Chapter 17
Charlotte returned inside after Preston, dreading to face Westley. She stopped at the threshold and gathered her strength. What would she tell him?
Westley waited for her in the library, looking rather perturbed.
Preston left her alone to deal with him casting her a strange look over his shoulder before disappearing into the kitchen.
“So, that was an interesting interruption.” Westley tugged at his collar.
“He lives next door. We used to play childhood games together.” As if that explained the weird interchange, the heartbreak, or the emotion in his face. She’d hurt him, and she didn’t know how to make it right.
“Ah.” He turned to her. “I won’t kneel again, but I will re-extend my offer. I do love you, Charlotte. We have a great future together.”
An ache started at the base of Charlotte’s neck. “Can you give me a few days to consider it?”
Westley raised his eyebrows. “Of course.” He glanced at the door, where Eric had entered earlier. “I’d like to spend more time with you to remind you how good we were together.”
“Of course.” Maybe he had changed and become a new person. Maybe he would spend time with her.
“I tried to take a few vacation days, but alas, I’ll still have to work. Just a few phone calls and consultations which I can do over video call, but the rest is for you.” He grinned, holding open his arms.
And boom the other shoe dropped. Of course he’d be working. “Ah. Then why don’t you call me when you’re free? We can find something to do together.”
He guffawed. “In this little town?”
His mockery wounded her. “It’s got lots to do. More than Toronto, actually—games in the park, live bands. There’s a Fall Festival this Saturday.”
“All right. Come with me to the Fall Festival this Saturday.”
She’d already committed to go with Eric. But she couldn’t just throw away a year with Westley, could she?
“This Saturday will be interesting.” She would have to tell Eric she couldn’t go with him. He would be hurt. Again. If he was even willing to talk to her at this point.
Charlotte awoke Sunday morning to find Jules in her room. She sat up and rubbed her eyes. “Ugh, were you watching me sleep?”
“No. I’m dead. My eyesight is poor.”
“What do you want?” She glanced at her clock. Seven in the morning.
“I might have discovered what I did wrong.”
“What?”
“Maybe I owed someone money, and I was bumped off.”
She gave him an appraising look. “I don’t think so.”
“Maybe I was a teacher who didn’t turn in my grades on time.”
“Hardly.”
“Maybe I was a traffic director who made all the people late.”
“I doubt it.”
“I dunno my brain is a little fuzzy about my mortal life. Maybe you can go down to the library and find out who I am.”
“Why don’t you go?”
He looked out her window. “I can’t leave this property. I’ve tried, but I can’t leave. Plus, as I said before, not good eyesight.” He pointed to his eyes. “I can’t read too well. Your world is fuzzy to me. I can tell general shapes and outlines and smears of colors. It’s like I’m in need of a strong pair of spectacles. Books that I recognize are fine, but anything new would be hard for me to see.”
She chuckled. “Okay fine, I’ll find you at the library. You should be on a few census records. But please don’t watch me sleep.”
“Deal.”
Charlotte dressed and ate and drove downtown.
The local library was probably the most majestic building in town—an old brick building constructed in early American style. The only other building close to comparison would be the church.
Walking in, she smelled dust and books and dampness.
A little old man worked the front desk. “Can I help you?” He had a nose like a strawberry and large ears. A fringe of hair dusted the slopes of his head.
“I’m looking for information about my family. The Laurents? Do you know where I can find information on them?”
“Eh? Speak up, will you? I’m deaf.”
“Oh, sorry.” She spoke louder and clearer. “I need information on the Laurents. They live in the mansion up on the hill. Anything you can tell me about them. Their lives and deaths, maybe?”
He nodded. “That would be our historical collection.” Two whisps of white hair covered the top of his head.
“Yes! That’s what I want. That would be amazing.”
“But it got ruined when the basement flooded.”
Disappointment raked through her.
“Is it available to look through?”
