Where There’s a Will

by Beth Pattillo

  Kate could only hope that if she lived to be Joshua Parsons’ age, she’d have half his sense of humor. The thing about visiting people in their homes, she thought, was that you were often able to see an unexpected side to someone. With a wry smile, she wondered what people noticed about her when they came to her house.

  “Let me see if I can find it again,” he said. “I don’t think I threw it out.”

  Kate followed him into the living room. Given the piles of books, magazines, newspapers, and other items, she didn’t know how he could remember where anything was. But after a few minutes of shifting and sorting, he succeeded.

  “Aha!” He lifted a yellowed sheet of newsprint over his head. “Found it.”

  Kate’s pulse picked up. “What does it say?”

  Joshua handed her the paper, and Kate carefully unfolded it. The pages were brittle with age, but the type was still legible.

  LOCAL ARTIST WINS STATE PRIZE, the headline read, with a dateline from the sixties. Underneath was a blurry picture of an older woman seated on a stool in front of an easel, her hair pulled back in a bun. She held a brush in one hand, and her head was cocked at an angle.

  “Read it out loud,” Joshua instructed, and Kate obliged.

  “Copper Mill resident Lela Harrington may well give Grandma Moses a run for her money,” Kate read. “Last week, she won the Jackson-Story prize for her series of paintings titled Remembrances. When contacted by this reporter, Mrs. Harrington said that she was particularly proud of these paintings, as they were connected to her family heritage. She is perhaps best known as the wife of Alexander Harrington, whose family once owned the town and the ironworks depicted in several of the paintings.”

  Kate stopped. “Mr. Parsons! I can’t believe this!” After running into so many brick walls, she never expected such a key piece of information to drop into her lap with so little effort.

  She quickly scanned the rest of the all-too-brief article. “It doesn’t mention the paintings by name,” she said, disappointment in her voice. “Or what happened to them.”

  “Paintings? What have her paintings got to do with finding some long-lost cousins?”

  “It’s a long story,” Kate said with a sigh. “Would you mind if I kept this paper?”

  “Don’t see why not.” He waved his hand to indicate the rest of the room. “I got plenty of old newspapers.”

  Kate smiled. “I’m sure Livvy Jenner would love to know about your collection.”

  “Well, tell her she’s welcome to all of it if she wants to come and get it. I don’t have much use for it anymore.” He looked around the room, sadness in his eyes. “People don’t care as much about the past as they used to. Now it seems more of a nuisance than anything.”

  Kate opened her mouth to correct him and then stopped. Perhaps he was right. Certainly her trip with Ellen to the abandoned town of Harrington proved his point. Oliver Coats obviously cared more about profit than preservation, and he wasn’t the only one. These days people thought it was easier to knock something down and start over than to try to repair or rebuild it. Sometimes, starting over was appropriate. But history, once it was lost, was gone forever, along with all the riches it contained.

  “I can’t thank you enough, Mr. Parsons. You’ve been a great help.”

  “Not sure I contributed much. But I’ll think on it some more, and maybe somethin’ else will come to me.”

  “I’ll check back with you soon.”

  “Soon?”

  “Didn’t you say you would need more pie?” Kate teased him.

  Old Man Parsons brightened considerably, his eyes alight with a bit of a sparkle beneath his bushy brows. “Yes, I guess I did.”

  Kate moved toward the door. “I’ll bring you that pie real soon, okay?”

  “All right. Drive safe.”

  “Will do.” Kate waved good-bye and headed for her car, the newspaper tucked underneath her arm.

  True, she’d hoped for more information about Ellen’s cousins, but the newspaper had been a real find. Plus, she could use it in her class project. All in all, she decided, it had been worth the pie, and she drove home whistling one of her favorite hymns.

  Chapter Ten

  While Old Man Parsons hadn’t been able to remember the married names of Ellen’s cousins, he had given Kate inspiration. The next morning, she made a stop at two cemeteries, the one in Pine Ridge and then back home in Copper Mill. Then she headed back to the library to see Livvy.

  “We didn’t check the obituaries,” she said. “I bet if we could find the one for Ellen’s grandmother, we might find the names of the cousins. They usually list the living relatives of the deceased.”

  Livvy slapped her palm against her forehead. “I can’t believe I didn’t think of that.”

  “Well, you have to let me be the one to think of stuff every now and then so I don’t get an inferiority complex,” Kate teased.

  Livvy raised one eyebrow, skeptical. “A complex? You? Not a chance.”

  They both laughed, and Kate was reminded how grateful she was for Livvy’s friendship. When she and Paul had first moved to Copper Mill, she’d been afraid she wouldn’t make friends the way she had in San Antonio. Fortunately, Livvy had been among the first people Kate had met, and they’d been close friends ever since.

  “Let’s head for the microfiche,” Livvy suggested.

  While fancier, better-funded libraries might have converted the archives of the town newspaper to digital format, the Copper Mill Public Library still used the antiquated storage system. The small sheets of black film looked like miniature X-rays. Livvy flipped through the files.

  “Smart of you to think of swinging by the cemeteries to get the dates. Otherwise, we’d have been looking through this stuff for hours.”

  “Thank you, ma’am,” Kate said with a mock bow.

  Livvy leaned closer to the microfiche reader so she could see the screen more clearly.

  “Here’s something.” She paused and read some of the text before stepping back and letting Kate have a turn. “What do you think?”

  Kate stepped forward and peered at the screen. There was Lela Harrington’s obituary from the Copper Mill Chronicle. Kate quickly scanned the information, noting Ellen’s name among the grandchildren.

  “Here it is,” she said. “The other cousins are Anne Harrington Todd of Brentwood and Elizabeth Harrington Sweazy of McMinnville.”

