Chapter 8
Wilson stepped into the schoolhouse carrying his toolbox and was surprised to find the classroom empty. He'd expected Mercy to be at the teacher's desk, either organizing her notes or preparing for the Johnston interview.
Instead, a faint scrape drifted from the archive room.
He followed the sound and found her standing beside one of the display tables, studying its crowded surface. A framed photograph rested in her hands while several other artifacts waited nearby.
"Morning, Mercy."
She looked up and smiled. "Good morning. You're here a little earlier than I expected."
"So it seems." His gaze traveled from the table to the crowded spaces all around the room. "Looks like I've interrupted a bit of reorganizing."
"Actually, you've arrived just in time." She patted the edge of the table. "I decided this would make a much better workbench than one of the school desks. We just have to relocate everything sitting on it."
Wilson glanced around the already overcrowded room.
"That sounds easier said than done."
"It may be." Her smile widened. "Fortunately, there are two of us."
It hadn't occurred to him to wonder where he'd actually work. Apparently, she'd already solved the problem before he'd even arrived.
He set his toolbox beside the doorway. "Tell me where to begin."
She rested the photograph back on the table and pointed to the remaining items gathered around it.
"Let's move the Henderson family's collection first."
Together they gathered the pieces. Mercy carried the Bible, a small wooden box, and the identifying notecard listing the family name and the items in their specific collection. At Mercy’s direction, Wilson took the framed photograph and two bundles of letters tied with faded ribbon.
She led him to a narrow opening between two existing displays.
"I think we can make everything fit here."
Wilson eyed the available space with some skepticism. It looked barely large enough for the Bible.
Mercy, however, went right to work.
She slipped the Bible into place first, turned the wooden box slightly so it nestled against one corner, then eased the photograph behind them.
Next came the bundles of letters, laid carefully across the Bible.
Finally, she tucked the identifying card into the Bible, leaving enough exposed that the family name remained plainly visible.
She stepped back, studied the arrangement for a moment, then nudged the box the width of a finger before giving a satisfied nod.
Wilson chuckled. "I'll admit it. I didn't think you'd get it all in there."
"Practice," she said with a trace of dry humor. "Lots and lots of practice."
The next family received the same careful attention.
Mercy never simply looked for an empty space. She looked for the right one. Sometimes she shifted an entire grouping to make room for another family's collection. Other times she carried a single keepsake halfway across the room rather than separate it from the rest.
Wilson found himself making considerably more trips than seemed necessary.
Finally, he said, "Wouldn't it be quicker just to stack everything wherever it'll fit until we're ready to move it back? You've labeled every piece."
"It certainly would." She smiled as though she'd anticipated the question. "But afterward I'd have to sort everything again. Besides, if a label came loose, I'd rather not have to puzzle out which family it belonged with."
It was a sensible explanation, and Wilson accepted it readily enough.
Yet as they continued working, he began to notice something else. Mercy never asked for the Bible or the photograph or the letters. She always asked for the Henderson Bible. The Miller toy. Mrs. Cummings's sewing basket.
He remembered her explaining why she'd wanted the exhibit arranged by families. He'd understood the reasoning at the time.
Watching her now, he realized it went beyond the exhibit. This wasn't simply the way she intended to organize the display. It was the way she thought.
To Mercy, a photograph, a Bible, a bundle of letters, and a child's toy weren't merely four separate artifacts. Together they told the family's story in a way no single keepsake ever could. Individually they offered only glimpses. Together they formed a fuller story.
No wonder she refused to separate them, even for a few days.
Whenever he repaired something, the first thing he tried to understand was how it had been made in the first place. Only then could he decide how best to restore it. Watching Mercy, he had the curious impression she approached history in much the same way.
She wasn't simply preserving old belongings. She was quietly safeguarding the stories that bound them together.
His gaze drifted around the annex once more.
Watching Mercy squeeze each family collection into the little space that remained made him all the more eager to get started on the shelving project. Then it occurred to him that there was still a missing bit of information.
He looked toward Mercy. "Have you decided which wall you want the shelves on?"
