Carrying his nephew, Chance followed. His sweet Emily sure was cute when her face turned pink.
20
Emily had hoped to spend some time alone with Chance on Sunday evening, but there was a special service at church with a quartet from Austin. Dessert and fellowship followed, so by the time they got home, she could barely keep her eyes open.
Monday didn’t work out any better. They were supposed to pour the slab foundation on Chance’s second house, but the cement truck broke down on the way. He’d spent half the afternoon trying to get another delivery, but with the other construction going on in town, nobody had an available truck.
Then a potential client wanted to meet in the evening to discuss building the house of their dreams. They were late getting there and even later going home. Chance tried for two hours to convince them that their brilliant design, which they had done themselves, wasn’t structurally possible. Finally, he’d given up, told them he couldn’t help them, and they’d left in a huff. It was almost 10:00 when he got home.
On Tuesday, Emily worked at the Bradley-Tucker House by herself. Everyone else who had been helping sort and taking inventory had other obligations that day. One by one the day before, they’d stopped by her temporary office in the kitchen and explained why they would be gone. A couple of them, like Frannie, were just plan tired out and needed a break.
Emily enjoyed the peace and quiet. It gave her a good block of time to accomplish some work without interruptions every ten minutes. She was sitting at the kitchen table, entering more inventory into the computer, when her cell phone rang. Chance’s name showed on the caller ID, and happiness spiraled through her. “Hi, handsome.”
“Hi, darlin’.”
“How’s it going?”
“Not much better than yesterday. We got the foundation poured on number two, so that only put us behind one day. But the lumber company delivered the order for the first house to the second one. Nobody caught it before they unloaded. So now I’m waiting for them to come back and move it. I sure hope the rest of these projects don’t go like this.” He sounded tired, discouraged, and a little cranky.
“What time are you heading home?” She checked her watch.
“About 5:30, unless something else comes up.”
“How about if I pick up some barbecue and salads and bring them over when you get home?”
“That would be great. Gotta run. There’s a call coming in I have to take.”
She said good-bye and quickly hung up. Poor guy. He was getting stressed out. She’d pick up some of his favorite things for dinner and give him a little tender loving care. Hopefully, that would make him feel better.
And her too. She’d been thinking about the advice her grandparents had given her on Friday night. They had just about everything anyone could want. Success, tons of money, a happy marriage, and restored relationships with Jesus. They’d made mistakes both in business and in their personal lives – spoiling her father, which led to a long-held rift between them, being the main personal one. But they’d persevered through the hard times because they had each other.
Emily cared for Chance more than she’d ever cared for any other man. Her feelings for him ran deep. But did she truly love him? Did she care enough for him to give up her dreams? To walk away from everything she’d worked toward for eight years?
She knew he had strong feelings for her, even though he’d never told her he loved her. Not in words anyway. If they got married and settled down at the ranch, would she be happy? Or would the excitement of new love soon dim, and she’d regret not achieving her goals? Would disappointment in unfulfilled dreams turn her into an unhappy, bitter woman? And make them miserable, possibly drive them to divorce? She’d seen it happen to others.
It didn’t help that her father had left a message on her phone Sunday evening. He’d just heard about the McGovern Museum taking applications and had ordered her to get hers in right away. “Don’t you fool around with that silly project in Callahan Crossing and miss this opportunity. Even though it’ll probably turn out like all the rest. They’ll hire someone else. But you won’t have a shot unless you apply. You need to find a real job, Emily.”
End of call. No “How are you? When are you coming to visit? I miss you.” He’d never said anything like that to her. People didn’t say caring things to someone they couldn’t stand. Sometimes she thought her dad hated her, though she didn’t know why.
For as long as she could remember, she’d tried her best to please him. Maybe just this once, if she could land the McGovern job, he’d be proud of her.
