The Scrimshaw Set: Books 1 & 2

by Gayle Hayes

  "I typed up my short essay on Phyllis for you," Emma said. She dug for it in her handbag. She handed him the envelope, and he tucked it in the inside pocket of his suit coat.

  "I'm anxious to read it. You've been a good sport. I'm sure Frances didn't stop to think how you'd feel about this. She wanted to be sure you learned some important values," Harold said.

  "Did she tell you what she and my mother argued about? I think the animosity was between them. My dad backed my mom by refusing to let grandmother see me," Emma said.

  "Sorry, I can't help you with that one. We didn't know Frances had a granddaughter. I have a package for you. Frances' return address is on it. I think it was stolen from her the day she died," Harold said.

  "Do you know how she died?" Emma asked.

  "I heard from the detective who investigated. Frances was on her way to the post office with a package. Some hoodlum snatched it away from her when she was crossing the street. She was distracted trying to get it back and got hit by a truck. The thug ditched the package. An insurance agent found it on the street and took it to the post office. They haven't found the guy who stole it. It was pretty important to Frances. She gave her life trying to get it back." Harold paused and then apologized. "Sorry, I didn't think about this spoiling your appetite."

  "It's okay. I feel more detached not having known her. It's as if you're telling me about someone in the news rather than someone in my family. I'm anxious to see what meant so much to her," Emma said.

  After lunch, Harold and Emma walked to his office. He handed Emma the package with the scrimshaw Frances was on her way to mail when she died. Emma noticed the package was somewhat battered and soiled. She asked Harold for a letter opener so she could remove the wrapping carefully. She thought about Frances wrapping and addressing the package. The paper would have been one of the last things she touched. Emma folded the brown wrapping paper and set it on Harold's desk. Inside the larger box was a small cardboard box surrounded by Styrofoam peanuts. When she opened the smaller box, she saw a decorative wooden box with an ivory carving on top. She opened the clasp and raised the lid. There was a typewritten note on top of the scrimshaw.

  "Oh my gosh. Do you know what these are?" Emma asked.

  "Her will says it's scrimshaw. It's been in her family for four generations," Harold said. He walked around the desk to where Emma was sitting. "Those are very nice, Emma. They must be worth quite a bit," Harold said.

  "Is this ivory?" Emma asked.

  "Read the note."

  My Darling Emma,

  If you're reading this note, I am no longer part of this world. It was my last wish that you have this set of scrimshaw. They were given to my great grandfather, Robert Cullen, for his sixteenth birthday in 1890. These scrimshaw and this ditty box have been passed from one generation of Cullens to another since then. My parents did not produce a boy, so I was given the duty of caring for the scrimshaw. After John died, I decided to change my will to make you the beneficiary.

  These scrimshaw were carved by a whaler with idle time on his hands during a whaling voyage lasting for three years. The ship's captain gave whale teeth to the more artistic members of his crew to pass the time. The artist who scratched these designs obviously missed his loved one and was fond of his ship and its crew. You will notice he rendered pictures of the whaling vessel, his dream home in Massachusetts, his two best mates, a whale, and his love, Esther. The story goes that he scratched the images with a needle used for making sails and rubbed the whale teeth with soot from the ship's stove to bring out the designs.

  These are originals and one of a kind. The six teeth are insured for $10,000 each and the ditty box for $15,000 because of the ivory carving inlaid on the top of it. The whaler presented the ditty box and teeth to my great-great-grandfather as payment for a tract of land in Massachusetts where the scrimshander built the home he sketched on one of the six teeth.

  I hope you will realize the true value of the scrimshaw goes beyond the appraised amount. Please treasure, safeguard, and continue this legacy with your own children.

