Chapter 5
Chapter Five
Grandma and Irene got to go home, while Paddy, Mary, Cyrus, and Polly took over. Grandma and Irene were in charge of dinner that night. They headed for the Clear Creek Inn but stopped when they were a block from Old Town.
“Don’t you want to see it?” Irene asked.
“See what?” Grandma started walking again.
“Your house, of course.” Irene sighed. “I wouldn’t mind seeing the mercantile. It’s been decades, you know.”
Grandma nodded, a faraway look in her eyes. “Irene, technically it’s only been months since we’ve been here.”
“You know what I mean,” Irene said. “We haven’t seen your house or the mercantile since we were here in the sixties, helping make a match. But that was what? More than fifty-five years ago from this time? Aren’t you the least bit curious? Maybe it’s not the museum anymore.”
Grandma licked her lower lip, thinking. “We never did pay it a visit when we were here working on the inn.”
“Nope,” Irene agreed. “And we really should find the museum; in case they did move it. None of us want to accidentally wander in there and cause a ruckus.”
“Oh, ruckus schmuckus,” Grandma said. “I doubt they have many pictures of us, and they’re probably so bad by now, no one would recognize us if they tried.”
“Hmmm, perhaps you’re right,” Irene mused. “So, we should go.” She marched on.
Grandma followed close behind. They headed straight for Old Town. When they reached it, they turned left, passing the old train station, then eventually came to the Van Cleet Hotel. They stopped and stared at it a moment in awe.
“It looks just the same,” Irene breathed.
“It sure does.” Grandma shook herself. “Come on.”
They continued on their way, going past the bank and other buildings. The old assayer’s office, the Clear Creek Gazette, which didn’t come into being until the 1900s. They passed the saloon, which was a bar and grill now, then walked by a few boutique stores and stopped.
They stared across the street at Dunnigan’s Mercantile. Irene teared up. “At least the place looks nice.”
“Sure it does, Irene. The Cookes own these buildings, remember? They’re not going to let them get shabby.
” Grandma took a deep breath and continued down the sidewalk.
Soon they were standing in front of her and Doc’s home.
The little whitewashed two-story house looked the same.
There were a couple of rocking chairs sitting out front, and the picket fence was still there.
She could see lace curtains in the windows, and a vase of flowers was placed in the dining room’s windowsill.
Grandma teared up. “It looks plumb decent.”
A sign hung over the porch steps. MUSEUM. They stared at the house, and Grandma realized it looked homier now, almost as if she’d never left.
“Well, are we going in?” Irene asked beside her.
Grandma took in the white paint on the door and nodded.
“Yes, I have to see the inside.” They went up the porch steps to the door.
Grandma tried the knob, half expecting it to be locked, but it wasn’t.
They stepped inside and were greeted by a teenage girl sitting behind a small desk dressed in late-1800s attire.
“Good afternoon,” she said pleasantly. “Welcome to the Waller House and Clear Creek Museum.”
Grandma and Irene studied their surroundings. The last time they’d been here, the place had looked very much the same as when she and Doc lived there. Now the walls were papered, and Grandma studied everything with wide eyes.
Irene nudged her with an elbow. “Costs five dollars.” She pointed at a sign on the desk.
“That’s a suggested donation,” the girl said. “But if you’d like to pay more, the museum doesn’t mind.”
“Who runs this place?” Irene asked, looking around.
“The Cooke family donates a sum every month that helps maintain the house.”
“They own it?” Grandma asked.
“Along with half the town,” the girl said with a laugh. “I can either give you the grand tour, or you can look around yourselves.”
“We’ll take a look around,” Grandma said. “Can we go into all the rooms?”
“Sure.”
Grandma and Irene each gave her five dollars, then headed for the parlor. Grandma stopped short at her rocking chair by the fireplace. “It’s still here.”
Irene smiled, then studied the walls. “Sarah…”
“What?” Grandma followed her gaze. “Oh… oh!” The walls were covered with photographs.
She went to the nearest one. There were photos taken from the late 1800s.
Ephraim, the son of Chase Adams, the town blacksmith, had taken to photography like a duck to water. Someone must have found his collection.
“Well, will you look at all of this,” Grandma said. “I can hardly believe it.”
Irene squinted at one photograph. “Is that Levi Stone?”
Grandma joined her and looked at it too. “Hey, it is, along with his whole family. Oh, Irene, this is bad. Very bad,” Grandma whispered. “People are going to recognize us, especially those that love this museum.” She looked over her shoulder at the girl sitting at the small desk near the staircase.
