Roots of Wood and Stone Page 2

  “She’d think that even if she weren’t sick. You look just like him.”

  “Fifty years ago, sure!”

  Lauren rolled her eyes. “Stop yelling.”

  “I’m not yelling.”

  “Now, what’s all this yelling?”

  A frail, white-haired woman shuffled in from the dining room. Garrett felt, rather than saw, the I-told-you-so look Lauren tossed his way.

  “Orrin. When did you get home?” Grandma’s smile shone warm and genuine.

  Swallowing a lump in his throat, Garrett met her in the center of the room. Play along. It was what all the Alzheimer’s websites instructed.

  “Hello, Rosie.” He leaned down and feathered a kiss to her soft, wrinkled cheek.

  “Where’d you find my knitting basket?” She reached into it, caressing a ball of buttery yellow yarn like a beloved pet. “I’ve been looking everywhere for this.”

  “Must’ve been put away somewhere by accident.” Lauren rushed forward, took the basket, and returned it to its spot beside the chair. “There. Back where it belongs.” She cut a pointed glance at Garrett.

  “Wonderful.” Grandma’s pale blue eyes gleamed. “Tonight, after supper, I’ll start on a new … a new … Oh, what am I trying to say? It’s on the tip of my tongue.”

  “Sweater?” Lauren suggested. “Blanket?”

  “No, it goes around your neck.” Grandma swirled her hands in demonstration.

  “Scarf,” Garrett and Lauren replied in unison.

  “Scarf. Right.” Confusion flitted across Grandma’s face. Her train of thought had derailed. Again.

  Lauren stepped in with a gentle hug. “How about some TV, Grandma? I think the Royals are on.”

  Grandma’s face lit. “Now that sounds like a plan.”

  Garrett helped her settle on the sofa while Lauren reached for the remote and clicked the TV to life. Within minutes, his grandmother was fixated on full counts and fly balls, waving the little felt pennant she kept in a 2015 World Series Champions mug on the end table.

  This was the crux of Lauren’s argument. Grandma was happy here, no denying it. And when the time came, it would break her heart to leave her home of more than sixty years. No denying that either.

  But sooner or later, the bandage had to come off. Lauren and Grandma preferred to peel it away millimeter by millimeter. Mitigating the pain, sure, but prolonging it to a torturous degree.

  He’d always preferred to rip it off.

  Either way, it was painful. Garrett had known that from the moment of her diagnosis.

  But he’d grossly underestimated how painful it would be.

  “By the late flood, onion beds were paralyzed, beautiful lawns ruined, horrid stenches brewed, streets washed out and everybody inconvenienced.”

  Rustling from the next desk tore Sloane’s attention from the Wichita Daily Eagle’s account of a 1904 flood to her office mate, Colleen.

  “Taking off?” Sloane asked.

  Tugging her silvery ponytail from beneath the collar of her trench coat, Colleen nodded toward the rain-streaked window. “You should too, unless you want to swim home.”

  Sloane glanced back at the black-and-white photos of floodwaters so deep people boated down Main Street. “I don’t think it’s quite that bad yet.”

  As her colleague departed, Sloane shifted in her chair and did a couple shoulder rolls. Lowering the lid of her laptop, she spied her mug of tea, still half full but no doubt stone-cold. That always happened when she was wrapped up in the past.

  Her favorite place to be.

  Well, second favorite. Her true favorite was her apartment, under her fuzzy orange blanket, a steaming order of Chinese carryout on the coffee table and an old movie on TV. Romance on the High Seas might be the winner tonight. Or maybe—

  Her gaze fell on the worn-out satchel propped against her desk, and her bubble of daydreams popped. It wasn’t just her tea she’d neglected this busy afternoon.

  Okay, one more quick task, and then she’d take off. Call the guy—what was his name again?—and tell him, You’re right, it’s old, but we’ve got half a dozen just like it, so I’m calling your bluff. Come take it back. Does Monday work for you? Great. And please, for the love of local limestone, don’t bring us anything else from Grandma’s basement.

  Now where was his card? Sloane pawed through piles of photos on her desk without success. It wasn’t in any of the drawers either. Where in the world—

  Oh. Right.

