Chapter 19
Grace tells me stories, her rich voice adding an extra layer of history and memory as she lingers over the words.
I watch her face, sometimes study her hands.
Her nails are long and strong and well groomed, a practical woman’s small self-indulgence that pleases me.
I’ve grown to enjoy sitting in the colorful playground of Walter’s metal artwork.
What a magical thing to have left behind.
Like the owl and the deer and so many other things, I never would have seen it if I hadn’t ended up on this secluded little spot on the globe.
When she asks what I’ve been doing besides picking blackberries, I tell her about trying to find the owners of Mabel’s lost things, saying maybe it’s an impossible task, but that it seems worth a try.
Her eyes light up and she reaches over, squeezing my hand as she says, “Mabel’s smilin’ down on you from heaven, honey. I feel it sure as anything.”
We’re so deep into conversation that even when the sky darkens to gray, neither of us bothers to mention it. The air cools with a breeze that smells like rain, and when a heavy drizzle begins to fall, she announces with a grin, “Guess that makes it suppertime.”
Inside, I ask if I can help, but she’s quick to say, “Heavens no—you’re a guest,” and I can see that even as slow as she moves, she enjoys cooking for me.
She does allow me to set the table, after which I play with Ophelia the cat, taking up a ball of yellow yarn that clearly belongs to her, while Grace pours blackberry-laden pancake batter onto a griddle.
Even as I lure the kitty with a string, listening to loud meows I find cute and annoying at the same time, I watch Grace’s movements, thinking at moments she appears unsteady, but she never mentions it, so I have faith it’s okay.
She asks me to fetch a bottle of maple syrup from an overhead cabinet, and I’m carrying it to the dining room when my eyes fall on two framed photos I didn’t notice the last time I was here.
The one that grabs my attention the most is a wonderful picture of Grace, looking just a few years younger, standing outside her house.
The pastel paint job seems fresher—or maybe the camera just made it look that way.
I’m instantly in love with it, and in love with the very idea of people who love their homes enough to take such photos.
I have one of my parents in front of our old house in Wisconsin, too—yet I seldom see newer pictures like this, and it feels to me a bit like a lost art.
“Grace, this picture of you with your house is amazing!” I call, leaning my head back around into the kitchen.
She glances over at me as the house fills with the sweet aroma of berry pancakes. “Had it took last time I got the place painted,” she says with a smile, then goes on to tell me the house has been many different color combinations over the years, but she likes this one the best.
“I like it, too,” I assure her. The photo, the home itself, is brimming with a uniqueness that makes me feel full inside. I decide that come fall, I should find the picture of Mom and Dad with our house and have it framed as well.
The pancakes are just as delicious as they smelled, and as we sit eating, I turn my eyes on the other photo I’m admiring, hanging just below the one of the house.
It’s old—like probably 1800s old—and is a portrait of a distinguished-looking gentleman in a suit and a big neckcloth that feels to me like something between an ascot and a tie.
“Who’s this man?” I ask, thinking perhaps it’s her grandfather.
“Can’t say as I know,” she tells me instead.
This stops my fork midair. “You don’t?” Because of how much I adore Grace, I’m trying not to sound confused.
She swipes a napkin across her mouth and says, “But he looks important, don’t he?”
I nod. He does.
“Found that picture a long time ago, frame and all, sittin’ out next to the curb on trash day down in Jackson, Mississippi.
I was only a girl then, but didn’t seem right to let such an important-lookin’ fella go in the garbage.
In fact, ain’t even sure I’d ever seen a Black man in such a fancy suit before that, so I picked him up and brought him home.
My mama thought he seemed important, too, so we hung him on the wall in our house, and I brought him with me when Walter and me came north.
I come to think of him like ... a friend, I reckon.
And I used him as an object lesson for Daniel back in the day.
Now my boy wears a suit and tie to work, so I like to think I done good. ”
“You definitely did,” I tell her, moved by the story, and looking again into the eyes of the mystery man on the wall. “It does seem ... like an odd thing for someone to throw away. It must have been valuable to someone, even if it was a long time ago.”
She nods and gives me a wink. “Guess I got a little bit o’ Mabel in me.” Then adds, “Take him with you when you go.”
