by Wade, Becky
And yet. Just thinking about him, just remembering the interaction she’d shared with him, caused warmth to curl deep within her.
• • •
Typed by John Lawson into the Reminders app on his phone:
o Have building’s sprinklers turned off. Can that be done and still be up to fire code?
o Contact Nora Bradford at Library on the Green.
• • •
Facebook message from Duncan Bartholomew to Nora Bradford:
DUNCAN: How was your day, Librarian Extraordinaire?
NORA: Far better than average. I was a hostage in an emergency situation staged for training purposes. (I didn’t particularly enjoy that part.) I ended up being rescued by a Navy SEAL. (I did particularly enjoy that part.)
DUNCAN: Just so long as you don’t develop a crush on the Navy SEAL. Adolphus is prone to jealousy where Miss Lucy Lawrence is concerned.
NORA: Adolphus hasn’t yet noticed the existence of Miss Lucy Lawrence. Much to my everlasting chagrin.
DUNCAN: But when he does notice Lucy’s existence I do believe he’ll be prone to jealousy.
NORA: When (and if) Adolphus finally notices Lucy’s existence, she will be his. Heart and soul. Always and forever.
CHAPTER
Two
Nora answered the library’s ringing phone the way she always did, with a cheerful, “Library on the Green Museum.”
“May I speak with Nora Bradford?”
She instantly recognized the calm and confident timbre of the male voice on the other end of the line. For five unbearable days, she’d been waiting for John to call, praying the whole time that his noncommittal “I may give you a call about something” would turn into a reality.
She’d been sitting in her office at her desk, legs crossed. Now she plunked both feet on the floor and scooted to the edge of her seat, back snapping into a straight line. “This is Nora.”
“Nora, this is John Lawson.” He went on to explain when and where they’d met.
She didn’t interrupt him. She didn’t tell him that she was a professional researcher and that she’d scoured every detail about him available for public consumption.
She knew, for example, that he was thirty-three years old and that, like her, he was a Christian. Repeatedly in his book, he’d given God the glory for everything that had gone right on his most famous mission. Be still my heart, she’d thought each time she’d encountered one of his humble, plainspoken statements about his faith.
She’d learned that John was the eldest child of Ray, captain of a boat that took tourists on fishing expeditions on Puget Sound, and Linda, an elementary school administrator. She knew that he and his younger sister, Heather, had grown up in the Upper Rainier Beach neighborhood of Seattle. He’d graduated from Northern Arizona University before joining the Navy and getting himself on a track that led to the notoriously brutal BUD/S training, the first step to becoming a SEAL. She’d read his book and watched his movie and combed through every word of every page on his company’s website.
“That’s right,” she said lightly when he finished, as if he’d just jogged her memory. “I’m glad to hear from you. Have you saved anyone from a fire sprinkler shower so far today?”
A beat of quiet. “Five so far. It’s been a slow morning.”
Nora laughed. “Your other hostages probably have legs that work faster than mine.”
“Yes,” he agreed.
“What can I do for you, John?” Oh, the deliciousness of saying his name. It was a plain name. The plainest name there was. Yet it was also timeless. Manly. Strong. A trendy name wouldn’t have suited him. The uncompromising John was just right.
“Do you help people research their ancestry?” he asked. “As part of your job?”
“Yes, I do. I’m fairly well versed at accessing records online, plus I have a large collection of books and documents here at the museum that are often useful to people who are investigating their ancestry. The museum’s primary focus is Mason County, but I have a fair number of resources from other parts of the state, as well.” Silence. She had the sense that John was weighing whether or not to enlist her help. How could she convince him to give her a try? Nora bit her lip against the yearning washing over her and turned her gaze to the outdoors. Her second-story office windows provided views of spreading pecan branches and, beyond the branches, glimpses of her kingdom—Merryweather Historical Village. Working in this office was like working in a tree house. “Are you in the process of gathering information about your heritage?” she asked.
“You could say that.”
“Well, I’d be glad to lend a hand. Assisting people as they assemble their family tree is one of the aspects of my job that I like best.” Especially when those people were named John Lawson.
“Can we meet?” he asked.
“Certainly!” Had that sounded too eager?
“What time is good for you?”
Her mind raced. It was five o’clock, almost closing time. “Tomorrow afternoon?”
“I can be there around four.”
• • •
“Have you finished your homework?” Nora asked Randall the next day. Eleven-year-old Randall Cooper had become as much a fixture at the Library on the Green as the display cases.
“Not yet.” He paused the violent shooting game he’d been playing on his phone and lifted his face. As usual, he’d made himself at home in the rocking chair situated next to the museum’s corner window. Nora had initially set the chairs near the Children’s Area for parents to sit in. However, Randall occupied “his” chair far more often than anyone else.
“Ten more minutes of that not-very-redeeming-looking game and then homework?” Nora prodded.
“Okay.”
“Would you like some tea? To go with all that gore?”
“No, thank you.”
Nora had been doing her best to introduce Randall to the joys of tea. So far her efforts were faring about as well as Ahab’s search for the white whale. “Hot chocolate?” she asked.
