Chapter 4 #4
She sat very still, just staring at him for a moment.
Then, to his relief, her face split in a wide grin.
"Of course. That's such a simple, practical arrangement, easy to explain and easy to defend.
And totally without any hint of favoritism.
" She lifted her cup in salute. "Thank you, you've solved several problems for me.
" Then she grimaced. "Of course, this means I'll need to get the displays with the heavier and bulkier items sorted out rather quickly so we can see what we're working with. "
There she went with that we again. Still, he felt unaccountably pleased by her approval.
He cleared his throat. "Might be a way to get some additional shelving in your room for the smaller displays.
" he gestured toward the buggy with the drumstick he held.
"The crate the Nortons packed their items in gave me the idea.
If we can collect enough empty crates, we can turn them on their sides and nail them together. "
That earned him another smile and she reached for her pencil.
“You don't need to write down every word I say.”
“Yes, I do,” she said without looking up. “Otherwise, I'll forget half of it once I get back to town.”
Wilson privately doubted that. Miss Owens struck him as the sort who remembered everything she considered important.
“I'll see if I can get Daniel to take charge of collecting crates,” she continued after making another note. "He's in charge of materials, after all."
She seemed mighty comfortable asking Daniel for favors. And it hadn't escaped him that the two of them seemed to be on a first-name basis.
The thought settled oddly in him.
.....................................................................
“Most folks care more about people than objects. Once they begin reading one story, they naturally want to know the rest of it.”
Wilson glanced toward the crate of Norton keepsakes resting safely near the buggy wheel. “Likely true enough.”
“They've trusted me with far more than I expected.”
Something quieter entered her voice then.
Not pride.
Responsibility.
Wilson found himself looking at her more directly. Miss Owens rested her hand lightly atop the closed notebook. “I keep thinking how easy it would be for stories like these to disappear in another generation or two if no one records them now.”
He looked away first.
The breeze shifted lightly through the weeds surrounding them.
“My father used to say folks spend too much time looking backward,” he said.
She smiled faintly. “And did you agree with him?”
“No.” The answer came before he thought much about it. And it seemed to surprise both of them.
Miss Owens studied him a moment before speaking carefully. “Then perhaps your father would be pleased to know his son helped save enough lumber to preserve half the town's memories.”
Wilson made a rough sound low in his throat. “That might be stretching things a bit.”
“Perhaps only a little.”
Silence settled again, easier this time.
Wilson watched sunlight move through the branches overhead while Miss Owens finished making another note in her notebook.
A peaceful sort of picture.
Dangerously peaceful.
He set his cup down before the thought could wander any farther.
Miss Owens closed the notebook and rested both hands lightly atop it. “I realized something else today.”
Wilson immediately mistrusted the thoughtful note in her voice. “What is it now? Painted shelves? Window boxes?”
That earned him a quick laugh.
“No. Though those aren't bad ideas.” Her expression softened. "You live at the livery, don't you?"
He shifted. Where was this going? "I do. Helps me keep an eye on the place at night." Not that he owed her an explanation.
She nodded, like he was confirming something. "I need to apologize. I completely overlooked you when I was doing the interviews of the families in town."
Did a single person qualify as a family?
“That means I don't have anything from your family in my notebooks yet. And that needs to be remedied.”
There it was.
Wilson leaned back slightly. “Most of the family stories went to the grave with my folks.”
Miss Owens's expression turned sympathetic. "I'm sorry. But you're making my point for me." She lifted her cup of the warm lemonade. "However, I imagine you remember a lot more than you think you do. That's how it is with most people."
Did she plan to try to draw him out the way she did her other interview subjects? "There's not much I care to have remembered about my life."
Some emotion he couldn't quite read flashed across her face as she dabbed the corner of her mouth with a napkin. “That isn't quite the same thing as saying there isn't anything worth remembering. There is something to be learned from the painful and unflattering as well as the good times.”
Wilson looked toward the horse instead of at her. It wasn't under obligation to offer up his life for lessons of any sort.
The animal flicked its tail lazily against a fly.
“I already told Colonel Briggs I don't aim to stand up in front of half the county so folks can applaud things they know nothing about.”
“I know.”
No argument. No correction. Just quiet acknowledgment.
Wilson frowned slightly.
Miss Owens continued carefully. “And I won't pretend I understand your reasons.”
That brought his attention back to her.
“But this isn't only about your personal military recognition.” She glanced toward the crate near the buggy. “The Nortons weren't only sharing their sons' service today. They were sharing their family. The Halperns weren't only talking about the war. They were remembering Mary Alice.”
She paused briefly. “Aren't there things that your father and your mother experienced that are worth remembering? Things about your ancestors you are proud of and would like to have recorded and shared? Your family belongs in Hawthorn's history too, Mr. Porter.”
Something tightened unexpectedly in Wilson's chest.
Not because she sounded demanding. But because she didn't. Miss Owens spoke as if the matter were simple. Obvious even. As if the Porters still belonged somewhere inside the town's story despite the farm being long gone and his mother dead these past years.
Wilson rubbed a thumb against the edge of his tin cup.
"My parents were good solid people. Reckon there are some things I could tell you about them.
And a few stories Pa used to tell me about his pa and grandpa.
Not sure I remember them accurately though.
" Then he rubbed his chin. "Might be a few things packed away in Ma's trunk that'd help me remember. "
Miss Owens went very still. "A trunk?"
He nearly took the words back.
Instead, he stared toward the outbuilding and kept talking. “Old papers mostly. Family Bible. Some letters maybe. Not sure what else. My ma kept things she thought important stored away there.”
The words felt oddly rough leaving his mouth. He hadn't opened that trunk since she passed. Maybe it was time.
Miss Owens said nothing for a moment. Then, very gently, “I would be honored to see them if you're willing.”