, and now every fear that I had ever felt in my entire life took form …

CHAPTER 12
    NAMING THE INN HAD BEEN EASY compared to the work needed to restore the old farmhouse into their dream bed and breakfast. Finally the task was done and The Quilt House sign was hung.
    One day, shortly after they had started accepting reservations, Mal was busy stacking firewood when Polly joined him outside. The days were getting shorter and he wanted to finish the job before dark, so he was only half paying attention when Polly said, “Mal, I have a great idea.”
    His only response, other than a grunt, was to place another armful of cut and split wood onto the pile.
    “Did you hear me? I have a great idea.”
    “I heard you. Can it keep for a few more minutes while I finish here?” He tried not to sound too disinterested, but from the look on her face, he knew that he wasn’t successful.
    “I suppose,” she said as she walked back toward the house.
    “Shit,” he mumbled as he tossed another log onto the pile.
    Thirty minutes later, Malcom walked into the kitchen. Polly was sitting at the table. To his surprise, in front of her, splayed out all over the table, were the letters they had found in the trunk. She was writing on one of those yellow pads of paper like lawyers would use―furiously writing.
    “Hey, Pol. So what’s this idea you have?”
    “Shhh.” She didn’t look up, but kept on writing on the pad of paper.
    Malcom shrugged and thought to himself, “I deserved that.” He went over to the sink to wash his hands.
    As he reached for a towel, Polly put down her pencil and looked over at him.
    “So tell me. What’s your idea?” he asked again.
    “Those letters that you found in the bottom of the trunk gave me a great idea. I re-read them and once you get past the seasickness, it’s a great story. I’m going to write a book.”
    “You’re what?” Malcom didn’t know what else to say.
    “I’m going to write a book. I was rereading these letters and they gave me the idea.”
    “A book?”
    “Yes. Look, we found all these quilts and that gave us the idea for what to name this place. And these letters were probably written by whoever belonged to the quilts.”
    “You’re going to write a book,” he said, still grappling with her first statement.
    “Mal, aren’t you listening to me. These papers tell a great story, and if we had a book based on that story, it would be great publicity. People will flock here.”
    “I’m listening, I’m just having a hard time picturing you writing a book.”
    “I can do it. You’ll see.”
    * * *
    “I am so proud of you,” said Malcom.
    Those first two years of their dream were a blur of activity. The Inn was open and thriving and Polly’s novel became a reality. She said nothing, but the smile on her face said it all. She gingerly reached into the box and took out a book. “Oh, Mal. Look,” she said as she stared at the