She didn't answer immediately. Instead, she slowly surveyed the room before indicating the north wall. "I believe that one makes the most sense."
The building was rectangular and this was one of the longer walls.
Wilson studied the space, already measuring it in his mind.
Then he turned back to her. It seemed a shame to introduce yet another complication.
"You do realize we're going to have to clear the items along that wall and establish a clear path before I can start," he said. "I'll need enough space to work."
Mercy's gaze followed his toward the wall, then beyond it to the surrounding displays.
Her thoughtful expression deepened. "More than that, I think.
" She met his gaze again. "You'll be carrying lumber in and out, setting up ladders, moving about while you work.
I'd rather not have so many fragile pieces nearby. "
Wilson hadn't considered that. But he knew she was simply thinking beyond the work itself to everything that surrounded it.
"We'll need to relocate everything from this section of the room," she continued, tracing the area with a small gesture. "That should give you enough room to work without anyone worrying about a stray board or an accidental bump."
Wilson nodded. Relocating that much of the exhibit would create days of additional work, yet Mercy accepted the news without complaint. She had a way of treating each new obstacle as simply the next problem for them to solve.
She seemed to have a gift for anticipating difficulties he hadn't yet thought about.
By the time they cleared the table and decided to move it into the classroom, Wilson found himself smiling.
Trust Mercy to turn even the simple task of clearing a worktable into another way of caring for other people's stories.
Once the table stood inside the classroom, Wilson started back toward the annex for his toolbox.
"Wilson."
He turned.
Mercy reached into her satchel and withdrew Eleanor's journal. "I wanted to return this as soon as possible." She crossed the remaining distance between them and held it out. "It belongs with the rest of your family's things."
Wilson looked down at the worn leather cover.
When he'd placed the journal in her hands the previous afternoon, he'd known it was the right thing to do.
Even so, he'd spent more time than he cared to admit afterward wondering if he'd acted too impulsively.
Outside of his parents, he couldn't remember anyone else ever handling it.
Mercy could easily have kept it another day or two. There'd been no urgency and he hadn't imposed any deadlines. Yet she'd brought it back at the first opportunity.
He knew she hadn't simply hurried through it—that wasn't Mercy. She'd returned it at the first opportunity because she'd understood it wasn't hers to keep.
The last trace of uncertainty quietly slipped away. He accepted the journal. "Thank you."
"I thought you might want it back."
Her words confirmed his earlier thoughts. "I did."
He hadn't intended to admit quite that much, but the simple truth seemed easier than pretending otherwise.
Carrying the journal into the annex, he lifted the lid to his mother's trunk and settled it back into its familiar place among the Porter family papers. Somehow, seeing it there eased something inside him.
Then he reached for Miz Scruggs's keepsake box.
Mercy's brows lifted slightly. "You're going to start on it today?"
He nodded. "Thought I'd make a beginning before I have to head back to the livery."
"I'm glad." Her gaze rested on the worn wooden box. "Miz Scruggs will be delighted."
"I hope so."
"Thank you," she said quietly as they moved back to the classroom.
He frowned. "For what?"
"For trusting me with Eleanor's journal."
The words caught him off guard. He remembered standing beside the trunk yesterday afternoon, pausing for a long moment before he'd finally given her permission to take it. At the time, he'd thought he was deciding whether to loan it.
Perhaps he'd really been deciding whether anyone else could understand why it mattered.
Mercy had.
"I knew you'd take care of it."
"I hope I lived up to your trust."
"You did."
A warm smile touched her face. Then she changed the subject slightly "It was unlike any journal I've ever read." She tucked a strand of hair behind her ear, a faraway look on her face. "Somehow Eleanor became more than a name on a page. She was a remarkable woman."
Wilson studied her expression.
To him, Eleanor had always been part of the family's history. Mercy had somehow met the woman herself.
Still, she had to have read the entry on Charles. Why no mention of him?
She looked back at him. "I do have a few questions I'd like to ask you...when you have the time."
His curiosity stirred immediately. "What sort of questions?"
Before she could answer, the sound of wagon wheels drifted through the open window, followed by the murmur of voices outside.
Mercy glanced toward the door. "The Johnstons."