Chapter 9 #6
She'd invited Wilson to interview her family because she'd hoped he might help her decide which keepsakes best told the Owens story.
Instead, with nothing more than a handful of thoughtful questions, he'd uncovered stories she'd never known to ask about herself.
She couldn't help wondering how many other families had memories waiting just beneath the surface, needing only someone willing to ask the right question.
Wilson still stood patiently near the door, the saddle balanced comfortably in his arms.
Mama walked with them to the front door. "I believe I'll stay behind." She smiled. "I've neglected that book on my bedside table long enough."
Mercy leaned over and kissed her cheek. "I'll see you at supper."
Mama patted her arm. "And don't forget to bring my hat box home."
Mercy laughed. "I wouldn't dare."
Cradling the hat box in her arms, she stepped out onto the porch beside Wilson.
Wilson shifted the saddle a little higher against his shoulder as they started toward the schoolhouse.
The hat box looked awkward in Mercy's arms, but when he offered to carry it, she shook her head. "I've got it."
He didn't argue.
For several minutes they said nothing. The silence wasn't uncomfortable. If anything, it gave him time to sort through the afternoon. When he’d agreed to do this interview, he’d expected to learn something of Mercy and her family. Instead, he'd somehow uncovered stories she'd never heard herself.
But he found himself thinking less about the interview than the time that had preceded it. It had been a long time since he'd shared an unhurried Sunday dinner in a family home. Longer still since he'd felt as though he belonged there.
He hadn’t realized how much he missed that.
Beside him, Mercy adjusted her grip on the hat box. "You were right."
He glanced over. "About what?"
"That I needed someone to interview me." She smiled faintly. "I thought I knew my own family's story as well as anyone."
He could see something vulnerable beneath the smile. "And now?"
She looked ahead again before answering. "Now I realize I knew only the parts I asked about.”
Wilson considered that. "Seems to me it’s likely most families have a story or two like that."
"I imagine you're right." She was quiet a moment. "It's humbling, really. I've spent months encouraging folks to share stories before they're lost, yet I'd nearly overlooked some of my own family's most important ones."
"You didn't overlook them."
She turned toward him.
"You just hadn't found the right questions yet."
She was silent for several steps. "I believe I'll remember that."
Wilson wasn't entirely certain why those words pleased him as much as they did.
After another stretch of quiet, he said, "I'll write up my notes this evening while everything's still fresh."
She looked over. "I can work from your notes if you like."
He shook his head. "You wouldn't be able to read them. I use my own version of shorthand. It serves well enough while folks are talking, but I'd be hard pressed to read some of it myself a week from now."
A laugh escaped her. "I suppose I'd best leave the deciphering to you, then."
"I'll bring you a proper copy tomorrow."
By the time they reached the schoolhouse, the afternoon sun had shifted enough to cast long shadows across the yard.
Mercy unlocked the door and he followed her inside. Once inside the annex she paused and he waited while she looked around the room. A moment later she moved to one of the tables in the middle of the room. “Let’s put it here,” she called over her shoulder, “at least for now.”
She set the hatbox down and quickly rearranged several items so that moments later there was room for him to set the saddle beside the hatbox.
While she fetched her logbook, Wilson studied the display. The saddle would look better if there was a stand for it, something sized for tabletop usage. Perhaps he could construct something appropriate.
Mercy returned a moment later and he watched as she began logging the Owens family display.
The afternoon had revealed things about Mercy he'd never expected to learn.
He'd seen the schoolteacher blush over a crooked sampler she'd stitched as a child.
He'd watched the poised committee member fall silent as she learned, for the first time, the details of how her father had come by his limp.
He'd listened while her mother spoke with quiet pride of a little girl who'd always wanted to teach and who somehow managed to convince an entire committee that Hawthorn needed an archive.
Yet here she was again, carefully recording each item before it had even found its place in the display. The fact that they were her own family’s items didn’t change her process.
It struck him then that nothing about the afternoon had changed her. It had simply allowed him to see more of who she already was.
He should probably head back to the livery. Instead, he lingered while Mercy finished her entry.
Tomorrow he'd return to help with the exhibit, just as he'd promised Colonel Briggs.
Odd.
For the first time in a long while, he found himself looking forward to tomorrow for reasons that had very little to do with the work.