“Did you not hear me?” He blinked over the top of his glasses. “It’s all destroyed.”
“Okay.” Why didn’t he say that in the first place? “All right. How about old newspapers? Books about the founders? Census records?”
“Come with me.”
He shuffled over to the newspapers and periodicals. Behind them, sat an old microfiche reader. “You can look through the old newspapers and census records on here.”
“Are you kidding me?” she whispered.
“The microfiche reels are in these shelves, look at the dates you want and then find the reel.”
“No one has digitized these?” she murmured under her breath.
“They’ll get to it eventually.” He shuffled away. “It would take a lot of work. Who wants to do that?”
He heard that? She shook her head and went through the small boxes marked with dates.
“Don’t return the films, leave them in the basket,” he said at the end of a row. And then, he was gone.
“Right.” First the census records. Digging through the large metal drawers, she found the dates that might have something interesting in them and pulled them out.
She threaded the machine and sat down, turning on the light.
She scrolled. What was she doing? This was hopeless. How would she find a needle in a haystack? She went through ten, maybe more reels, scrolling and reading until her eyes hurt and her muscles ached in her arm.
They were organized by county then city. She found Sugar Creek in the 1930 US Census. She only had to look through a few hundred names.
“There.” She found his name. Goosebumps pricked her skin. His wife, Charlotte and their infant son Paul, born in 1930. He was just a few months old. She’d heard about him. Paul was Papa Roland’s father. He’d married a French Canadian woman named Martine in 1952. Papa Roland was born shortly thereafter. Seeing these names in the census tingled her spine. Now to find out what Jules had done for work.
A land surveyor.
“Cool.” She remembered seeing some old surveying tools in the library.
Surely he didn’t make enough money as a surveyor to keep up the mansion. He must’ve inherited money from his family. Taking out her phone, she snagged a picture of the census record.
Now for the newspapers. She’d search after 1930s.
She found a reel with the local paper. Blurs of light highlighting black and white images passed by on the white board.
What was she looking for anyway? How would she know—
There, right on the screen was a story, front page with a picture of Jules Laurent.
Known Rum Runner Shot in Sugar Creek Home
She couldn’t believe it. The whole article was there, but her eyes only caught a few details.
Murdered.
Illegally transporting alcohol over the border.
Accusation from Phil Poverly.
Fiend.
Her ghost was a rum runner? She couldn’t believe it.
The librarian shuffled over. “We close in ten minutes.”
“Yes, of course.” She snapped more photos of the images projected on the screen. And the follow-up images. This didn’t seem right at all. Jules didn’t seem like a hardened criminal. But maybe after a hundred years of wondering the earth, it softened a man.
She finished the reel and returned the boxes to the basket. “Thank you,” she called to the man who’d helped her.
“Huh?”
She yelled it again before running out the door. She couldn’t wait to get home and talk to Jules.
Eric hadn’t seen Charlotte all week long. He assumed she no longer wanted to go with him to the Fall Festival since she had a…whoever he was.
Dressing in his usual flannel and Sweet Milk Dairy shirt to work the creemee and donut truck, he went to the Fall Festival with Angie.
If he didn’t have to work the truck, he wouldn’t have bothered. But Sweet Milk Dairy sponsored the event, and he needed to show up, even if by next week, they’d have to close the dairy.
With Angie in the front seat, he pulled into the parking lot with his pickup, towing the food truck.
Part of the festival was to raise money for the Children’s Hospital. The tractor pull was the biggest charity event. Men came from miles around to compete, the entry money going to charity. He signed up for the tractor pull. He didn’t have much money, but he was going to win. No matter what.
He and Angie set up the truck and got going on making donuts for all the attendees.
And then he saw her convertible.
His gut sank.
Why did she still have to come?
Another head bobbed next to her in the car.
All his emotion turned to self-doubt. He didn’t deserve her anyway. He closed the window, smelling the scent of grease and sugar inside, making his stomach churn. Standing, he watched through the glass, but his thoughts were on Charlotte.
