“And this second page?”
“These are the things that my family got rid of, but we have a record of where they are,” he said. “Or where they’re supposed to be. The dining room table, for instance—Lawrence Wilde donated that to his club in the city, and I’m pretty sure we can get them to donate it back to us.”
“Some of these things are in other museums,” Dave said. “What’s the process there?”
Frank looked at me. “Charley?”
“Well, we could ask those museums to give us those items on permanent loan. And given the situation, we might persuade some curators to deaccession the artifacts from their collections so we can add them to ours. But there’s no guarantee.”
Frank accepted that. “And on these third and fourth pages, I’ve listed the rest of the things that we’ll need to find, somehow.”
The four of us read through the list, our easy silence challenged by the steady noises of the workmen digging a new section of the trench, and by the swelling whine and hum of insects stirred to life by the increasing heat of this late August morning. My shirt had started clinging to my neck and back from the humidity, and I felt a deep sympathy for Captain Wilde’s wife and other women of that period who’d spent their summers cooking over open hearths. Two racks, the list read, two dripping-pans, eight iron pots, two spits, six pairs of pot hooks, three frying pans . . .
A flash of white beside me made me jump, but it was only the fifth member of our small committee.
Lara Hollis Dennison was one of those rare people who could brighten any room that she walked into. A year younger than me, she was the single mom of four boys and the owner of Millbank’s trendiest fashion boutique, which mixed things I couldn’t afford with some quirkier pieces and vintage accessories. Very much Lara, in other words. Naturally pretty, she rarely wore makeup except for a bold stroke of eyeliner, letting her ivory skin glow on its own and her long wavy blond hair hang loose down her back. Today, in a tunic of pale yellow linen worn over a crinkled white skirt, she was sunshine personified.
“Sorry,” she said, sliding onto the picnic bench seat next to me with a cheerful disregard for any dirt she might be sitting on. “When I said I’d be late I didn’t think I’d be this late, but the dentist was running behind.”
Frank assured her it wasn’t a problem, and in ten minutes flat he had brought her up to speed on what she’d missed, impressing me as always with his gift for cutting through the fluff to get to the essentials. “So now,” he said, in summing up, “we’re down to what we’re going to have to beg, borrow, or steal.”
I’d been studying the pages while he spoke, and now I pointed out, “Not all of these things have to be original antiques. In fact, there are some places where we’re better off with reproductions. Like the kitchenware—if we’re actually using the kitchen to do demonstrations, the way that we’ve planned, then we don’t want to do that with artifacts. Lots of these pots and pans and the utensils and things, we can get reproductions.”
Dave thought he could probably talk a few dealers he knew into donating some of the smaller things. “But when it comes to the big stuff, like some of this furniture, there’s no way to get around it,” he said. “No one’s going to let stuff that old go for free. We’ll have to pay.”
Frank asked, “How much are we looking at?”
“For all of this last section?” Dave skimmed over the two pages with an expert eye. “Assuming we get maybe, what? A quarter of it donated?” He named a sum so large that it was sobering.
Frank whistled, low, and Tracy frowned. She said, “See, I’d been thinking we could set a list up like the library does for the books it wants to buy. You know, list all the things we want to get and people could adopt an item if they wanted. Donate fifty dollars and adopt a candle snuffer, or a chamber pot.”
Frank told her, “Good idea.”
“But,” said Tracy, “if Dave’s right with his appraisal—”
“My suggestion,” Dave corrected her. “I’m not allowed to give appraisals.”
“—then it isn’t going to be enough,” she said. “We’ll need more money.”
Lara, having helped herself to a cinnamon bun, took a thoughtful bite. “We could ask the Sisters of Liberty.”
Tracy was shaking her head. “When they gave their donation to our restoration fund, they were very clear on how their bylaws capped what they could give each year for building preservation.”
Countering with logic, Lara said, “But this wouldn’t be about the building, would it? It’s about the contents. And the contents will be used for education, and I’m pretty sure the bylaws don’t cap what the Sisters give each year for education.” Looking round at all of us, she gave a little shrug. “I think it’s worth a shot.”
Frank thought it through. “You might be right.” He looked at Tracy. “Doesn’t your better half cater their luncheons?”
“Not since they started to meet at the Privateer Club.”
I had never set foot in the Privateer Club. It was one of the ritzier yacht clubs that fronted the bay, very modern, all windows and balcony railings. It sat on the opposite shore near Cross Harbor and often was easy to pinpoint from all the white sails dotted round on the water in front of it.
Lara said, “A couple of my regular customers belong to the Sisters of Liberty. And I heard one of them saying the other day that their next speaker had cancelled and they’re on the lookout for someone to fill the September spot. I could pitch them a talk about Benjamin Wilde and this inventory we’ve got of his things, and how we’re using it to track down what belonged to him and bring it home to Millbank. I’ll bet they’d find that interesting.”
I hadn’t known Lara long, but I had known her long enough to grow suspicious when she turned her innocent blue gaze towards me.
“Who would give this talk, exactly?” I asked.
“You could,” was her answer. “You’re good at talking to groups like that. It’ll be fun.”
Frank was looking at me as though he knew there were few things that were further down my register of being “fun” than speaking to a roomful of strange women. I knew he wouldn’t push me into doing it, but since it was, beyond all doubt, a very good idea, I consented.
“Fine,” I said. “You go ahead and make your pitch, and if they say yes, I’ll come do the presentation but I’m not quite in the same class,” I said, “as the Sisters of Liberty.”
Dave said, “I wouldn’t say that.”
“No?” From what I knew about them they admitted only those who claimed—and proved—direct descent from any member of the Revolution-era Sons of Liberty, which made them an exclusive club.
“No.” Dave was very sure. “In fact, you could become a member if you wanted to.”
He was really good, I thought, at keeping his delivery deadpan. So I played along. “Is that a fact?”
Frank gave the answer. “Yep.” No trace of any humour. He was serious. “Our local chapter’s president,” he told me, “is your grandmother.”
? ? ?
The last time I’d driven the shore road, I hadn’t seen much past the taillights of Sam’s truck. This evening, without the rain, it was a different experience. Now I could see the broad view of the bay, as the curving road dipped into tunnels of trees and emerged again into the softening light. The road ran at a higher elevation than the shoreline in some places and at times I’d come around a bend and find that I was level with the roof of some expensive house built close along the water’s edge, its sloping driveway gated.
These were few and far between, but when I passed the fourth one I slowed down deliberately, keeping my gaze forward in anticipation. One more bend to navigate, one more short closed-in stretch of arching trees, and there it was—the red brick wall that rose along the roadside. Not a high wall, but enough to shield the property within from prying eyes and passing motorists. I couldn’t see the house that lay beyond it, but that didn’t matter.