  Sending up a silent prayer of thanks for a weekend that was apparently much needed, she reached for the satchel and peered inside. Bingo. Garrett P. Anderson, Certified Financial Planner.

  Of course. Certified financial planners usually had names like Garrett P. Anderson. In fact, he—

  Something deep inside the satchel caught her eye. Something she’d missed during her earlier examination.

  It was small. Black. Leather. A Bible, maybe. Or some other book. Or—

  Sloane’s eyes widened as she slid the book out of the satchel and into the light.

  It wasn’t just a book.

  It was a diary.

  An old diary, from the looks of it. Slipping a pair of archival gloves from her desk drawer, she slid them on, cracked open the cover with care, and inhaled the earthy smell of ancient paper. Her pulse quickened at the childish scrawl on the opening page.

  July 29, 1861

  Deer Diary,

  Hello. My name is Miss Annabelle Mary Collins.

  I am nine years old.

  CHAPTER TWO

  July 29, 1861

  MERCY, IT WAS quiet here.

  No teasing big brothers. No thundering footsteps.

  And no Papa with his booming voice and hearty laugh.

  Just a bird chirping outside the open window and leaves rustling in the slight breeze.

  Annabelle dipped her pen in the inkwell and returned it to the crisp new page. At least the scratch of pen on paper would make a little noise.

  Uncle Stephen and Aunt Katherine gave me this diary. I have never seen so much blank paper before. I am not at all sure how to fill it.

  She’d never had her own room before. And what a room it was. Blue and gold flowered wallpaper, the fanciest she’d seen. A lovely writing desk.

  And the lace curtains at the windows took her breath away. She’d never seen anything so perfect, so delicate. Like the gown of a fairy princess. She was sure they were boughten, as they’d never had anything that fine, but Aunt Katherine made them.

  This place was beautiful.

  But it wasn’t home.

  I am to live here with them until Papa returns. My room is nice. It has a blue flowered quilt on the bed and boo beu very pretty lace curtains at the windows.

  But I would trade all the lace curtains in the world if I could have my Papa back.

  A knock came to the door, and Aunt Katherine stepped into the room. She and Papa had the same slate-brown hair, though hers had more silver in it. Behind her spectacles shone eyes the same gray-blue as Papa’s, like rain clouds before a downpour.

  Those eyes peered back at Annabelle whenever she looked in a mirror.

  Aunt Katherine beamed as she came up behind Annabelle. “I simply can’t get over how much you look like Mary.”

  Annabelle frowned. People always said she was the spitting image of Mama. The same round cheeks, pointed chin, and thick honey-colored hair. But no matter how much time she spent in front of a mirror, no matter how hard she tried, she never saw Mama.

  Maybe Papa did.

  Maybe that was why he always seemed so sad.

  “I am so happy you’ve come.” Aunt Katherine wrapped her arms around Annabelle’s shoulders. Annabelle started at the scent of her aunt’s rosewater perfume.

  The same kind Mama wore.

  Perhaps if Annabelle shut her eyes tight and thought hard, she could pretend it was Mama hugging her. Not an aunt who was mostly a stranger.

  It was no use. Not even she, with what Papa called
her “fancy-full” imagination, could pretend that. The hug felt nice, but not quite right. It was a little too forced. Too fragrant. Too much.

  Annabelle swallowed against the hurt in her chest and squeezed her eyes tighter to keep the stinging tears in. It wasn’t Mama hugging her.

  It wouldn’t be Mama ever again, not until heaven.

  Uneven footsteps creaked the floorboards as Aunt Katherine released her, and Uncle Stephen ducked into the doorway. So tall he nearly scraped the ceiling, yet his smile was warm, his brown eyes kind behind wire-rimmed spectacles.

  “Now, isn’t this nice?” he said. “All these years praying for a child, and here we are. Our own flesh and blood.”

  He meant well, but Annabelle squirmed. Papa had said on the way here that her aunt and uncle had always wanted a child of their own.

  Hot anger had flared at that. “But I’m not their child. I’m yours. Yours and Mama’s.” She’d stamped her foot against the buggy’s floor, but Papa silenced her with that look of his, that line in the sand she dared not cross.

  “You know I’ve not got much choice in the matter, darlin’.”

  She’d stiffened. He’d been the first to sign his name to the list of volunteers at the rally. He’d been lauded as a hero, flags waving and bands playing. Everything about this had been his choice.

  “Do you suppose Papa’s made it to Indianapolis yet?” she asked.

  Aunt Katherine opened the window a bit more, and the breeze ruffled those beautiful curtains. “I’m certain he has.”

  “Then is he fighting Johnny Reb?”

  Uncle Stephen chuckled. “Not yet. He and your brothers likely have a lot of paperwork to fill out, and physical examinations to pass.”

  Mercy. That sounded almost as boring as being here.

  Uncle Stephen’s uneven gait filled the room. The result of a childhood riding accident, Papa had said. It didn’t slow her uncle down any, but it must’ve been enough to keep him from joining up with Papa.

  “I’d be there if I could.” He sighed and slipped his arm around Aunt Katherine.

  She patted his cheek. “Selfishly, I’m glad you can’t.”

  Annabelle gave a silent harrumph. She would’ve joined up too, and she’d told Papa as much.

  “Now, Annabelle,” he’d said. “War is no place for a young lady.”

  For most young ladies that was doubtless true. But if Mr. President Lincoln could see her hold her own with her brothers, he’d surely make an exception.

  “What if I cut my hair? Wore boys’ clothes? Gave a different name? Could I come with you then?”

  Papa had brushed his thumb over her cheek, the no in his eyes clear before it even left his lips. “You might be able to make them think you’re a boy, but you’d never convince them you’re old enough. Boy or girl, sweetheart, nine is nine.”

  Annabelle’s heart had sunk, though she hadn’t let her hopes get high enough to hurt when they fell.

  “Do you like your new diary?” Aunt Katherine hovered like a hummingbird over the writing desk where Annabelle sat. “Your papa said you like to write and draw.”

  “You’ll want a record of all your adventures,” Uncle Stephen added.

  Annabelle scoffed. “I haven’t had any yet.”

  Uncle Stephen’s eyes crinkled. “But you will. The good Lord is cooking one up for you as we speak. One that’ll take everything you’ve got. He’ll not let you go, though, not for an instant. He promised in his Word to always be with you.”

  Papa had promised that too. Yet not even twenty-four hours ago, she’d watched him ride away without a backward glance.

  His country needed him. She knew that.

  But no one stopped to think that maybe she needed him more.

  Sloane’s breath left in a whoosh as she laid the diary on her desk. Being abandoned by a parent, even for such a noble cause, would have left a deep wound.

  A wound Sloane knew all too well. And one she’d rather not focus on right now.

  So who was this Annabelle Collins? A census index might shed some light. And Sloane might be able to find Annabelle’s father through Civil War records. If she’d lived in Indiana, her diary should go to historians there.

  But if that were the case, how had her diary, her satchel, come to reside in a beat-up cardboard box in Sedgwick County, Kansas?

  Sloane had no idea.

  But she might know someone who did. She reached for Garrett Anderson’s business card. He’d be pleased, no doubt, to learn he’d brought something of value after all. She could picture the smirk that would spring to his face when she told him.

  But this wasn’t about him, or the satchel, or his grandma’s cluttered house. This was about Annabelle Collins and getting the words of her heart to their proper home. Besides, if he didn’t know anything about Annabelle, which he probably didn’t, then the call could be brief, and they could both go on with their lives.

  Satisfied, she picked up her phone, sat back in her chair, and dialed.

  “How’s it going in here?” Garrett stepped into the kitchen, awash as usual with interesting aromas.

  “Pretty good,” came the absent reply from behind Lauren’s clicking camera. “Just a few more shots and we’ll be set.”

  Garrett eyed the artfully arranged plate in the crosshairs of the camera lens and suppressed a sigh. He was proud of his sister and her food blog, but given Lauren’s obsessive need to get just the right shot, dinner might be stone-cold by the time it arrived on the table.

  “Anything I can do to help?” He pulled a plastic pill reminder from a cupboard. “It’s time for Grandma’s meds, and she can’t take them on an empty stomach.”