Rotating her stiff shoulders, she decided she’d better move around a little. She walked over to the window and stared out at the yard, admiring the sunny day. Bright green grass filled the yard after the rain on Sunday. Spring was a time of renewal and hope.
Did a new beginning await her this spring? In Dallas at the museum? Maybe here with Chance? Or would she go back to San Antonio to her nice house and . . . nothing else.
“Lord, I’m really confused and could sure use your help. I’m crazy about Chance, but I want that job in Dallas. I can’t have both. He belongs here. I could never ask him to leave the ranch or Callahan Crossing. And maybe I’m totally off on his feelings. Does he love me? Or is he merely having a good time while I’m here?”
She knew the answer to that question two seconds after the words spewed out. He was serious. One-or-two-date-Chance-Callahan would never string her along.
“What should I do? I want to be in your will, Lord. I thought I knew what that was, but now I’m not so sure anymore. I’d love the McGovern job. Living in Dallas again, not so much. I guess the easy way to know your will is to ask you to let me get that job in Dallas if that’s where you want me. If you don’t want me there, then slam the door shut.” She pondered it for a minute and nodded as she made up her mind. “That’s the way I’ll know. If I get the job, I’ll leave. If I don’t, I’ll see what happens here.”
It was only 2:30, but she’d been sitting at the computer for most of the day. Besides, she was antsy.
She decided to go to the attic and look around. She hadn’t gone up there the day Chance inspected the house because the lightbulbs had burned out. Though he’d had a high-powered flashlight, she didn’t want to waste his time by asking him to shine the light here, there, and everywhere. Ed had replaced the bulbs early last week, but he hadn’t taken the time to look around because they’d been focusing on all those boxes in the garages.
Climbing up the steep stairs from the second floor to the attic, she admired the beautiful cherry railings. In most houses, even fine old ones like this, the stairs to the attic were utilitarian instead of works of art.
She flipped the light switch in the hall and opened the attic door to find the big room brightly lit. Too bad they hadn’t found any spare bulbs the day Chance was there. Using his big flashlight, he’d gone through the attic section by section. If he’d had all this light, he could have finished much faster.
On each side of a wide aisle, furniture and stacks of boxes, sometimes three rows deep, lined the walls. Or more accurately, the ceiling as it angled down from the peak of the roof until it met the floor.
Emily propped the door open with a cast iron cat doorstop to air the room out. She also checked the reception on her cell phone in case anyone called. Or if she needed help. It was an anytime-you’re-alone precaution that had been drilled into her and the other students by one of her instructors. She didn’t worry about someone hiding in a corner. The way things were wedged in here, the only thing that could hide was a mouse. But she understood her instructor’s diligence. The woman had been hurt when a stack of heavy boxes toppled over on her. If she hadn’t had her cell phone, there was no telling how long she would have lain there with a broken leg.
Tucking the phone back in her pocket, Emily walked slowly down the aisle. “Where did you put the journals, Sally?” They’d seen no sign of them anywhere else. “Would you keep them where they were originally? Or
hide them someplace?”
Stopping at a tall highboy, she carefully opened the drawers one by one. Clothes from the 1940s. She checked another dresser across from it. Hats, scarves, purses, and gloves circa 1930.
Going farther, she spotted an old trunk, and excitement zipped through her. If she were putting journals or diaries away, she’d hide them in a trunk. It creaked like sound effects from a bad movie when she lifted the lid. No journals, but there were some old newspapers and magazines from the late nineteenth century. Those were a find, but not the one she was after.
Slowly perusing boxes, opening drawers, and checking bookcases, Emily walked all the way to the other end of the attic. She found Doctor Bradley’s receipt and accounting ledgers in a tall bookcase. Glass doors had helped protect them, though they were still coated with dust. An identical cabinet next to it contained old medical reference books.
In the inch space between the bookcases, a golden glimmer behind them caught her eye. Even without the books, it would take someone with Chance’s strength to slide them out. So she decided to move the stack of medium-sized cardboard boxes beside one of the bookcases and try to squeeze in that way.
