Chapter 13
The following morning, I wake up determined to find an answer to Alice’s money troubles.
I need to save her farm, my family’s farm.
I fib to Alice that I need to quickly check in with the museum summer interns—and leave her happily collecting eggs from the henhouse with Hannah.
I head to the St. John’s Ferry Library to use the internet, armed with my laptop and cell phone.
But work is far from my mind. Instead, I call Elena’s husband, Jim.
Is Alice’s farm worth that risk?
I leave the library with my head spinning. As I open my car door, I hear someone call my name. I look up to see Brady waving at me from down the street, a small paper bag in hand.
We walk toward each other.
“Fancy meeting you here,” he says.
“What’s in the bag?” I ask.
He lifts it. “Dried lavender. For shortbread cookies. Allen messed up the order from the local farm, so I had to run quick to the spice shop here in town.” His eyes land on the library behind me. “Getting caught up on your summer reading?”
I shake my head and gesture to my laptop bag. “Getting some work done.”
He nods, then cocks his head, studying me. “Everything okay?”
“Yeah, everything’s fine.” My gaze falls to the sidewalk.
“Really?” he asks. “’Cause I just so happen to have an hour before I have to be back at the camp. And there just so happens to be a really great coffee shop on the next block.” He smiles. “And coincidentally, I’m a really good listener.”
I smile back at him. It’s hard not to. He really is that charming. “You’re right,” I say. “I’ve got something on my mind.”
“Let’s go then.”
He playfully juts out his elbow, and I link my arm through his, holding his upper arm with the opposite hand. As we walk toward the coffee shop, I feel his developed bicep under my fingers and remember what I think I saw there yesterday.
“Do you have a tattoo on this arm?” I ask, trying to keep our conversation light for now.
“Yes.”
“Of what?”
He smiles. “Guess.”
“A heart? With Mom written across it?”
“Oh, you got me pegged. I am definitely a mama’s boy. But that’s not it.”
We stroll a few more steps. “A skull?”
“Nope.”
“American flag?”
He shakes his head.
“Dragon? Snake?”
“No and no.”
I rack my brain and consider his profession. “Rolling pin?”
“That’s fun,” he says. “But no.”
I sigh. “I give up.”
“So soon?”
I stop him on the sidewalk and lift his shirt sleeve. It’s the Minnesota Twins logo.
“You’re a baseball fan?” I ask.
“Not really,” he says, “But I am a twin. Or was. My brother, his name was Bryce, loved baseball. He was small and he had a bad heart. He died when we were five.”
I pull his sleeve back down but keep my hand there, as if trying to apply pressure to a wound. “Oh, Brady, I’m so sorry. To lose a sibling at such a young age. And your twin.”
He nods. “Thanks.”
We begin walking again, my arm looped in his. “When did you get the tattoo?” I ask after a beat.
“The summer after I graduated from high school. It’s a turbulent time, isn’t it? Late teens, trying to figure out who you are. How to be an adult. And I think I started feeling the loss of my brother even more. So I found a way to keep him with me, always by my side, so to speak.”
My eyes water. “That’s beautiful.”
We walk a few more steps in silence. “Alice told me about your husband,” Brady says.
I quietly nod.
“So I’m glad you asked about my tattoo because—and we don’t have to talk about it—but I wanted you to know that I understand. Not exactly. But . . . I understand loss.”
It’s only three words, but they make me pause. Because they feel like an absolution. A wave of reprieve rushes through me. The loss of a sibling is so different than a spouse, and yet Brady and I understand each other’s pain in a way others cannot.
“Thank you, that means a lot,” I say, hugging his arm tighter, letting my head fall onto his shoulder for a beat. It’s the closest I’ve let myself get to him—to anyone since Sean—but I give in to the comfort of his words, the simple message they bring:
You are not alone.
Is that why I haven’t dated anyone since Sean? Why connecting to someone else seemed so hard? Because I felt like an alien in my grief? Misunderstood? And here was Brady, getting all my complicated pain without me even explaining it.
At the coffee shop—he orders a dirty chai, and I order a lavender latte—we enjoy our drinks at a window table overlooking the main strip. I spot an old-fashioned hardware store and barber shop across the street. This town is so quaint.
“So is that what’s on your mind this morning?” Brady asks. “Your husband? I know it’s been a little while, but I also know how grief—or just memories—can creep up, surprise you when you least expect it.”