“Well, what do you suggest we do?” Irene whispered. “It’s not as if we can take all these photographs down and hide them.”
“No, but we can hide ourselves somehow.” Grandma looked around the room, then bent toward Irene’s ear. “We’re going to have to come up with some disguises.”
“What sort of disguises?” Irene scrunched up her face.
“I don’t know, but it’s going to have to be something. I bet we can find a place around here with wigs or different clothes or…”
“Let’s not panic,” Irene said, holding up a hand.
They continued looking at the photographs on the walls.
Ephraim, before he left Clear Creek to go work at a newspaper in another city, had taken a lot of photographs.
There were pictures of different families, lots of the Cookes, and even the town picnic.
His family must have donated his collection to the town.
She had no idea where he’d wound up in his later years, though she knew he’d married.
“What are we going to tell Doc and the others?” Grandma fretted.
“We’ll tell them the truth, of course,” Irene said. “Stay out of the museum. But they’re going to have to hide their identities as well. It’s bad enough we’ve gone and given everyone our names.”
“Yes, but there are plenty of people around here named after their ancestors, so that’s not a worry. But us looking like this is.” She waved a hand at herself, then looked at the nearest photograph. “Hey, I look pretty good in this one.”
Irene followed her gaze. “So do I. Ephraim did take good photographs, didn’t he?”
“Yes. It was a shame he left town. Too bad he didn’t start a paper right here in Clear Creek.”
“For all we know, Grandma, maybe he did. Maybe he moved back to town after a spell,” Irene suggested.
“Yes, that might explain the number of photographs here. But either way, we still need to do something to disguise ourselves. If we’re going to putter around for a time, we need to make sure no one finds out who we really are.”
Grandma glanced at the young lady in the front hall. She smiled at them and gave a little wave. “At least we don’t have to worry about her,” she muttered under her breath.
Irene nodded. “Thank goodness for that. Let’s go check out the rest of the house.”
They spent a few more minutes in the parlor, looking at things Grandma and Doc owned when they lived there.
Tears stung the backs of her eyes, and she was homesick for the Clear Creek she knew.
But circumstances had brought them to this place in their lives, and there was nothing they could do about it.
She didn’t regret anything. She just missed her friends from long ago.
“Should we visit the cemetery?” Irene whispered.
Grandma shook her head. “Oh no. I don’t want to. It’s too heart-wrenching. Let’s not.”
“I was just asking.”
They went out to the front hall, smiled at the girl, then headed for the kitchen. Grandma stood before the cookstove and smiled. “I love this stove,” she said in a soft voice. “Made plenty of pies with it.”
“Indeed you did,” Irene said, and patted her shoulder.
They examined everything, then moved on to the patient room. They continued to look around, then checked out the dining room and upstairs. It was all Grandma could do to hold it together, but she managed.
When they were done, they thanked the girl, each giving an extra donation, and left. Grandma wiped her eyes as soon as they were on the front porch.
Irene scrunched up her face and gave her usual beady-eyed look. “Okay now, Sarah, we’ll have none of that. Let’s go see the mercantile. Then I can get blubbery too.”
Grandma laughed. “Oh, Irene, I do love you.”
“I know.” Irene hugged her, and they made their way across the street.
Dunnigan’s Mercantile was still a gift shop, and Grandma wondered who was running it now. She looked around at the goods for sale and spied an older man behind the counter. He was middle-aged, short, pudgy and balding with a white Santa Claus beard and mustache.
He smiled at them. “Welcome to Dunnigan’s Mercantile.” His eyes landed on Irene and widened. “Bless my soul…”
“Uh-oh,” Grandma said.
The bell over the door rang, drawing the proprietor’s attention. “Goodness gracious, TJ, is that you?”
Grandma turned around in time to see the young man from earlier stride into the storefront. “Well, hello again.”
TJ smiled at them. “Mrs. Waller, Mrs. Dunnigan…”
“Waller, Dunnigan?” The proprietor almost choked on the names. He came around the counter and stared at them. “You know, I swear you two are the spitting image of Grandma Waller and Irene Dunnigan.”
“Yeah, we get that all the time,” Grandma said with a nervous laugh. “Don’t we, Irene?”
Irene gave a quick nod, then went to study an earring display.
The man’s jaw dropped. “Your name is Irene?”
“Dunnigan,” TJ volunteered. “They’re helping Tilly and Jack out at Pleasant Beans, Mr. Jensen.”
Mr. Jensen took a step back. “The resemblance is uncanny.”