The first two boxes, labeled Christmas ornaments, were light and easy to shift aside. Reaching for the third box, she read a notation on the top and stopped. “Miss Olivia’s Household Receipts” was written in faded but ornate penmanship.
“Who was Miss Olivia?” Intrigued, Emily freed the flap that held the others closed and spread them all open. The box was two-thirds full of notebooks, the kind used for diaries or journals.
Her heart racing with excitement, she noticed a piece of paper sticking out of the edge of one book. Opening it carefully, she found a sheet of fine stationery decorated with pink roses. The note, written in the same handwriting as the label on the box, stated, “Mrs. Olivia Johnson, affectionately known to all as Miss Olivia, was a druggist’s widow who lived in the house next door to us on Third Street. She gave these to me in 1905 because I was interested in the history of the town. She had no family, and we had grown close. She died in 1906, and I sorely missed her wise counsel the first year after her passing. Indeed, I still do.” It was signed Margaret Bradley, 1917.
Emily laid the note aside and opened the first page. It was dated 1885. Thumbing through the book, she found lists of items purchased, with prices and dates. Those alone were valuable. But on every page were notes about the weather, births and deaths, engagements, weddings, and other social events. Miss Olivia commented on church services and the latest fashions, on runaway buggies and a train wreck.
If this first journal was an example of what awaited them, Mrs. Olivia Johnson had left them a treasured history of Callahan Crossing.
Emily started to take the box downstairs, but the glimmer of gold behind the bookcases again drew her attention. “Might as well see what it is while I’m here, or I’ll be wondering about it all night.” She set the box of journals on a three-drawer chest across from her and moved the rest of the boxes out of the way.
Stepping into the opening, she eased behind the first bookcase, ducking her head to keep from hitting the ceiling. The prize she sought was a shiny black box about five inches high and a foot long, tucked as far back as possible between a rafter and the floor. Gilding around the edge of the top was what had attracted her attention.
Though she dropped to her knees, it was out of reach. Lying on her side, she scooted toward it and stretched as far as she could. She slid her hand in back of it and pulled it from the tight space, slowly working the gilded feet across the floor until she could move to her knees, then stand. Backing carefully from behind the bookcases, she carried it to the flat-topped trunk directly beneath one of the lights.
The wooden box had been stained black and heavily lacquered to make it resemble ebony. The top was covered in tortoiseshell and decorated with boulle, a scrollwork marquetry pattern inlaid with brass. The gilt around the top edges covered some other metal, probably bronze, which had been tooled to achieve a textured pattern. The small cabriole legs were of gilded bronze.
Ladies of centuries past used these small boxes to store sewing equipment, jewelry, or personal items. They came in all shapes, sizes, and materials. She had seen something similar only once. It was French and rare, dating from 1845–70.
The box was locked. That was not unusual even if it had been used to hold scissors, needles, thimbles, and other sewing supplies. Those contents, however, would not have led the owner to hide it so carefully.
Emily squeezed back behind the bookcases. She hadn’t noticed a key the first time, but she hadn’t been specifically looking for one. After inspecting the area thoroughly, she concluded the key was hidden somewhere else. At least she hoped it was somewhere else.
She set the beautiful box on top of Miss Olivia’s journals and closed the cardboard flaps as much as possible. Carrying them to the landing at the top of the staircase, she set them on the floor. She moved the heavy doorstop aside, turned off the attic lights, and shut the door. Cautiously carrying the treasures down the steep stairs, she took them into the kitchen.
Hot and thirsty, she stopped long enough to drink a glass of water before checking the first floor itemized lists on the computer. Hadn’t Maybelle said something about finding some keys? She entered “key” as the search criteria, and the word was instantly highlighted on page two. Seven keys – Doctor Bradley’s desk.
Was that all? She hit search again. Four keys – small lady’s desk in parlor. “Bingo.”
