All Things Hidden

by Tricia Goyer

  Maxie laughed and then took a photo slide out from one of the boxes and held it up toward the window. “Exactly. I bet if the homesteaders were alive today they’d shrug their shoulders, not understanding how fascinated we are by their oxcarts and soddies.”

  “Charlotte, you’re not going to believe this.” Hannah hustled over, waving a newspaper in her hand. “You’re not going to believe this,” she repeated. When she got closer Charlotte could see the paper in her friend’s hand was a front page of the Harding Tribune.

  “Look here.” Hannah pointed to the middle of the front page.

  “An advertisement for the Kerr Opera House?” Charlotte tucked a strand of hair behind her ear.

  “No, under that. Don’t you recognize the name?”

  Charlotte squinted and looked closer.

  “‘Elijah Coleman pleads not guilty to theft charges,’” Maxie read out loud. Her eyes widened, and she turned to Charlotte. “Oh my, I remember this story.”

  Hearing the name, Charlotte felt her stomach tighten, as if the potato salad she’d eaten had turned into one solid rock.

  “Charlotte?” Mary Louise hurried back over and took her hand. “Are you all right? The color just washed from your face. Do you need a glass of water?”

  Charlotte nodded, but she didn’t know how to explain. She turned to Hannah, opened her mouth, and closed it again, seeking help.

  “Elijah Coleman is one of Charlotte’s relatives,” Hannah stated matter-of-factly. “I remember hearing about him once or twice, but I never heard anything like this.”

  “Yes, Mary Louise, Maxie,” Charlotte confessed. “He was my great-grandfather. And he was accused of being a thief.” Charlotte sighed. “The community members said he took the very funds that had been set aside to build Bedford Community Church.”

  Chapter Two

  Sam took the dollar bill and pressed it on his leg, attempting to smooth it out. He then tried sliding it into the soda machine slot again. His mouth was dry, and he needed caffeine to stay awake. He’d stayed up too late last night thinking about things—about turning eighteen, about his mom, his past, his future. Too much thinking, not enough sleep. “Come on, come on, you stupid thing.”

  The machine sucked in the dollar, whirred for a minute, and then slid it back out. “This stinks.” He glanced at his watch, wondering if he had enough time to run to the office, beg for change, and then run back.

  Unfortunately he only had a minute before the bell, and he doubted his teachers would fall for the it’s-my-birthday-give-me-a-break plea. It seemed that he was the only one who thought turning eighteen—becoming an adult—was a big deal. His grandparents hadn’t even said much about it. His siblings hadn’t either. And he doubted his dad even remembered what day he had been born. “One more time, machine. It’s my birthday. Treat me nice,” Sam mumbled out loud.

  “Need change?” Sam felt a soft hand on his arm. He turned and noticed a girl standing beside him. He recognized her from around school and thought her name was Kendall.

  “Yeah, do you have any? That would be sweet.”

  “Sure.” The girl snapped open a coin purse, dumped some change into her hand, and then held it out for him to pick through. He took four quarters and then placed his dollar in her hand.

  “My mom used to have a coin purse like that.” She used to dump her money in her hand like that too.

  “Did she get rid of it?” Kendall smiled.

  He turned back to the soda machine, sliding in the coins, listening to their jingle and clunk as they made their way through the mechanism until finally clinking to a stop. He pushed the button for Dr. Pepper.

  “Actually, she died a couple years ago,” he said, barely loud enough to be heard over the sound of the soda can tumbling into the tray.

  “That’s sad. I’m sorry, Sam. I know how it feels. My mom died too. When I was eight.”

  Sam grabbed his soda and turned to her, his eyes widening in interest. He didn’t know what was most surprising—her stating so plainly that her mom had also died, the true compassion he heard in her voice, or the fact that she’d called him Sam. She knew who he was.

  “How, uh, did you know my name?” He popped open the can’s top and took a sip.