Again, my fork freezes in place. “Huh?”
“See if you cain’t find who he belongs to. Or at least somebody that makes more sense than me.”
I think this over as I pour more syrup over my plate, concluding, “Seems to me he belongs to you completely—you’re the one who cared enough to rescue him, and you’ve kept him all these years. He’s practically a member of your family.”
She grins. “All that’s true, but I ain’t gonna be around forever, and like it or not, my boy and his girls just ain’t as sentimental as me.
I cain’t see any of ’em holdin’ on to this the way I have.
If you could find out who his family is—any of ’em, or even anyone who’d appreciate his picture the way I have—it’d be a burden lifted from me. ”
After we each have a second plate of pancakes and I insist that she let me clean up the dishes, she walks over to the picture and takes it off the wall. It’s been there so long that it leaves a dark square on the faded wallpaper.
Of course, I have no idea if I can find anyone who would have a connection to this man.
It’s a long shot at best. But I promise I’ll try.
And I walk away with it feeling pretty certain that if no one comes forward to claim Grace’s distinguished gentleman, I’ll end up hanging him on my own wall, out of respect for her.
The next day I’m watering my snapdragons when Matt comes out in his police uniform, headed to his truck. He calls over, “Fourth of July at my place!”
I squint over at him, sun in my eyes. “Huh? When is it?”
He chuckles silently. “Don’t you have a calendar?”
I shrug, hose in hand. “Only in my phone, which I don’t really look at anymore.”
“Well, it’s day after tomorrow,” he informs me.
I’m a little surprised. That snuck up on me. “What happens at your house?”
“Burgers and dogs, fireworks and sparklers, that sorta thing. There’ll be people you know there. Party starts around five.”
A few days ago I probably would have declined, then sat around on the Fourth mad because the neighbors were making so much noise. Now, though, I try to think like Grace or Mabel, and what comes out is, “Can I bring anything?”
“If you want. A dessert or somethin’.”
I nod shortly. “Got it.”
After he drives away and I finish watering, I take pictures of some lost items, recording details about each on a notepad from Mabel’s kitchen. As I’m doing it, I resolve to get more official and create a log on my laptop.
Then I photograph Grace’s gentleman with the big tie.
I take the time to really look at him now, too—I study his historic clothing, the distinguished way he holds himself, and the pride I see in his solemn gaze.
I really want to find out who this guy was, for many reasons, but mostly because I’d love to be able to tell Grace more about this man she’s carried with her through most of her life.
I also inspect the frame—it’s wooden and worn—then flip it over to look on the back. And in one corner I discover faded writing! Thomas B. Hartfell, 1882. That’s amazing info to have, to share, to google when I get to a place where I can google.
Next, I put on my fedora and head to the library in Brandywine, photos and notepad in hand. The same librarian I’ve seen on my previous visits sits behind the desk and seems to recognize me. She smiles and waves, and I head to what has already become my usual chair.
Once my laptop connects, the first thing I do is google Mr. Hartfell. But a search turns up nothing, not one shred of a clue. That’s okay, though. Don’t be discouraged. Just move on.
So I start checking my social media.
And to my extreme delight, I have private messages from strangers! Normally, this would not please me, but since that’s how I’ve asked people to contact me about the lost items, I’m excited to open them.
Oh my God! The very first one is someone claiming one of the photo albums. Her name is Keri, and it’s from her childhood.
Her parents divorced, and amid the drama, their pictures were tossed out.
Which breaks my heart. But she’s so happy to discover some of them were saved.
My brother, David, and I are so grateful, and so excited to get these memories back!
She lives in Chicago and offers to pay for the postage, but no way—it’s on me!
I think I’m as thrilled about this as she is.
I find myself glancing toward the ceiling to whisper, “We did it, Mabel! We did this!”
And if not even one other item ever finds a home, any work I put into this project is going to be a hundred percent worth it just knowing this one piece is being returned to its rightful owners.
I want to text Matt! And Grace! And even if I’m getting used to life without texting for the most part, at moments like this, when I want the insta-thrill of sharing my joy, it stinks that I can’t.
So I just sit there and smile. I smile at the screen and think of Mabel, and of Keri and David, and I feel so happy that I worry my heart might leap through my chest.