“Yes, please.” He grinned. His big, straight, gleaming teeth flashed startlingly white next to his ebony-colored skin.
Nora had always been a goner when confronted with that grin. She disappeared into the museum’s small kitchen to prepare his hot chocolate.
Randall had wandered into the Library on the Green two years ago after moving to Merryweather to live full time with his grandmother. Because the museum stood at the halfway point on Randall’s walk home from school, it had become his convenient stopping place.
At first Nora had treated him in the polite, customer-service-oriented way that she treated all her patrons. But then she’d learned two things. That Randall’s visits were going to become an almost daily occurrence. And that Randall’s dad had died in a car accident. Nora herself had survived a heartbreaking loss early in life. Their growing familiarity with each other and their bond of childhood trauma had connected Nora to Randall. Nowadays, she treated him like a nephew.
To be fair, Randall didn’t technically require an unofficial aunt. He was a responsible, smart, independent kid. But since Nora had no one at home to fuss over, Randall humored her. With equanimity, he allowed her to furnish him with snacks, odd jobs around the museum, occasional rides to basketball practices and games, homework accountability, and cautionary tales about middle school.
In return, Randall furnished Nora with a listening ear, thoughtful suggestions about the museum, and that heart-tasering smile.
Nora was never sure just who was ministering to whom in her friendship with Randall. It might be a tie.
Nora dutifully garnished the hot chocolate with mini marshmallows, then delivered the mug and two Walkers Shortbread cookies to Randall. She kept the cookies stocked for him—
Well. She also kept them stocked for herself. Anything that came in a container decked out in Scottish plaid couldn’t be all bad for you.
“Thank you, Ms. Bradford.”
“You’re welc
ome, Randall. Just five minutes left before homework, okay?”
“Yes, ma’am.” He moved his head in the way kids have of both saying yes and, at the same time, returning their attention to more pressing things. In this case, his phone’s screen.
She checked her watch. John was due to arrive in fifteen minutes. Nervous excitement had been burrowing more and more deeply within her as the time of his arrival had drawn near.
“Nora?” One of the two ancient ladies standing near a map of Indigenous Peoples of the Pacific Northwest motioned her over.
“Yes, Mrs. Williams?”
She gestured to her companion. “This is my dear friend, Iris . . . oh, but of course you know Iris.”
“I do.”
“I was just telling Iris about my ancestor, Arthur Thacker, and of course, she’s just as fascinated as can be and wants to see his journal for herself.”
Mrs. Williams was a museum regular with a case of hypochondria and an endless thirst for information about her Mason County ancestor, Arthur Thacker. Nora had tirelessly unearthed every possible shred of information about Thacker, but Mrs. Williams hadn’t given up hope of uncovering fresh details.
Poor Iris had been in with Mrs. Williams and seen the journal a minimum of three times previously. Iris was either the most forbearing friend alive or she had dementia and had forgotten the other times. “Certainly. I’ll just go and get a few pairs of gloves.” Opinions were mixed as to whether gloves were needed when handling antique papers, but Nora preferred to err on the side of safety.
Ten minutes before John’s arrival.
The building’s upper story contained Nora’s office, as well as a roomy central space large enough for both a sitting area and Nikki’s desk. Three days a week, Nikki worked inside the museum handling property management, billing, the website, event planning, and marketing. On Saturdays and Sundays she worked in the village as one of Nora’s historical interpreters.
Nikki frowned at her computer. “I need a man.”
“Good men are hard to find,” Nora answered, pulling two sets of white gloves from their drawer.
“I didn’t say I need a good man.” Nikki looked up and released one of her throaty guffaws. She was fifty-eight, with fashion sense like a Best of the ’80s highlight reel, heavy makeup, and a body that really did resemble an hourglass. Her bust, especially, was monumental. Almost as epic was the bouffant puff she teased up behind her bangs and in front of the barrette she used to pull back the sides of her long, dyed brown hair.
Nikki had loved and buried two husbands. Before, in between, and after those two, she’d fallen in love with several others.
“Would you mind coming down in five minutes?” Nora asked. “Mrs. Williams is here and it would be great if you could take over with her. I have someone coming in for a scheduled appointment.”
“Is your scheduled appointment with a male someone?”
“I plead the Fifth.” Nora made her way back downstairs.
The old ladies set about donning the cotton gloves.
Carefully, Nora removed Thacker’s journal from its case.
“Nora, I think I may have consumption,” Mrs. Williams said sadly. “I have a terrible cough, night sweats, and a high fever. I expect to start coughing up blood any moment, of course.”
“I think they call it tuberculosis these days, and I was just thinking how well you looked. . . .”
John. John would be here in the flesh in just seven minutes.
• • •
The historical marker outside of Nora Bradford’s Library on the Green Museum informed John that the structure had been built in 1892 as the town’s first apothecary. In 1938, the city purchased it and turned it into a library. It functioned as a library until the seventies, when the city moved the books into a new location across town.