  Kendall chuckled low and deep in her throat. “It’s not that big of a school. I don’t know your last name, if that makes you feel better.” She laughed again, and Sam felt the hairs on his arms stand up. Her laughter immediately made him feel warm, safe, and happy, and yet it made him feel empty at the same time too. Mom laughed just like that. Sam realized. I always loved that laugh.

  “It’s Slater. My last name, that is.” He stood back and held his palm up to the machine, like Vanna White with her letters on Wheel of Fortune which his Grandpa always watched. “All yours, Kendall I-don’t-know-your-last-name-either.”

  “Kendall Richardson.” She stepped forward and stuck the dollar bill that he’d just given her into the machine. The machine sucked it in and whirred. But this time, instead of spitting it out, the machine accepted the bill.

  “No way!”

  “Yes, really, honestly. That is my name.”

  “No, I mean that’s just crazy. It took the dollar. How did you do that? Magic or something?”

  Kendall selected bottled water and then retrieved it. She chuckled again. “Not magic. But my dad does say I have the touch—whatever that means. He calls me his good luck charm.”

  “I’ll say.” Sam was about to ask how her mom died, but the loud shrill of the school bell split the air.

  Kendall turned and waved. “Happy birthday, Sam Slater,” she said over the sound of the bell as she darted off to class.

  It wasn’t until Sam heard those words that he realized hers had been the only happy birthday greeting of the day aside from his grandma’s.

  SAM GOT THROUGH the rest of his uneventful Tuesday and was counting the minutes until the last period ended. He was sitting at a library table, his books spread before him, and was supposedly attempting to find a poem that he could use for his English paper, when he noticed Kendall walk into the room. She didn’t see him. Instead her eyes were fixed on the library computer. She hurried over to it, sat down with her back to him, and then typed something. The web browser opened to eBay, and Sam thought it was odd that she’d be scanning the Internet for good deals in the middle of the school day.

  Sam picked up a book of poetry, mindlessly flipping through the pages, pretending he wasn’t watching her. The truth was he’d been thinking about her a lot—not in a romantic way, but because Kendall reminded him of his mom, from her little coin purse to her deep laugh. Even the way she walked. His chest constricted and his throat felt tight, as if he’d swallowed a hundred marbles.

  Or maybe that wasn’t it. Maybe she wasn’t so much like his mom at all. Maybe his mind was just on his mom because it was his birthday. Birthdays always made him think of her more, especially this one.

  What would they be doing today if Mom were still alive? Would she make his favorite cake? Would they go somewhere? Hang out on the beach? Build a campfire and listen to the waves?

  Sam flipped the page again, turning the thoughts from his mind. Don’t go there, Sam. Don’t do it.

  Kendall printed something off, snatched the sheet from the printer, and then rose and turned around. Her eyes scanned the room as she did, and her gaze met his.

  Sam diverted his eyes and lowered his head. Then he pulled the book closer to his face, pretending to read, pretending to be fascinated by the poetry of Robert Frost.

  Kendall wasn’t fooled, and she approached. She pulled up the chair next to him and sat down with a flourish. “Hey you. I was going to look for you later today, and here you are.” She whispered her words, leaning close, attempting to keep the librarian’s wrath from falling upon them.

  She laid the printout on the table, and Sam noticed it was a listing for an antique hand mirror selling for $312.

  “That’s interesting.” He moved his eyes fro
m the paper to her. “You know, that you wanted to talk to me.” He let his voice trail off, and his stomach churned, hoping Kendall wasn’t interested in anything more than friendship. He’d just split with Arielle not too long ago, and he wasn’t ready to jump into another relationship. Dealing with girls in everyday life was hard enough as it was. Getting emotions involved was one hundred times worse.

  “No, I don’t have the hots for you, Sam. I can read the worry in your gaze.” Her voice was still a whisper. Yet as he scanned her face he didn’t see anger, or even romantic interest. He saw friendship, and he liked that.

  “I was just thinking about your birthday and stuff.” Kendall folded up the piece of paper and tucked it into her pocket. “I know how hard this day is. Personally, I’d rather skip over my birthdays completely because it never seems right celebrating them without my mom.”