  With my love,

  Frances Favager

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  Friday morning Harold represented one of his clients who had been charged with a DUI and made his first appearance in court. Harold had encouraged the man to plead guilty and pay the fine. The judge fined him the minimum $300 for a first offense because the man was slightly above the legal limit. Harold shook his hand and told him to behave himself and suggested he not forget the judge had given him a break. Then Harold walked to his home and changed into jeans and a powder blue turtleneck before going back to the office to wait for Emma. He had reserved a helicopter service to fly them over the Chinese Wall in the Bob Marshall Wilderness Area so they could scatter Frances' ashes as stipulated in her will.

  While Harold waited, he read Emma's essay about Phyllis and what she learned from spending the day with her. He thought the essay was well written and that Frances would be proud of Emma. He opened the first envelope containing Frances' instructions. She reminded him that Emma needed to get only one answer right to claim her inheritance. Then Harold read what Frances intended Emma to glean from her time with Phyllis:

  If Emma spends enough time with Phyllis, she will realize as I did that friendship means nothing to her. Unless Emma is unobservant and naïve, she will agree a person sets herself up for treachery if she depends on false friends. ~Frances Favager

  Harold read Frances' words over several times and wondered what he had missed in her relationship with Phyllis. He knew this was not Emma's impression after spending Monday at Phyllis' cabin with her friends. Instead, Emma had written that she was overwhelmed by the support and help Phyllis' friends gave her during a difficult time. Without being asked, they showed up ready and eager to help. Then Emma wrote she learned Phyllis had drawn people to her side by lending them a helping hand during their own disasters. Clearly, the lesson to be learned here is you need to be a friend to have friends.

  Harold thought Emma's observation was far from naïve. He agreed with her and could not imagine how Frances could brand Phyllis a false friend. He knew Emma was writing her second essay about Carole. He hoped she would say something closer to Frances' way of thinking so he could give her the inheritance.

  Without looking in the third envelope, Harold assumed Billy from the Balsamroot Café would be the last person about whom Emma would need to write an essay. He remembered Billy's contentious relationship with Frances and wondered what Frances would say about it.

  Harold was lost in thought when Emma arrived, jangling the brass bells at the top of the door. She was dressed in black slacks with a white shell and black jacket ending slightly below her waist as if she were going to a funeral.

  "Are you ready to go?" Emma asked. Harold's feet were on his desk. He'd been daydreaming.

  Harold pulled his feet off the desk, and grabbed the box with Frances' ashes inside.

  "I hope they packaged these ashes for scattering," Harold said. He opened the lid on the box. "Good. There's a packet for each of us. We better get a move on."

  Emma turned around and walked through the doorway with Harold right behind her.

  Harold took the exit for I-15 and headed for Great Falls International Airport. He parked away from the main terminal and closer to where the private planes were stored. As he pulled in to park, a man wearing a tan jumpsuit and matching baseball cap with Last Chance Charters and a helicopter on it waved and walked toward them. The pilot helped them into the helicopter, confirmed the plan with Harold, and took off. Once they were in the air, Harold pointed out the Rocky Mountain Front straight ahead. In a matter of a few minutes, they could see the Chinese Wall, which was still an impressive structure from the air. The pilot flew north over the Wall, banked to the left, decreased altitude, and flew south. Harold and Emma released the packets of ashes and looked behind them as the ashes trailed and then dropped to the Wall below.

  The Chinese Wall is twelv
e miles long, a thousand feet high, and part of the Rocky Mountains dividing the North American Continent. Although it is part of the Rocky Mountains, it resembles a flat-topped wall of stone rather than a peaked mountain. Unlike the Great Wall of China, the Chinese Wall in the Bob Marshall Wilderness Area rises vertically from the valley floor and is a geologic construction. Its color varies with the time of day and season, and it reflects the magnificent prairie sunsets and sunrises.

  Unlike the Great Wall of China, the Chinese Wall has no Starbucks. The only way to reach the Chinese Wall is by hiking or riding on horseback. Whatever you pack in, you must pack out, too. This was Claude Favager's favorite part of the Bob Marshall because of the peace it provided. Frances Favager liked it because it dominated the landscape, was unforgiving of those who were unprepared to conquer it, and was wildly beautiful.

