Chapter 13 #2
“That’s exciting. What kind of artifact?”
Brady answers. “A ledger from a World War II boardinghouse.”
“A boardinghouse? Here in town?”
“On the outskirts,” I say. “Rosehill Farm.”
The man’s lips curl at the mention of the farm. His eyes dance. “Alice’s farm?”
I nod, and Brady and I exchange glances. “You know Alice?”
He shakes his head. “Yes and no. I know her a little. I’ve bought her jam at the market. I’m newer to town—I’m a widower, retired, and I volunteer here at the museum.” He offers me a handshake. “Lenny.”
“Maggie,” I say, returning the gesture. As he shakes Brady’s hand, I make a mental note to ask Alice about him. He seems fond of her. “I work at a museum too, in the Chicago area. Natural history.”
“That explains why you’re here bright and early. First customer of the day.” He laughs, and I notice that his lower teeth are a touch crowded. There’s something endearing about it. “What specifically are you looking to find here?”
“Well, it’s clear the ledger was from a women’s boardinghouse from 1943 to 1945,” I say. “But we don’t know who these women were, why they were living in St. John’s Ferry. We assume they were part of the workforce during the war but want to know more.”
Lenny nods. “You’ve come to the right place. We have a whole exhibit on local involvement in World War II. I bet you’ll find something there.” He hands us a museum brochure and points out the exhibit map. “Meanwhile, let me do some digging. See if I can find you anything useful.”
His eagerness to help is simply charming. Small-town hospitality.
The gallery seems small but organized and user-friendly.
Walking through the exhibits, I learn some fascinating facts about the Driftless Area, twenty-four thousand acres encompassing southwestern Wisconsin, northwestern Illinois, northeastern Iowa, and southeastern Minnesota.
I also relish the exhibit on local Scandinavian heritage, and how that legacy is kept alive with annual festivals, including Midsommar in June and God Jul in December.
“This makes me think of the Scandi Trio,” I say to Brady.
He nods. “I was thinking the same thing. No wonder they feel so at home here.”
The World War II exhibit explores the ways Wisconsinites helped the war effort.
And just as Lenny promised, there’s a special section focusing on the women’s labor movement.
In addition to the riveters, who placed and fastened the rivets used to construct tanks, and the welders, who built Navy ships, we find out women played a variety of other roles during the war.
Many performed farm work through the Women’s Land Army from 1943 to 1945, some through 1947 on emergency extensions.
I’m especially drawn to a black-and-white photograph dated 1944.
It’s of a farmerette wearing coveralls, sturdy boots, and a hat with a floppy brim cinched like a bonnet.
She’s hoisting a round wooden basket full of apples onto a tractor bed.
I notice the band around her right arm has the letters WLA.
I study her face—her expression is happy, proud. Patriotic.
I check the caption, and a shiver of excitement tickles my neck. I gasp.
“This is Peggy Kelley,” I announce.
“Who is Peggy Kelley?” Brady asks.
I study the woman’s face. “One of the names listed in the boardinghouse ledger.”
Brady walks me back to my car. This time, instead of holding his arm, I hold a list of women who were employed at local farms with the WLA, thanks to my new friend, Lenny.
He tracked it down while we were looking at the exhibits.
I figure Alice and I can cross-reference this list with the names in Rose’s ledger, hopefully proving my hunch: My great-great-grandmother hosted a boardinghouse for WLA farmerettes.
“That was fun,” Brady says as we reach my car door. “Like a research treasure hunt.”
“Ah, yes, the thrill of history,” I say. “I’m really glad we ran into each other. I feel better now about all of this. Hopeful. Thanks.”
“You’re welcome.” He smiles, then cringes. “But I do have a small confession to make . . . I called you at the farmhouse this morning, and Alice said you went to work at the library for a bit. So, we didn’t exactly run into each other.”
I feel my cheeks blush. “So you’re stalking me?” I say playfully.
“I prefer to call it tracking you down. There’s something I want to ask you.”
“Okay.” I shrug, suddenly disarmed by his directness. “What is it?”
“Well, it’s supposed to be clear tonight, a perfect night to watch the sunset. So I thought we could have a picnic at that secret spot I was telling you about?”
Everything inside me says yes. Because being with Brady—at his baking class, the coffee shop, the museum, even for just an hour—makes me feel buoyant and expansive.
But he lives in Madison. And I’m in Chicago.
I’m going home in four days, and likely starting as the museum director in the fall.
I have Hannah, and he runs a full-time business.
And right now, I need to focus on helping Alice save her farm.
Besides, what would be the point of spending more time with Brady this week?
What if I start to feel more? What happens then?
“Actually, I can’t tonight,” I say.
His kind eyes fix on me. “What about tomorrow?”
My gaze bores a hole in the pavement. “It’s just, I’ve been here only a short while, and I feel like I haven’t spent much time with Alice and Hannah,” I say.
He’s quiet at first, and when I look up, he averts his eyes.
“Okay,” he says. “Well, I really should be getting back. Good luck with your research.”
As I watch him walk away, my stomach knots. I want to call after him, because I don’t want to say goodbye. Not yet. And I want the knot to go away.
But I let him go.