“Why are you moping?” Angie must’ve noticed him standing stock still. Then she followed his gaze. “She has a man? Mmmm. Oh, he’s good looking, too.”
“That’s not helping.” He elbowed his sister in her ribs and grabbed another stack of donuts, opening the window for the next customer and to catch another look.
The other man wore a button-up, short-sleeve shirt, which is always a bad look. And those wimpy biceps. The man must push pencils around his desk to workout.
“He looks as if he makes a lot of money.”
Eric rolled his eyes, taking his gaze off the couple for the first time. “Stop, Angie.”
“They’re coming this way.”
A jolt of electricity went through him. He didn’t want a repeat of the other night. “I’m leaving.”
Angie frowned and pointed outside. “You can’t leave me all alone with this long line of customers. I’ll tell Mom.”
With a huff, Eric stayed, head bent, and focused on his work until they stood at the window.
Together.
Guess she wasn’t over Westley.
“Can I help you?” he asked, struggling to remain indifferent, although his heart thundered in his chest to see them together.
Charlotte raised on her tiptoes to be higher. “Yes, I’d like a maple-blackberry swirl creemee please.”
Though he trembled inside, he tried to keep the appearance of calm. “Two?”
Waving his hand, the boyfriend then patted his non-existent tummy. “I don’t eat dairy. Trying to keep the figure trim.”
Turning, Eric snorted so the other guy couldn’t hear. “What kind of guy doesn’t eat dairy?” he mumbled under his breath.
“I hear you have the best creemee in town.” Charlotte’s musical voice drifted over the sound of boiling oil and frying dough. The sound of it crashed through his ribs and into his heart.
Eric didn’t respond, but kept swirling the ice cream into the cone. Why was Charlotte being so nice? And she’d ordered the same creemee they’d had together. Did it mean anything?
“Whoa, that’s enough there, partner.” Angie kicked him.
Eric realized he’d put nearly twice the amount of soft serve on Charlotte’s cone than normal.
Angie spoke from the side of her mouth. “I hope you’re going to make him pay this time.”
“Make him pay?” He had an idea. He loved Charlotte, and he was going to fight for her. He wrote something on a napkin and wrapped it around her cone.
He turned and handed Charlotte the creemee.
Westley tried to offer him money. Eric ignored him. “I’m sorry. I don’t believe we met last time. I felt like I interrupted something. I had work I had to do.” He stuck out his hand. “Eric Benton.”
“Westley Dirk. What do I owe you for the ice cream?” He nodded toward the truck.
“Nothing.” Eric couldn’t keep a smug grin from his face.
Angie sighed behind him.
“But one condition. You must agree to participate in a tractor pull.”
“A tractor pull?” Westley shifted his feet.
“Yes. It’s all good. It’s for charity—the Children’s Hospital. You pay that gentleman over there”—he pointed to where the event coordinator stood—“and then whoever pulls the tractor the farthest, wins.”
Westley looked confused. “What do they win?”
“Bragging rights.” He flashed his gaze to Charlotte.
She caught his eye and licked the ice cream, her little pink tongue circling the cone.
Memories flooded him. Eric melted. He had to win her back. He had to prove himself worthy of her.
Westley must’ve sensed the challenge, because he squinted at Eric, nodding. “All right. It’s a deal. Winner gets bragging rights. I’ll have you know I am the lightweight boxing champion. I may look small, but I can pack a mean punch.”
Eric didn’t falter. Nothing the pencil pusher could say could intimidate him. Eric could pull a tractor farther than anyone in town.
“Eric’s won the last five years in a row,” Angie said.
For once, Eric was glad his sister was listening in, and that she was so mouthy. He could’ve hugged her.
“We’ll see, won’t we?” Mulling over something, Westley led Charlotte away with a nasty sneer.
Charlotte glanced over her shoulder to Eric.
He hoped she found the napkin.