  Sam focused on her wide, brown eyes and nodded. He was amazed she was so honest, so real.

  “Yeah.”

  “Anyway, I’m sure your day is completely booked, but maybe later this week I can treat you to a banana split at Jenny’s Creamery? As a friend only, so you don’t have to worry.”

  Sam rubbed his chin. Then he smiled. “Okay. I think I’d like that.”

  “Great. I’ll talk to my people and you talk to your people, and then we’ll talk later and figure out a time that works.”

  Then, without another word, Kendall rose, patted the pocket that held her printout, and hurried out of the room.

  Sam scratched his head. He didn’t know what to think about Kendall, but a banana split sounded amazing.

  Chapter Three

  A thief?” Mary Louise spat out the words as if her mouth were full of pepper. Charlotte shrugged. “’Fraid so. Or at least that’s what half of my family thought growing up. They say that the facts are the facts, and though it shames the family name there’s nothing to be done but accept it.” Charlotte sighed. “But as Anita here can tell you, there are more rumors about Elijah Coleman than there are days in the week.”

  “And the other half of your family, do they deny the facts?” Mary Louise leaned back in her chair and crossed her arms over her chest. It was clear from her words, and her posture, that Mary Louise believed what the paper stated: Elijah Coleman was a thief, and that was that.

  “The rest of my family, well, they aren’t so sure. My grandfather was born the year this incident happened. My great-grandfather Elijah—everyone called him Granddaddy—was Bedford’s first postmaster. Of course, all that changed when the money, uh, disappeared. I remember being a little girl and hearing the stories.”

  “So what did your grandfather believe?” Hannah asked.

  “My grandfather was a jovial man, but he always grew serious when anyone brought the subject up. He said he knew his father’s character, and he never believed his dad stole that money.”

  “The money for a church—our church?” Hannah scratched her head. “I don’t understand.”

  “Why don’t you read the rest of the article?” Mary Louise interjected, flicking the paper with her fingernail.

  Hannah cleared her throat and began reading. “Bedford, Nebraska, May 16. The trial of Elijah Coleman, ex-postmaster of Bedford Township, charged with the theft of funds, ended with a guilty verdict before the United States commissioner. The former postmaster was in charge of collection of the funds for the soon-to-be-built Bedford Community Church. The money went missing after the April 1 groundbreaking. Mr. Coleman’s sentencing will take place Friday next.”

  Hannah stopped reading, and both Maxie and Mary Louise were silent. Not only that, but Charlotte noticed that some of the other women who’d been working around them had quieted too. Listening.

  “So what happened?” Hannah’s words were innocent enough, but they unleashed a tornado of thoughts, memories, and emotions within Charlotte.

  “I don’t remember all the facts clearly. But my mother told me a little bit. I do know that there was another church in town at the time, but people on this side of the valley wanted their own. They met at a barn for a while and then began praying for a church building. They felt God indeed wanted them to have a place of their own, so they started a money collection. It took them a couple of years, but they finally raised enough money.” Charlotte paused. “Then my Granddaddy—well, I don’t know all the details, but the money disappeared. After that it took another year to raise the funds again.”

  “How come he was in charge of the money?” Mary Louise held her hand out, and Hannah handed her the newspaper clipping. She read it over silently, and listened for Charlotte’s answer.

  “I’m not sure. Maybe they didn’t have a bank?” Charlotte shrugged.

  “Could someone else in the community have stolen it?” Hannah asked.

  “Why would anyone steal from a church?” Nancy Evans shook her head. “I can’t imagine the heartbreak of those poor people.”

  Charlotte didn’t know whom to respond to first, or what she should even say. “It would take me all day to tell you all the stories. Or rather, different versions of the same story. Sometimes—usually during family gatherings like Thanksgiving—it would come up. Some of my family is sure Granddaddy was robbed. There are others who say Granddaddy was extremely forgetful. These family members were certain he misplaced the money in his house. In fact when they tore down the old place years ago they picked over it good—sure they’d come across stashed treasure.”