“Yeah, it can.” I think back to moments when Sean’s death hit me unexpectedly. When a sentimental song popped up in my shuffle playlist, when I discovered his fine-tooth comb at the back of the bathroom drawer. “But this doesn’t have anything to do with Sean. It’s actually about Alice.”
“That’s right. You said you were worried about her.”
I question whether I should tell Brady about Alice’s money troubles. It’s personal, and this is a small town. I don’t want to embarrass her, make her the subject of gossip.
“Can I ask for your discretion?” I ask.
He gestures zipping his lips.
“Alice is in real jeopardy of losing her farm,” I get out. “If she doesn’t come up with loan payments and interest by the end of October, the bank is going to foreclose.”
He cocks his head. “Wait, what? But isn’t the farm paid off?”
“She used it as collateral for a home equity loan—that’s how she built the commercial kitchen.
It was a five-year loan with extremely high interest. And she really should have been able to make her payments and other expenses with the rent from the artisans.
But with recent storms and crop damage, and the economic downturn, some of her renters have struggled to pay.
I thought I could help her. That’s what I was doing this morning at the library. I called a financial adviser.”
“I’ve got money,” Brady chimes in.
His eagerness to help moves me. Brady doesn’t seem like the kind of person who throws out hollow promises, but I still wonder if his offer is sincere. I share the details of my earlier conversation with Jim, and the financial risks involved.
“You said the end of October?” Brady repeats. “Then there’s still time. It would be a shame to see Alice lose that beautiful historic home.”
“It’s actually more historic than you think,” I say.
I tell him about the ledger and my great-great-grandmother’s boardinghouse during World War II.
“We assume the boarders were here to work during the war,” I explain.
“But we don’t know for certain. I know you’re not originally from here, but do you know, are there any manufacturing factories nearby?
That might have hired these women back in the 1940s? ”
“Nothing comes to mind. But there’s a historical museum down the street. I bet you could find some answers there.” Brady narrows his eyes in thought. “Do you know when the house was built?”
“It’s a Queen Anne,” I say. “So somewhere between 1880 and 1910? Why?”
He shrugs. “I was thinking if you could prove its historical significance, maybe you could try getting the house on the National Register of Historic Places.”
“Genius,” I say. “And I’m the one who works at a museum. Why didn’t I think of that?”
He smiles. “My grandmother’s house was old—like 1860s—and I remember it was a big deal when she got her plaque. I’m not sure if that helps, though. Does being on the Register keep the bank from taking her farm?”
I hesitate. “Not exactly. But it could put pressure on the bank to give her more time, especially if local newspapers and historic preservation groups get involved. Bad press.” I start spitballing.
“There are also philanthropic groups that provide grants and other funding to preserve and maintain homes like hers. And there may be local historic protections. Some towns and counties have something called a historic overlay. It’s basically a city zoning ordinance that maintains historic character.
So being on the Register could keep the bank from selling this property to a developer who wants to bulldoze it and build a big-box store. ”
“Yeah, you’re definitely the one who works at a museum,” he jokes.
I laugh. “It’s worth a try. But the process takes time, so I’ll have to find out everything I can about this boardinghouse ASAP.”
Brady checks his phone. “Well, if you pretend you’re drinking an Italian espresso instead of a latte, then we have time for a little field trip.”
The Archer County Historical Museum in downtown St. John’s Ferry sits directly across from the gazebo park I saw yesterday.
Like many small-town buildings, it’s a blend of old and new.
The lobby, a small rectangular box made of brick, seems to have once been a library or post office, but they’ve obviously added on over the years.
The back portion boasts a two-story ceiling with timber rafters and large paneled, parallelogram-shaped windows that look out over the Mississippi.
Being in this local history museum—the smell of polished floors and old artifacts—naturally reminds me of work.
I realize I haven’t thought about the museum since we’ve been here, and now, a part of me misses it.
Another part prays for time to slow before I have to go back.
The gray-haired man at the front desk smiles at us with kind blue eyes. “Good morning,” he says. “What’s brought you two in today?”
I take in his denim button-down shirt, tucked into blue jeans with a brown leather belt. He exudes Midwestern charm. His skin is the kind of tan that comes from working in the sun, not sunbathing.
“I’m visiting my aunt here in St. John’s Ferry, and I discovered a really intriguing artifact in her attic,” I explain. “I’m hoping to do a bit of research here to find out more.”