  Harold and Emma joined hands, and Harold prayed quietly as the pilot banked to the left again and headed back toward Buffalo Jump. Harold hoped Frances had finally found peace. Emma wondered if she would ever know why her parents kept Frances from seeing her.

  By the time Harold and Emma were driving out of the airport, both were hungry. Harold had planned a special lunch. He drove to a restaurant on the Missouri River. It had been a favorite of Frances. The retired white riverboat renamed Missouri Queen had a bright red paddle wheel. At one time, it had cruised up and down the Mississippi River loaded with sightseers. The red and white Victorian railings were draped with red, white, and blue buntings. Tables were covered with white cloths and each one had a fresh red rose as a centerpiece and blue napkins. Fine china, silverplate, and crystal goblets contributed to the elegant atmosphere. Harold led the way to the upper deck with a view of the river and city.

  Once they had ordered and commented on the atmosphere, Emma asked, "Did you know my grandfather, Claude?"

  "I met him once. He and Frances were headed back to the airport for their flight to New York," Harold said.

  "Did grandmother ever talk about him?" Emma asked.

  "Not to me. Phyllis or Carole might be more help where Claude is concerned. I think women discuss men with other women more than with other men," Harold said.

  The words, other men, hung in the air and made Harold uncomfortable. Emma was on the verge of asking him if he and Frances were in love, but she changed the subject.

  "I brought my other essay about Carole," Emma said. She handed him the envelope. "Did you have a chance to read what I wrote about Phyllis?"

  "Yes, I did. Frances' instructions specify I should get all three essays from you before we discuss them, so I can't do that now. You write very well. Frances should be proud of you."

  Emma wondered why he used the word, should. Did he know she was not proud of Emma? Or, did he mean if Frances were alive she would be proud of Emma? If that was the case, why didn't he say would? "Do you know who number three is? I mean the person I spend time with next?" Emma asked.

  "I'll find out when I open Frances' next envelope. I have a feeling it's Billy from the café. You'll get a charge out of her. Billy was over in Iraq about twenty years ago and has quite a collection of souvenirs. You better plan on a full day with her at the least," Harold said.

  "Will you have time to read my essay and grandmother's note after lunch?" Emma asked.

  "You bet. I took off the rest of the day like I would for any funeral," Harold said.

  When Harold and Emma were back at his office, Emma studied the set of scrimshaw while Harold read her essay about Carole. She tried to focus on the whale teeth instead of the uncomfortable feeling that she was back in school waiting for a teacher to give her a passing grade. She resented having to beg for the inheritance as if she were a trained seal performing for a slimy fish. Did her grandmother really care what she thought of Phyllis and Carole? What possible difference could it make to her now? Emma was a grown woman of thirty. She was a successful attorney. Her encounters with clients and her experience in the world left her with insights as valid as any Frances might have had. Who was this woman to think her validation defined Emma? If she did not need the financial help, she would not have cared whether her essays conformed to the criteria Frances stipulated. Emma did not inherit money from her parents. She had been unable to save any of her earnings, because she owed a large debt for law school. Emma was becoming more dissatisfied with her job, but she did not have the financial security that would allow her to change course.

  Emma turned the scrimshaw around and admired the artistry. She was impressed by the detail, because she knew the scrimshander had used a needle to inscribe it. In spite of their age, the whale teeth were not discolored, nicked, or broken. She was impressed that a boy of sixteen managed to keep them in such good condition. Not only did she have grandparents to learn about, but now there was another family, the Cullens, who were strangers to her. She thought she might look into genealogy once she was back in Denver. She read Frances' note again. It had never occurred to her that she might be one of several generations of Americans. If Frances' great-great-grandfather was born in the United States, Emma would represent the seventh generation. Emma progressed from having no family to having a family line extending to nineteenth century Americans. This fact meant more to her than the whale teeth on her lap. She was anxious to learn more about the Cullens and the Favagers.