  “I’m just about”—the camera clicked a few times in quick succession—“done. Yay.”

  “Yay.” Garrett’s reply was much less enthusiastic as he grabbed a couple plates sensibly portioned with sliced chicken breast, some fancy whole grain he couldn’t identify, and a heaping helping of something leafy and green. Lauren was always on the lookout for the latest health trends, and while this meal was gluten free, low-carb, and undoubtedly good for him, it would also lack the flavors he was used to from his simple bachelor fare. The few times he’d tried to cook dinner during his visits were met with well-meaning lectures from Lauren about the evils of every ingredient, so he’d ceded control of the kitchen when in Wichita and settled for the occasional late-night junk food run.

  “Okay, Grandma, here’s dinner.” He set a plate in front of her, tipped the pills into his palm, and placed them next to her water cup. “And here are your meds.”

  Grandma blinked at the offerings, then looked up with a devilish smile. “Where’s the beef?”

  Lauren’s lips curved. “You know red meat is bad for your blood pressure.”

  “I’m just teasing, sugarplum.” Grandma reached out a withered hand and patted Lauren’s. “It looks delicious as always. Now, who wants to say the, uh, the … ?”

  “Blessing.” Lauren finished her sentence as Garrett’s phone buzzed in his pocket. He pulled it out and frowned at the number. The Wichita area code meant it probably wasn’t a client, but it could be one of the care homes he’d begun researching on the sly.

  He slid from his chair and silenced the phone. “I have to take this. You all go ahead without me.” Ignoring Lauren’s glare, he stepped out to the screened porch and raised the phone to his ear. “Hello?”

  “Hi,” a woman’s voice replied. “Is this Garrett Anderson?”

  “Speaking.”

  “This is Sloane Kelley from the Sedgwick County Museum of History. I’m calling in regard to the satchel you brought in this afternoon.”

  “Oh? Is it maybe something you can use after all?” His competitive urge surfaced, hoping for a victory over Miss You-Can’t-Just-Bring-Stuff-In-Here. He tamped it down.

  She paused. “Do you have any idea where the satchel came from?”

  “I’d never seen it before. There’s a ton of old stuff here. We’ve barely scratch
ed the surface.”

  “Wonderful.” She didn’t sound impressed. “Does the name Annabelle Collins mean anything to you?”

  He frowned at the puddles dotting the yard, the result of the day’s downpour. Rain still fell but at a considerably gentler rate. “I’m afraid not.”

  “You said this was found in your grandparents’ house? Did they ever live in Indiana?”

  What was this woman getting at? “I don’t think so. Grandma was born and raised here, and I’m pretty sure Grandpa was too.”

  “Did they ever travel to Indiana? Maybe pick up the satchel in an antique store on vacation, and the diary just happened to be in there?”

  Garrett blinked. “Diary?”

  “The one from 1861 I found inside the satchel.”

  “You’re kidding. I could’ve sworn that thing was empty.” Competitiveness tapped him on the shoulder once more. “So the diary at least has some use to you guys even if the satchel doesn’t?”

  “It’s going to be useful to someone, yes, but I’m not sure it’s in our jurisdiction, so to speak. That’s why I’m giving you the third degree.”

  That drew a chuckle. “What do you know so far?”

  “Annabelle was nine when she received the diary as a gift from her Uncle Stephen and Aunt Katherine. I don’t suppose those names ring any bells?”

  “Nope.” Garrett ran a hand through his hair. It felt like this woman was giving him a quiz he never studied for and had no hope of passing. “I’m sorry, I don’t know that much about my family history.”

  “Join the club.” Sloane’s voice lost its crisp, no-nonsense edge, and the resulting huskiness did strange things to his insides. Before he could analyze that, though, she hit him with another question. “What about your grandparents? Any chance I could speak with them?”

  “I wish that was possible.” He glanced out at the dilapidated red barn where Grandpa’s beloved tractor stood silent, covered with cobwebs and dust. “My grandfather passed away last fall.”

  “Oh no. I’m so sorry to hear that.” Genuine sympathy seeped through the line.