John let himself inside. Darkly stained pine floorboards supported numerous cases and bookshelves. Art filled the walls. In the corner, paper and containers full of markers and crayons covered a kid-sized table.
He spotted Nora across the room, speaking with two white-haired ladies. She raised a hand in greeting.
He gestured for her to take her time. He always ran five minutes early.
He paused to examine a collection of weapons that had belonged to early pioneer settlers. The longer he stood there, the more the room’s heavy quiet pressed in on him. A middle-aged couple, with their hands clasped behind their backs, stood a short distance away, reading information mounted next to a painting. A boy sat in one of the rocking chairs, head bent to his phone.
He could hear every word of Nora’s conversation—one of the ladies was describing her night sweats in detail—even though they were several yards away.
It was going to be hard enough to talk to Nora, a stranger, about the things he’d come to talk to her about. There was no way he was going to talk to her here, with this audience listening in.
When a brunette joined Nora and the white-haired ladies, Nora approached him, smiling.
Her hair drew his attention first. It was red. Not a brownish red, but a bright, coppery red. An unusual color. Just like on the day they’d met, she’d put it up in a style that made him think of pinup girls from the forties. Why would she wear her hair like that? Fashion statement? If so, he didn’t get it. The whole retro thing had always struck him as strange.
“You made it,” she said.
“I did.”
“Would you like to sit down?” She motioned to the rocking chairs. “I’ll send that cute boy over there upstairs. Between you and me, he’s supposed to be working on his homework anyway.”
The brunette was staring at him with intense curiosity.
“Actually, I noticed there’s a coffee shop nearby.” The outdoor seating at the coffee shop would give them more privacy. Fifty-yard-line seats at a Seahawks game would give them more privacy. “Can I buy you a coffee?”
Her eyes rounded slightly. “Sure.” She turned. “Nikki?”
“Yes?” answered the brunette. Had he imagined it or had she just winked at him?
“I’m going out. I’ll be back in a bit.”
“You bet. I’ll hold down the fort.”
A long rectangular lawn stretched outward from the steps that led down from the library’s door. Old-fashioned buildings of all shapes and sizes were positioned around the grass like houses on a neighborhood street, each one facing inward.
John cut a glance at Nora as they walked along the gravel path that framed the lawn. The top of her head came up to about his chin. If he hadn’t carried her the other day, he’d have guessed her to be heavier than she was because of the way she dressed. The sweater she’d worn Saturday and the blue one she wore today were both huge. Her hair, her sweater, her long skirt, and her flat boots made her look very much like the librarian she was.
“Have you visited the historical village before?” she asked.
“No. This is my first time.” He’d lived in Shore Pine for five years and came to Merryweather occasionally. Both cities had approximately six thousand residents, both were popular weekend and summer destinations, both had historic downtown areas that had been revitalized in the last decade, both were situated near water. Merryweather was located on the southern “Great Bend” section of the Hood Canal. Shore Pine, to its west, sat on the edge of Lake Shore Pine.
John knew that Merryweather was named after Meriwether Lewis of Lewis and Clark fame. And he knew that the logging industry had built this town. He hadn’t visited Merryweather Historical Village until now because he spent his free time watching sports, on his boat, or working out. Girly little villages weren’t his thing. Some of these structures were so small they looked like what Snow White would have lived in.
“When Walmart opened in Shelton,” Nora said, “this part of Merryweather turned into a ghost town. My father bought up the warehouses that occupied this site and tore them down. He and I both love history, so our intention was always to transport historical buildings here. Wh
ich, as you can see, is exactly what we did.” She didn’t fumble or pause or say umm. She spoke quickly and intelligently.
“How long ago did your father buy this land?”
“Eight years ago.”
“I visited a historical village with my family once when I was growing up. We bought tickets and walked through houses that were set up inside to look like they had when they were new.”
“Right. Most historical villages are like that.”
Not this one. The buildings were all in use. He saw a women’s clothing store, an art gallery, a pottery shop, a flower shop. People were everywhere. Visiting the stores. Stopping to take photos. A few moms sat on blankets on the grass, watching their kids play.
“We wanted to attract large numbers of people downtown,” Nora explained. “Also, it’s my personal preference to keep historical things alive by utilizing them, so my dad and I decided we’d rent out the buildings to local businesses.”
“It sounds like you and your dad make a good team.”
“We did—I mean, we do. My dad serves as an advisor these days. He gave the village to me as a college graduation gift.”
He looked across his shoulder at her. Raised an eyebrow.
Her lips curved. “I know. Generous gift, right?”
“I got a tie and a silver pen for graduation.”
She laughed. “My father gave each of us, my two sisters and me, a graduation gift meant to help us gain a foothold in our chosen professions. Each of us has been solely responsible for the gift ever since.”
They reached the coffee shop, which was housed inside a clapboard house with a wooden porch. The interior smelled like butterscotch. Now that he was inside he could see that it was more of a pie shop than a straight-up coffee shop. The workers behind the counter greeted Nora like a friend.
“What would you like?” he asked her.
She ordered hot tea.
“What else?” he prompted, drawing out his wallet. “Pie?”