  Harold cleared his throat, slid his chair back, and lifted his feet off his desk. Emma noticed he was not smiling.

  "Emma, once again, you wrote a beautiful essay. It doesn't quite conform to what Frances had in mind. I don't mind telling you that I prefer your take on Carole. But you still have another chance. You only have to get one of the three essays right to get the inheritance," Harold said.

  Emma realized her essay about Phyllis was also incorrect. "When will you be able to tell me what I got wrong?" Emma asked. She was trying her best to conceal her exasperation.

  "When all the essays are in, we're supposed to discuss them so you can benefit from Frances' point of view," Harold said.

  "So, is Billy my next victim?" Emma asked. She laughed to soften her sarcasm.

  Harold coughed and then hesitated. "No. I'll be damned if I know why, but you're stuck with me, Emma," Harold said.

  "Well that's fine with me. I don't feel like I've seen much of you."

  "How's about we go fishing tomorrow? Do you know anything about fishing?" Harold asked.

  "Only in the legal sense of the word," Emma said. "I'd love to go fishing with you. It's a date."

  Emma put the ditty box with the scrimshaw in it inside of the larger box. Then she placed the box on top of the brown wrapping paper on Harold's desk.

  "I'd like to leave the scrimshaw here until I go back to Denver. It'll be safer than it would be at the inn," Emma said.

  Emma left Harold's office to return to the Buffalo Jump Inn and check in with her own office in Denver. She was coming to the end of her first week away and relieved to find relatively few emails and no real crises. After reading a few legal documents, Emma was drowsy. She stretched out on top of the bed, closed her eyes, and enjoyed the delicious sensation as she slowly slipped into unconsciousness.

  After Emma left his office, Harold re-read her essay about Carole. Emma expressed her frustration with the legal system and with family law. She said she was raised to believe it was possible for everyone to be a winner in his or her own way. Now, she did not believe there were any real winners in custody cases. She was disillusioned by the venom exchanged by men and women who were once in love and then used their children as pawns during a divorce. She had been preoccupied surviving law school. It did not occur to her that she might not enjoy working as a civil attorney until she was actually accounting for the fractions of an hour parceled out to various cases. She had not enjoyed the journey through law school and hoped it would all be worthwhile once she was representing real clients. The visit with Carole had opened Emma's eyes. She knew Carole would not be any happier as a New York Times best-selling author than she was now
. Carole was right to enjoy the journey instead of imagining herself happier someday. Carole was happy now because she was doing what she loved to do. As long as she never finished anything and was never quite satisfied enough to publish something, she could go on imagining her characters, committing them to print, and dreaming of the day her writing would be good enough.

  Harold thought Emma was more insightful than he was at her age. He again read what Frances had written about Carole.

  If Emma spends enough time with Carole, she will realize as I did that one cannot be happy without achievable goals. Unless Emma is unrealistic and foolish, she will agree a person sets herself up for failure if she wanders through life undisciplined and without a clear objective. ~Frances Favager

  Harold laughed in spite of himself. He could almost see the frown on Frances' face as she wrote those words. He fought the temptation to open the last envelope. He wanted to read what Frances had said about him. Then he followed his mother's advice and put some distance between him and the source of his temptation. He muttered to himself, "If only I remembered that advice when I met Frances."

  After flipping the sign around so the office was CLOSED, Harold locked the door and walked home. Along the way, a distant memory became as real to him as if Frances stood before him, her cheeks flushed with anger. "You only wanted me while you couldn't have me. The more I thought of you the less you thought of me!"

  Ordinarily Harold would not choose to dwell on an unpleasant memory, but his memory of Frances' anger seemed like a warning. He knew Emma's essay about her afternoon with him would mean she could either claim her inheritance or see it denied to her. Perhaps there would be another time to counsel her in the truth. For now, he would do his best to channel Frances and tell Emma what she needed to hear.

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN