“You’re right, I don’t. But last night on the beach you said things that made more sense to me than anything I’ve heard in a long time.”
He looked at her luminous green eyes in the gray light of the kitchen, as thunder rolled over their heads again. She held his gaze, searching his face and daring him to look away first. After a moment he did, feeling more of the wall inside him crumble.
“Then what do you think is happening to me?” he finally said.
“I don’t know.”
Lance shifted in his seat. “You know that name, though, don’t you? Rhinelander?” He watched her expression, and the same furrows again appeared on her forehead.
“Yes,” she said after a moment. “I do. But there’s someone else who knows a whole lot more.”
The historical society building could have been a lawyer’s office or even a trinket shop, as nondescript as it appeared. Its squat two-story shape blended in well with the rest of the block. A small sign over the single door gave away its identity, and Lance read it out loud as he pulled to a stop in an empty parking space.
“Lake County Historical Society.”
Mary unbuckled her seatbelt and grasped the door handle. “Harold’s been running it forever.”
“Forever’s a long time,” Lance said, half grinning at her.
Mary just rolled her eyes and stepped onto the street. The storm still hovered over them and the rain hadn’t let up. They ran to the doorway of the building and pushed their way inside.
The interior opened to the second floor in an airy manner that surprised Lance; the ceilings hanging above them were adorned with all manner of artifacts from the local area. Lance spied a model airplane almost three feet long, a large bone that could’ve only come from a dinosaur’s leg, and a mannequin floating like a specter wearing a hand-sewn dress, but missing its head, arms, and legs. The rest of the building held table upon table of photo albums, bookshelves pressed against the walls, and a few locked glass cases holding treasures too small for Lance to see clearly.
They had just begun to make their way between two tables when they heard a door close off to their left, and Harold’s small form wound its way toward them. Mary had called him as they drove into town and explained why they needed to meet him here. She left out the portions of the story that painted Lance in a portrait of insanity, and he had thanked her with his eyes as she spoke.
“Good to see you, Lance!” Harold exclaimed as he stepped up to them and grasped Lance’s hand in his own. “So sorry for last night. Not the best way to find out about your family tree, and to think you found the place without knowing. It’s just amazing.” The older man shook his head in disbelief and shrugged his thin shoulders in his large buttoned sweater.
“Thanks for meeting us here,” Lance said, as Harold led them farther into the building. “I’m guessing you’re not normally open on Sundays.”
Harold swatted his hand at the comment like it was a buzzing insect. “It’s fine, it’s fine. I wasn’t doing anything anyway, much to the chagrin of Josie. Happy to help you out.”
Harold opened a swinging door to a small kitchen. A narrow table had been set up with three chairs around it, and Lance could smell coffee brewing.
“Sit down and I’ll pour us a cup,” Harold said, as Lance and Mary pulled two of the chairs close to the table and sat.
After a moment, Harold returned holding a platter with three mugs of steaming coffee and a few tea cakes resting between them. The cakes looked like dried-up Ping-Pong balls. They sat for a while in silence, sipping the coffee and listening to the distant patter of the rain.