He held up several of Gran’s spoons. She’d kept her silver in a case, and though we found no sign of it, it was meaningful to me to hold the sooty, tarnished utensils. I recognized the floral pattern as her mother’s wedding silver.
Other items found their way out of the ashes, but they were mostly broken dishes and partially burned fabrics—nothing exciting. It was, in fact, rather depressing. There was no evidence of anything in the hidden space under Gran’s bed, only a gaping hole into which the flooring and assorted junk had fallen.
I was standing there, wishing for a proper ladies’ room and thinking about the mystery box, when a car came down the drive—a red sub-SUV—and Ellen climbed out. She waved at me, then spoke to the person in the vehicle, closed the door, and it drove away.
Arms wide, and despite my dirt and ash smudges, I hugged her hard.
“Was that Bonnie driving? What’s up?”
“Nothing’s up.” She kissed my cheek. “I wanted to see what was happening out here. I knew you were still here, since you didn’t answer your cell phone. Mom, seriously, how are you going to live where you can’t get cell reception?”
Ellen didn’t wait for a response. She was already waving at Roger. I noticed several of the work crew eyeing her. My temper rose. Ellen would never forgive me if I embarrassed her by instructing the workmen on manners. Still, if they didn’t mind those manners, all bets were off.
She must’ve asked Roger about the worksite because he was walking the perimeter with her, pointing at this and that. She was always extra nice to Roger. I laughed, reminded that he was her pick for me. As I watched, he pointed across the creek toward the springhouse, then pointed again to where the front of the new house would begin.
Her smile stopped my breath. Even after all these years, she owned my heart. Would I have bothered with this project if not in the hope she’d come home again? And, in the future, bring her husband and children? I think I would have, but I would’ve put a lot less money and effort into it. The totality of it was for more than me—for Gran, though she was gone, and for Ellen and her children.
“Mom”—she was back at my side—“this is going to be fabulous.” Suddenly a little embarrassed, she added, “Not that our old home wasn’t wonderful, and not that our house now isn’t, but this sounds amazing. Roger was telling me about the springhouse logs and the fireplace stone and all that. Gran’s house, but with all the new cool stuff.”
I hugged her again, pressing my face into her hair, so sweet smelling, but I didn’t hold her for long. I guess we had a sort of bargain. I was allowed those grabs in public as long as they were quick and brief.
“I like how my room will face the back and the woods. I’ll have a gorgeous view of the creek and the forest. Except I won’t be here to enjoy it.”
“By the time you graduate, the building should be well along. You’ll have a good idea of the final product to take as a memory and to come back home to.”
“Speaking of going away, I have some things I need. I’ve been working on that list for college.” She smiled, her dimples showing.
“Oh really?”
One of the workmen shouted, drawing both of our attention.
They’d found another box. I ran with the others to see.
This box was bigger but flatter, and made of what appeared to be tin. Instead of being wrapped in oilcloth, a checked vinyl tablecloth had been folded around it and secured with twine.
I recognized that tablecloth.
“What’s this?” a man’s voice called out. “Ms. Cooper?”
Roger stopped me from climbing into the wreckage.
“I understand. I’ll wait.” I hadn’t seen that tablecloth in years. Since before Gran passed. It had covered her kitchen table until it disappeared.
The vinyl fabric had decayed and softened. This box hadn’t held up as well as the aged wooden box found under the hearth. The outside was filthy and corroded, but it appeared to be intact. Might the inside be water-damaged? I wasn’t waiting to find out. Gran had wrapped this with her own hands.
Roger saw my excitement—how could he not? He carried the box himself, asking me, “Where to? The cabin?”
I nodded. Ellen walked with us and held open the door. Roger set the box on the wedging table. I practically pushed them aside.
“This was Gran’s tablecloth.” I could hardly imagine the effort it had taken for her to wrap this and hide it beneath the floor.
The twine holding the tablecloth in place fell apart at my touch. Forewarned, I eased the tablecloth from around the package. It was smudged with black ash, mud, and charred wood. My hands were soon as black and gritty as the vinyl, but the tablecloth had done its job. The box was intact, and a tiny latch held it shut. No lock.
Ellen and Roger were so close to me that I felt their breath on my hair as I reached toward the box. What sort of treasure would Gran put in here? I lifted the lid, saw a flash of pink, and realized I might be making a big mistake.
“What’s that, Mom?” Ellen spoke with delight. “Is that my baby book?”
CHAPTER EIGHT
Eva had brought the pink book tucked in the side of the grocery box. I remembered that day clearly. She’d also brought the local newspaper listing Ellen’s birth, which had prompted me to want to do better for my daughter than that bare announcement. I’d written my own version and drawn the pictures and had put those in the baby book.
After Ellen’s death, I hadn’t thought about the book. When I did, I couldn’t find it. I was OK with not finding it.
Now I knew what had become of the baby book. Gran had hidden it here during our grief. What exactly had I written in it? Anything that might cause a problem?
Ellen reached for the book. I grabbed her hands. “Wait. It’s probably fragile.” I added, “You know, the fact is, I’m embarrassed. I didn’t keep up the book. I didn’t record first steps. No first teeth.” I fumbled about in my brain looking for other excuses. “I had my hands full with Gran, you know.”
“Mom, I understand.”
Ellen couldn’t quite hide her disappointment, and I could hardly blame her. I released her hands. “OK, honey. Be easy with it.”
My daughter lifted the book from the box. There were a few smaller items in the box, but my attention was focused on Ellen and the baby book. She set it gently on the table. The page edges were slightly rippled, as if moisture had been absorbed, but when she opened the cover, the pages themselves were untouched.
“Oh, Mommy.”
She hadn’t called me Mommy in a while. Only Mom. Mommy was reserved for times of great distress or apology.
I saw the lock of hair in clear plastic. I recalled Gran snipping it for a keepsake. I’d forgotten the drawing of the infant Ellen. The tiny hand, the soft cap of baby hair, and so much more, that I felt the feathery curls almost under my fingertips again. That baby smell . . .