The Old Cranberry Ladies Garden Club

Prologue

The Cranberry Farm, Connecticut, 1832

Dressed in her husband’s shirt, overalls, and boots, to avoid soiling her fine clothing, Elcira Cranberry takes the long way around from the main house to the potting shed at the edge of the carriage house property. She stops to press her face into the down-soft syringa vulgaris, better known as the lilac. Here, bordering the two parcels of land her husband planted all seven colors of the species, one variety each year for each of their children. What a loving thing to do, she had thought, until they started blooming and it became apparent that their spring-like lily of the valley fragrance was the perfect way to overpower the stench from the nearby outhouse. So much for romance. But she enjoyed them, her other children, as she called them, and each year she clips, grafts and coddles a new generation into life, hoping to extend their lives beyond the one-hundred-years they are expected to live.

“Be careful, dear,” he told Elcira when he saw her cradling the flowers to her nose, “some lilacs can be quite toxic.”

“I intend to enjoy every moment of my life with them.”

She steals away to her favorite place and unlocks the potting shed door with a brass key. It occurs to her that, dressed as she is, a passerby or nosy neighbor, like Colonel Townsend, could mistake her for Chester.

Elcira locks the door from the inside and pockets the key. She unbuttons the overalls and lets them drop to the floor. The work shirt becomes a work dress, and its function is to keep her cool.

The sunlight barely sneaks in—a voyeur, a peep, a trickle of light—enough for her to see her potted friends. The scent of lilacs and fresh soil erases all thoughts from her mind. This is her peaceful place. While she works at making a V-shaped cut in the stem of the yellow lilac, a sparrow chirps to her chicks in a nest under the eave of the roof. The nest sits precariously between the crossbeam and the top of the wall. The shed doesn’t offer much protection from the elements, but it provides shade from the sun and some cover from the rain and snow. Mostly, it provides Elcira with an asylum, a place to go to be alone with her thoughts.

“Elcira!” Chester barks. “Where are you? I need something to drink.” She knows he is in the barn again, moving piles of hay from one place to another, pitchfork in hand. He will be loading the hay onto the wagon to bring to the horses. If only the children were old enough to help him, she would have more time to spend with her horses. Theirs is the life, running within their rounded-fenced paddock on the bottom fifty, beyond the hill, drinking from the pond whenever they need refreshment. Why don’t you go down there, stick your head under, and breathe in all you can?

She brushes the dirt from her hands and wipes them on the overalls before stepping back into them. She doesn’t have much time to herself, but at least with Deborah watching the young ones and the older ones at the schoolhouse in town, these few hours are her time unless he calls. At least he’s not twiddling his fingers beneath some young thing’s whalebone corset.

She has thought about hiring one of those newly freed slaves as an all-around domestic as some of Elcira’s garden club ladies have done. No doubt Chester would want to choose one whose looks he fancies. It doesn’t matter to him what the skin looks like. His eyes roam where only modesty and necessity should venture. Freed slaves, like Deborah, do still turn some heads in town, but here,

on the edge of their property, where the Colonel lives, she is safe from wandering eyes and hands. Rumors do make their way from the wagging tongues of the garden club ladies, who are often more reliable than the local newspaper.

Elcira unlocks the potting shed and approaches the well. Deborah is sitting on the ground, her back against the stone well.

“Oh, Mrs. Cranberry. I didn’t expect anyone at this time of day.” Her nose is running, and her eyes look like ladybugs, red and black.

“You didn’t want to be seen. What’s wrong?” Elcira is unaccustomed to involving herself in the affairs of others, but Elcira has known Deborah since she was born. Her mom, Grace, was Colonel Townsend’s slave and nanny to his daughter, Penelope. Now, she is often alone in the house here on the edge of the Cranberry Farm while the colonel is away with his militia. Chester sold this property from the row of lilacs down to the small house to Colonel Townsend for a mangy mule and some seed. One of those neighborly deeds he is famous for, making him look like a true gentleman among all the other “true” gentlemen of this idyllic New England paradise lost.

Deborah places a hand on her belly and starts to cry. Instantly, Elcira understands.

“Who is the father?” Elcira expects her to say it is the colonel, but Deborah puts her head down and wipes her eyes with the hem of her skirt, revealing her legs. Even with her dark skin, Elcira spots remnants of bruises. If this is the twiddler’s work, God help him.

“Elcira! My water!”

“Oh hush, you old hoot!” Elcira reaches for the pail to lower it into the well, but Deborah takes it.

“I’ll do it,” she says.

Elcira grabs Deborah’s hands in hers. Their eyes meet. Neither of them moves. “Did he do this to you?” Elcira asks.

Deborah’s lip quivers. “I’m so sorry, Mrs. Cranberry. I couldn’t stop hi—”

“Hush now.” Elcira reaches for Deborah and hugs her. “I know, I know.”

This was not the first time he’d done it. But this isn’t one of the women who frequent the tavern looking for some company for a price. This is Deborah, her friend.

Elcira tightens her grip on her hands for a moment, taking a deep breath before letting go.

“I’ll take the water to him.” Elcira lowers the rope to fill the pail, her lips tight, pressed against each other as if the pail is too heavy. When she pulls it up, Deborah takes it from her.

“This is something I need to do myself,” she says.

A chill rushes through Elcira. Should she let Deborah confront the man who violated her? Deborah kisses Elcira on the cheek and says,” I’ll be fine. Go back to your lilacs. They will miss you.”

Elcira leans closer and kisses her on the cheek. “I will be in the shed. We can have privacy there.” She hands Deborah the brass key. “Keep it. You can unlock the shed at any time and lock it again from the inside. In case you need to get away by yourself, that is. I do it all the time.”

“What about you?”

“There is another key. I keep it on a hook in the shed, in case I get locked in,” she says, nodding toward the barn. “He won’t miss it.” Elcira walks back to the shed. On the way, she notices that Charley, Colonel Townsend’s horse is tied to a post at the house. Good. Deborah doesn’t have to be alone. She looks up at the barn. Chester wields the pitchfork like a hammer, stabbing bundles of hay to loosen them. Seeds and dust spray the air, glistening against the sun. He wipes his brow, jabs the pitchfork into a bale beside him, plants himself on a throne of hay, and takes the pail of water from Deborah.

Elcira clips a few branches from the white lilac bush near the door and brings them inside. The intoxicating aroma pulls her toward the porcelain white cups of the flower. Several fall off, a sign that the season is waning. Soon all the buds will be cast to the wind and the bushes will go back to serving as a hedge. When the flowers die, time dies with it.

She reaches for the key near the door’s hook. It is missing. It must be in the house.

“Elcira!”

For God’s sake. Leave me be. She grabs the door handle and gives it a turn. It won’t move. It’s locked.

“Deborah!” Elcira calls her name several times, but there is no answer.

***

Excerpt from THE GHOST AND THE KEY by Bill Cusano. Copyright 2025 by Bill Cusano. Reproduced with permission from Bill Cusano. All rights reserved.