Chapter 4 #5
Not eager or triumphant. But careful. Respectful. The way she viewed all pieces of family history.
Wilson exhaled slowly. He realized then that she'd understood exactly what the offer had cost him. Strange thing how she seemed to understand silence could carry a weight all its own.
"Don't expect treasure," he said, trying for a lighter tone. "It's mostly everyday stuff."
She smiled softly. "Ah, but that's often where the real treasure is found."
Wilson looked down at the half-finished biscuit still resting on his plate.
He’d mentioned the trunk impulsively, without thinking. But she’d been right, his parents deserved to be remembered.
Now he found himself wondering what all his mother had tucked away in that old trunk besides papers and keepsakes.
Miss Owens never seemed to look at a thing without seeing the story attached to it. Wilson wasn't entirely certain he wanted to know what story she might find in his.
The thought left him feeling oddly exposed.
But there was no turning back now.
The ride back to Hawthorn passed in thoughtful silence.
Mercy suspected Mr. Porter was as occupied with his own thoughts as she was with hers.
The buggy wheels rattled steadily over the road while the afternoon sun cast patches of light and shadow across the fields.
Ordinarily, after a day spent gathering family histories, her mind would already be organizing notes and sorting facts into neat categories.
There were dates to verify from the Norton family, stories to compare against other accounts, and several additions she wanted to make to the preliminary display plans.
Yet every time she tried to turn her attention to such matters, her thoughts wandered back to the same moment.
The trunk.
She glanced toward Mr. Porter. His expression revealed little, but then it rarely did.
Still, she remembered the hesitation before he'd spoken.
The slight shift in his demeanor. The sense that he'd weighed the offer before making it.
Even then, she'd known it wasn't a casual thing.
A man did not speak of his mother's belongings in that manner unless they held meaning beyond the objects themselves.
At the time, she'd been too surprised to do more than acknowledge the gift for what it was. Now, with the road stretching quietly before them, she found herself considering it more carefully.
He hadn't offered a collection of records.
He'd offered a piece of his family.
The realization left her feeling oddly honored. Not because of what the trunk might contain, but because he had trusted her with it. Mr. Porter was not a man who gave trust easily. She had learned that much already, which made the offer all the more remarkable.
Her fingers tightened slightly around the notebook resting in her lap. She wondered what had prompted the decision. Certainly their conversation about his parents had played a part. But there seemed to be something more beneath it. Something she couldn't quite identify.
Perhaps it was simply that he loved his folks.
The thought softened something inside her.
Until recently, she'd thought of Mr. Porter primarily as the livery owner who mostly kept to himself.
Then as a veteran reluctant to speak of his service, and as a buggy driver who happened to be helping with her interviews.
Lately, however, she found herself noticing other things—the quiet patience he showed with elderly storytellers, the care he took with his horses, the way he listened more than he spoke.
And now this—someone willing to go against his inclinations and share a trunk that had belonged to his mother.
Mercy found herself wondering what kind of woman Mrs. Porter had been. Had she been sentimental? Enjoyed collecting keepsakes? Saving letters? Tucking away little reminders of important moments? Or had she been more pragmatic than that?
The question led naturally to another. What kind of boy had Wilson Porter been?
The thought caught her off guard. She couldn't remember ever wondering such a thing before.
A faint smile touched her lips.
Then she gave her head a mental shake. That is hardly your concern Mercy girl.
Yet she found herself wondering all the same.
Her gaze drifted toward the passing countryside. When would he bring the trunk? Tomorrow? Saturday? Sometime next week?
She resisted the temptation to ask.
If opening it and revisiting the memories proved difficult, he deserved the chance to do so in his own time. Besides, she suspected hurrying him would accomplish nothing except making him retreat behind those carefully guarded walls again.
No. Better to wait. The trunk had remained closed all these years. A few more days would make little difference.
Still, as Hawthorn came into view, she couldn't deny a growing anticipation. There would be stories to discover inside that trunk. Stories of the Porter family. Stories that had helped shape the man sitting beside her.
She wanted to know them.
And perhaps, if she were honest, she wanted to know him a little better too.