Hurrying down the hall to the parlor, she opened the shallow drawer in the desk and quickly dismissed two of the keys. One was obviously for the desk, and the other was much too large for the box. Either of the remaining two might fit. Clasping them in her closed fist, she rushed back to the kitchen and sat down at the table.
The first key wouldn’t go in the lock, but the second slipped in easily. Taking a deep breath, she gently turned it. At the distinctive click of the lock opening, she let out a whoop. “Yes!”
She laid the key on the table and lifted the lid.
Two envelopes, a small journal, and a small heart-shaped gold locket lay on a black velvet cloth.
Emily took a deep breath and released it slowly. Were these the memories of a happy courtship? Or a lost love? She hesitated, reluctant to intrude into something so private and personal. Yet looking into the past and preserving history, both the good and the bad, was her job. Both Sally and her mother, Margaret, were gone. Because these things were hidden, not thrown away, their owner knew that someday, someone would find them and read them.
She opened the locket. Behind the glass, a strand of dark brown hair sprinkled with gray curved around the base, forming a heart. The house was filled with old family photos and painted portraits. Both Doctor Bradley and Miss Sally’s husband had been blond.
Lost love.
When she picked up the journal, her fingers brushed across something beneath the velvet. She moved it aside and found a picture frame, facedown. Lifting it from the box, she turned it over and gasped. It could be Chance fifteen or twenty years from now. It was not a photograph but a pastel portrait, painted by a talented artist – Margaret Bradley. Her initials were in the bottom right corner, just as they were on the portraits she had drawn of her family.
“Aidan Callahan.” Emily’s whisper sounded like a shout in the quiet house. The Callahan patriarch. Founder of the ranch and town. A man who didn’t tolerate nonsense yet whose integrity and honor were renowned.
Tears misted her eyes. “Aidan, what did you do?”
Like his great-great-grandson, he was a striking man, with dark brown hair sprinkled with gray. In the three photographs of him at the ranch, one could easily see he was a force to be reckoned with. Even in a still image, he projected a stern, commanding presence.
Margaret’s drawing portrayed him in a more approachable light. She captured a tenderness, even a twinkle in his eyes, that Emily suspected few people saw. Only those who were
very close to him would be privy to this side of the man who had built a small empire.
Emily laid the picture on the table and ran her fingertip over the journal. Her gaze fell on the word Maggie scrawled boldly on the top envelope.
Hands trembling, she replaced the portrait in the box and covered it with the velvet cloth. She returned the locket, journal, and letters, closed the lid, and locked it. This was not something that belonged in a museum. Nor should it be seen by the prying eyes of the museum curator.
But what should she do with it? She couldn’t throw it away. The logical answer was to give it to Dub and Sue, let them decide. Yet, just last night Dub had been sharing stories about his great-grandparents, tales of their long, happy life together. He told how Aidan helped establish the first church in Callahan Crossing, and how he had been an elder in that church off and on for forty years. Dub had been eight years old when Aidan died at ninety-four, so he remembered him well.
Emily was not the one to decide whether or not Dub should see the contents of that beautiful box. Nor did she want to put Sue in that position. From what she had seen, they didn’t keep secrets from each other. But Sue might feel compelled to keep this from Dub if she thought it would hurt him.
Deciding to ask Chance how to handle it, she put the black box in the cardboard box, covered it with Miss Olivia’s journals, and carried it out to her van. After closing up the house, she drove to the grocery store for the barbecue and salads.
A cold knot of worry settled in her stomach. Instead of an evening spent showering Chance with tender loving care, she was going to destroy his hero.
21
Chance studied Aidan’s portrait, disappointment stinging him like the blast of ten thousand grains of sand during a sandstorm. Anger followed, directed at his great-great-grandfather– and at Emily for dumping the problem on him. Setting the picture on the coffee table, he rested against the back of the couch and pinned her with his gaze.
Emily's Chance (v5) Page 20