  More women gathered around, as if Charlotte were the town crier spilling the latest news. Seeing their curious eyes on her—and noting their interest in an old family mystery—caused the muscles on the back of Charlotte’s neck to tighten. It wasn’t just some old fable or a fiction tale she’d heard once. This was her Granddaddy, and in some way it felt like relating the story made her a traitor to her family name.

  Charlotte ignored their glances and turned back to the box she was halfway through sorting. “Unfortunately, we’ll never know.”

  “I wouldn’t be so sure about that.” Anita piped up. “I remember my grandmother telling me about how your Granddaddy was accused. And even more than that.” Anita pressed Charlotte’s hand between hers. Anita’s hands were warm, and her paper-thin skin felt soft, just as Charlotte’s mother’s had been. “Charlotte, I think I have something at home that you just might want to see. Something that might give you a few clues about the truth. Do you think you can hold out until tomorrow though? I think it will be worth the wait.”

  THE CHATTER OF KIDS’ VOICES and the shuffling of feet bounced off the walls of Emily’s sixth-period American history class.

  Emily’s gaze flitted past a map of the Louisiana Purchase and a poster showing Lewis and Clark on the Missouri River. Then her attention settled on the brown-haired girl sitting across the room. Andrea Zikova’s eyes were focused on the paper in front of her, and her shoulder-length brown hair hung partially in front of her face. Emily wondered if Andrea—the foreign-exchange student—had seen the bulletin board Mrs. Lorenz had just put up. Black construction-paper letters stapled onto a red, white, and blue background said SPRING HISTORY PRESENTATION. Under that their teacher had posted a chart listing the student teams. Andrea and Emily were paired up. The thing was, this was the only class they had together, and Emily wasn’t sure if she had even talked to Andrea all year—well, except for the one time she accidentally bumped into the girl in the cafeteria and apologized. But she had heard Andrea talking to others, and the girl was sort of hard to understand.

  Where’s she from? Germany? Russia? Emily couldn’t remember exactly. It was something like that.

  She crossed her arms across her chest, wondering if she could ask for a new partner. It’s not fair that I’m teamed up with someone who most likely knows zero about American history. I’ll have to do all the work.

  And worse than that, it was a presentation. How would Andrea get up and present to everyone? Emily had a hard time understanding her. How annoying. Even Emily’s nieces talked better than And
rea did.

  Emily wondered what she should do. I’ll ask if I can switch. Surely Mrs. Lorenz will understand. She started to go toward Mrs. Lorenz’s desk, but another kid was already asking the same question.

  “I’m sorry. There will be no changing partners. No exceptions,” Mrs. Lorenz said, loud enough for everyone to hear.

  Emily set her backpack on the seat of her desk. She glanced at Andrea and took a deep breath. This is going to be a drag.

  Andrea got up and moved toward Emily and tapped her shoulder just as the bell rang for class to start. “Hey, I saw we are going to do the history project together.”

  Emily bit her lip and nodded. “Yep.”

  “Do you want to meet today to talk about it? Maybe after school?” She had an unusual accent.

  “Um, ok, I guess.” Emily hesitated.

  “Okay, I will call my mom—my host mom that is. I call her mom. I dink that will be okay.”

  Dink? Emily groaned inside because of Andrea’s accent. “Sure. We can meet at the front of the school and walk to Mel’s Place.”

  Behind her, Mrs. Lorenz cleared her throat, trying to get everyone’s attention.

  Andrea’s eyes darted to the front of the room, where the history teacher was standing with a stack of papers for today’s quiz.

  “See you then.” Emily rushed back to her desk. She pulled out a pencil and tucked the backpack under her desk, yet her mind wasn’t on the quiz. Instead, she was thinking about her partner and how unfair it was that she was stuck with her.

  The school day went quickly, and Emily grabbed her backpack and headed to the front door after the last bell rang. Andrea’s wave and bright smile greeted her. Emily looked over her shoulder to make sure Andrea wasn’t waving at someone else. When she realized she wasn’t, Emily waved back.