Chapter 2 The Archivists Sister
Lilly
Not the temperature. Not the draft.
The air. I notice it, before I hear footsteps or before I see anything at all. A pressure shift happens. It's dense and warm, like the moment before a summer storm decides whether to break or float someplace else.
I hold still on the ladder and listen.
One set of footsteps, unhurried, measured.
Scuff, clomp; scuff, clomp; scuff, toe; making their way in my direction. The sound of the even gait stomps along like it owns the place.
I climb down. Tuck the deed transfer box under my arm. Brush the archive dust off the front of my cardigan and turn around.
He is standing halfway across the room.
As if on cue something tugs sideways in my chest. Not huge or unpleasant. I don't have a word for it. I look up and see him.
Tall. Heavily muscular physique in the way that comes from actual use, not fancy gym muscles. The ones that make wide through the shoulders, narrow hips. No, he is solid through the chest, the kind of physical presence that reorganizes a room just by existing in it.
His dark hair is growing into a strong silver at the temples. It frames a jaw that is so masculinely sculpted, the marble bust of Melvil Dewey over the display of his Dewey Decimal System, is positively green with envy.
The man standing before is wearing a gray henley. The sleeves are pushed-up to the elbows. He is looking around my archive with the same focused attention I give to a new document acquisition.
Not browsing. Assessing.
I set the box on the returns cart and step to the reference desk. I turn and smile.
"Good morning." I love this job, even I can hear the smile on my face in my voice. "Can I help you find something?"
He turns his attention to me and it lands with a weight that takes me by surprise. His eyes are dark brown with a pattern that cannot immediately categorize.
His frown is unmistakable.
"I am looking for Marris Walker." His voice is low and rumbly. Almost like a growling dog. I notice the hand on the desktop is curling into a fist. I look up and find his eyes on me in a half squint.
"I worked with her before on Harrison Pack and Hansen Clan documents. I'm the contact for the clan records and papers."
"That's funny."
"What's funny?" He says it so fast he sounds like he's barking.
"I meant odd not ha-ha funny. I've been here eight months I haven't seen you once."
"I've been given a new job. Now I send other people here."
"You know Marris? She is my older sister," I say. "She hasn't lived in this town for over a decade. She's in Portland now. She runs a rare books consultancy." I pause. "She hasn't worked in archives for about twelve years."
A wave of sadness flashes over his face.
He goes very still. I can see his eyes soften. He is so still, total and absolute. He is still staring.
I watch him closely to see his chest rise and fall. Yes, he is breathing.
"I'm sorry, is there something wrong?" I ask, keeping my voice low. "I can assure you that we keep very thorough logs and records on all the documents in the archive,"
He inhales sharply. Snapping out of his trance, his head lifts up to face me.
I smile just a little.
He scowls.
His eyes flash gold, just for a second, less than two. Then he blinks and they are dark brown again and his expression is composed and neutral and he is looking at me like nothing happened.
But it happened.
The way the air in this room feels warmer and thicker within ten feet of him than it does anywhere else. The way he says my sister's name — Marris — like he had said it many times before.
"I apologize for the confusion," he says. "My information is out of date."
I don't see a wrinkled forehead, or a hand rubbing his temples, or a frown. Wait, yes the frown is unchanged.
"There is no need to apologize."
"My name is Grady Harrison. I oversee the Harrison Pack Records at home. I serve as the contact for the records here at the archive. They are the reason I'm here today."
"The collection," I repeat. The atmospheric charge is changing. A small hum fills the space and my body.
"The Hansen Clan documents collection. I'm the VP of construction for the clan business. Hansen Valley Builders is the parent company of Ridgeline Homes. The records are relevant to an active boundary dispute." He meets my eyes. Now he is even.
"I understand your archive holds the original deed transfers."
"Indeed we do. Let me get them for you." And I'm off!
Today makes eight months of managing the Hansen Clan collection.
The collection contains years of donated governance and land records.
They are meticulously organized or, rather, re-organized.
The original filing system was a creative disaster I have spent considerable professional time and energy correcting.
I pull the collection index without hesitation. I give the card behind it a quarter turn so the length sticks out of the card row marking where to put the Harrison card back. This is my job. I am very good at my job.
I do not let myself look at his hands again while I do it.
"The collection covers 1842 to 2006," I say, setting the index binder on the desk between us. "The land deed series runs through here." I flip to the tabbed section and turn it so he can read it.
"That looks familiar. I'm looking for the eastern section." He runs his hand along the paper's edge.
"This is it. At least it's part of it. You'll want the 1900–1960 transfers and probably the 1987 survey, which should be in box fourteen."
He leans over the binder to read. He is close enough that I feel the heat coming off him. It's like standing too close to a sunlit window.
"How would you like to begin?"
"Here is the document I have. I'd like to create a list of all those that may provide insight. Then I'm going to offer to buy that parcel." His voice is almost a snarl.
I take a half step back, purely reflexive. He is a big man who occupies a lot of space.
He goes back to writing things down. I head back to my desk. "I'll be working on my calendar. Give me a shout if you need any help."
"Can I schedule a research appointment? I'll need two to three hours with the full collection."
He is already straightening up the papers. He reaches into his back pocket and produces a cellphone. The movement is smooth, efficient, and streamlined.
"Of course. Let me get your copy."
I print him a research card from the desk terminal, write my direct extension on the back. My handwriting is neat. His fingers brush mine when he takes the card.
The temperature in the room spikes by approximately five degrees.
"Thursday works," I say. "Ten o'clock. I'll have the relevant boxes pulled."
"Thank you."
He pockets the card, and looks at me for one moment longer than a standard professional exchange requires. Then he turns and walks to the door. He leaves with the same certainty he walked in with.
He is gone.
The door swings shut. The wood walls and marble floors shuffle back their normal place in the vacuum of his absence.
I stand at the reference desk and do not move for a full minute. My hand presses flat to the counter. I can't recall placing it there. I raise my hand and scratch absently at the small itch on my sternum.
Moving to the open files. I busy myself with putting them back in order. Each box is inspected, closed and reshelved.
I open the community contact log.
The name listed for the collection is Grady Dean Harrison. Donation contact, primary correspondence, access authorization all of it, his name, every time, for twelve years.
And the woman who arranged the original donation, listed as human liaison on the intake form —
Marris Elizabeth Walker.
I stare at the screen for a long moment. I'm thinking. Why would he even ask for her. She's been gone twelve years. He did not come here for the land records.
He came here for my sister.