Back in the carriage house, she scanned the workbench. Stuck a needle-nose pliers, slightly rusty, in her pocket. You never knew when you’d need one, or where to find it when you did.
An old oil drum sat on the floor, full of detritus likely meant for the hide and steel company’s next community recycling day. She glanced in a wooden tool box and a glint of brass caught her eye. A key? Yes! She hadn’t been imagining things after all. Not this thing, anyway. She dug out a ring of keys in all shapes and finishes, even a black skeleton key. Several small keys could be the right size for a padlock or a trunk.
At the bottom of the steps, she pulled on the cord. Shoot. She’d forgotten to bring out a new bulb, or the flashlight.
No matter. She made her way up the stairs and into the apartment. They had a virtual antique store in here. Fingers crossed that Brooke remembered which box held the china and stemware.
In the bedroom, she gave the dollhouse a fond look, then turned her attention to the trunk. In, out, in, out. Yoga breathing had its uses in all kinds of situations. Her fingers shook as she fiddled for one of the smaller keys. She took another calming breath and bent close.
For the first time, she noticed a monogram on the brass plate beneath the lock. CSE in an elaborate script, the S larger than the initials of the first and middle names. This had been her great-grandmother’s trunk before her marriage.
She tried the first key. Nothing. Found a second, the same size. No luck.
On the third try, something gave inside the mechanism. She waggled the key gently until she heard another movement. Lifted the latch. The lid was hinged, and she held her breath as she used both hands to raise it.
The scents of rose and cedar greeted her, along with the smell of old paper—slightly sweet, with a hint of must. And dust. She turned and sneezed into her elbow.
A cedar-lined tray rested on a narrow ledge. On the top of one compartment, cradled in tissue paper, lay three white roses tied together with sprigs of baby’s breath by a pink ribbon. She set the paper aside gently, then lifted out a white satin dress with a lace collar. A child’s dress.
Sarah Beth’s.
The loss of her husband at forty-seven was killing her, but to lose a child …
Beneath the dress lay a small book, the edges of its white cardboard cover darkened with age, and in the center, the drawing of a baby, draped in a garland of flowers. Baby’s Days, it read. Sarah laid the dress carefully across her lap and reached for the book. The first page showed a sleeping baby beneath the words “Record of Birth,” and below, the particulars of Sarah Beth’s arrival into this world. She turned the pages slowly, noting each milestone Caro had recorded—first steps, first words, first laugh. A height and weight chart. Black paper corners held small black-and-white photos onto the pages and Sarah squinted for a closer look. She’d seen photos of Sarah Beth on the gallery wall in the Victorian—as a baby in Caro’s arms, as a toddler with her brothers, and in this very dress. The photos had come down years ago, and her mother set a few around the house, rotating the display. But seeing these pictures, in this lovingly detailed baby book, the little girl’s dollhouse close by, broke her heart, because she knew that the rest of the pages—the school record, the list of friends, the markers of a full life—would always be blank.
She closed the book and gently returned it to the tray, refolded the dress, and laid the dried roses on top. The other compartment held two matching sailor outfits in different sizes. These she was sure she’d seen, in a photograph of her grandfather and his brother as young boys.
Beneath the tray were more albums and scrapbooks—leather-bound, cardboard, even handmade with thin wooden covers. Boxes crammed with bundles of letters tied with ribbon, so full the lids no longer fit. She pried a bundle out just far enough to read the handwriting. From Cornelius McCaskill to Miss Caroline Sullivan, Butte, Montana. The envelopes bore postmarks from around the country.
Love letters? The man who would become her great-grandfather, courting her future great-grandmother.
She had never seen any of these. The curse of a packrat family. She set the box back in the trunk, careful of a few rolled-up photos, wondering what else it held.
What was that? She lifted out a Whitman’s Sampler box and removed the lid. Inside lay letters addressed to Mrs. Cornelius McCaskill. A few envelopes had return addresses in Deer Park—Old Mill Road, the Stage Road, Mrs. B. F. Taunton on Second East. They’d lived on Second East, before they moved to the Victorian, but she didn’t remember the house number. The light was too poor to make out the date on the faded postmark.
Beneath the letters was a leather-clad notebook in a lovely golden brown. She set the box and lid aside and stroked the soft, smooth cover.
Caroline Sullivan McCaskill, the signature on the flyleaf read. This had been her great-grandmother’s journal. She squinted at the opening entry, wishing for that flashlight.
Sunday, May 21, 1922
Our first morning at Whitetail Lodge. Con has taken Tom and little Harry out for a walk along the lakeshore while I write at the desk in our bedroom, my darling Sarah Beth asleep in the nursery.
Of course. The sewing room had once been a nursery. Connected to the master bedroom by a pocket door, it was perfect for that.
We wake to marvelous views of the lake and mountains through the French doors, and I opened one a few inches, to let in a cool breeze.
She flipped ahead, pausing at an entry from June 1924.
Mrs. O’Dell made the most wonderful sponge for Con’s birthday, topped with strawberries—a gift from one of the young Society women. (What fun to put it that way!) I told her it was unnecessary, but she insisted—she grew them herself and they were divine.
Mrs. O’Dell. Holly was named Helen O’Dell McCaskill—Holly was a nickname—after a family friend, but Sarah had never heard anything more about the woman. Who was this mysterious “society woman” who grew the strawberries? And when were strawberries ever unnecessary?
She flipped ahead to the last entry, dated 1926, though several empty pages followed. Why had Caro stopped writing? Were there other journals?
She’d take the journal with her and explore it under better light. She returned the box and tray to the trunk, closed it, and stood.
Heard a sound. Held her breath. Were those footsteps? Heavy footsteps, drawing closer. She stared at the door. Who might be coming up here? Why? There was no escape.