  “Fantastic! A little more Googling, and we’re in business. Which cousin do you want to start with?” Livvy asked.

  Kate considered the question. “Might as well do it alphabetically. Let’s start with Anne in Brentwood.”

  “You got it,” Livvy said.

  Together, they headed back to the computer terminals to find contact information for Ellen’s long-lost cousins.

  OFTEN, WHEN PAUL needed time away and some spiritual direction, he visited his mentor, Nehemiah Jacobs. But Nehemiah lived in an assisted living facility in Chattanooga, and Paul had little time to spare, because his next chamber meeting was quickly approaching. He knew there was no better substitute for Nehemiah than his good friend Sam Gorman, owner of the Mercantile. Sam also happened to be the choir director and organist at Faith Briar Church, so Paul knew Sam’s opinions would be spiritually tempered as well as practical.

  To gain entry to the Mercantile, though, Paul first had to run the gauntlet of retirees who congregated on the porch every day to drink coffee and chat. Like a scene out of a Norman Rockwell painting, some of the men even whittled as they sat on the rockers outside the Mercantile telling tall tales and swapping jokes.

  Clifton Beasley was sitting in the center of the group when Paul climbed the steps.

  “Morning, Clifton.” Paul hadn’t had a chance to speak to the older man or to call on his wife since her visit to the doctor in Chattanooga. “How are you today?”

  Clifton was usually full of ornery energy, but that particular morning he looked weary, and his features were pale and drawn. “Morn
in’, Preacher,” he said halfheartedly.

  The other men, as if sensing Clifton’s need for privacy, moved to the rockers on the other side of the porch or drifted back inside the Mercantile to refill their coffee cups.

  “How’s Ida Mae doing?” Paul asked as he took a seat next to Clifton. “We missed you at the last chamber meeting.”

  “Her heart’s been givin’ her trouble again. Out of rhythm, the doc said. They want her to come in next Thursday for a procedure.”

  Paul put a hand on Clifton’s shoulder. “Sometimes this kind of thing is harder on the spouse than on the patient. Kate and I will be praying for her. Will she be in the hospital overnight?”

  “Don’t know for sure. Depends on how it goes.”

  “Would you like me to drive y’all down there? I’d be glad to do it. And I bet Kate would come too, to keep Ida Mae company while she waits.”

  Clifton looked at him, relief in his eyes. His shoulders slumped. “I’d be much obliged, but are you sure you can spare the time?”

  Paul smiled. “That’s why I moved to Copper Mill. So I could do what I think a pastor should—be there for the people in his congregation.”

  “Thanks, Pastor. Ida Mae would sure appreciate it, especially if Kate came along.”

  Paul would never have volunteered Kate to coordinate the Christmas Craft Extravaganza without checking with her first, but he felt no such concern about committing her for a hospital visit. She would have offered to go anyway the minute he’d told her his plans.

  “Just let me know what time you need to go. You can leave a message over at the church or give me a call at the parsonage.”

  “I will, Preacher.”

  Paul rose from his rocker, and Clifton did as well. He extended his hand, and Paul shook it.

  As Paul entered the Mercantile, he continued to smile. Sometimes the difficult choices—like giving up the pulpit of his large church in San Antonio—proved to be the most rewarding ones of all.

  PAUL HAD TO WAIT for Sam to finish up with some customers before he could bend his ear about the chamber of commerce. While he waited, he wandered the aisles, perusing the items on the shelves.

  The store’s inventory boasted much of what a resident of Copper Mill might need, though certainly not in the quantity or variety one might find at the SuperMart in Pine Ridge. When did we get to the point that we need twenty different kinds of coffee to choose from, anyway? Paul wondered as he took in the simple selection of coffee on the shelf. Regular or decaf. Folgers or Maxwell House. No French roast, espresso pods, café-au-lait mixes, or hazelnut flavorings. Wasn’t life complicated enough without an existential crisis over the choice of a pound of coffee?

  Sam came around the corner and spied Paul. “There you are. You looked like you had more on your mind than shopping.”

  “I do. Do you have a minute?”

  Sam motioned for Paul to follow him. “I’ll have to ask Arlene to watch the front for a little while. You want some coffee if those fellows outside left any in the pot?”

  Paul had to chuckle at the question. He could always count on Sam to be straightforward and uncomplicated, like his coffee selection. “That would be great.”

  It was a wonder the population of Copper Mill didn’t float away on the river of coffee it consumed.

  Once they’d filled their cups with the savory brew, Sam ushered Paul to the storeroom in the back and motioned toward a pair of dilapidated folding chairs. “Make yourself at home.”

  Paul wasn’t sure he’d ever sought out Sam’s advice between looming stacks of cornflakes and paper towels, but obviously there was a first time for everything.

  “What can I do you for?” Sam asked with a twinkle in his eye.

  “I need your help, Sam.”

  Paul’s tone sobered Sam quickly. “Sure. You name it.”

  “It’s about the chamber of commerce.”

  Sam winced and let out a long sigh. “I heard that Lawton snookered you into joining that group.”

  “And you didn’t think you should warn me?”

  Sam shrugged. “They’re harmless enough. And they always leave LuAnne a hefty tip, or so she says.”

  “That’s okay with you?” Paul was surprised that Sam would be so complacent about the ineffectiveness of the chamber. “You don’t have a problem with the fact that the only thing expanding under their leadership is their waistlines?”

  “I tried to fight that battle a long time ago, Paul, but I saw pretty quick how pointless it was. Folks like Lawton Briddle don’t want any progress around here. They’re afraid of change...and the potentially negative consequences.”

  “But what about you, Sam? You’re a business owner. Surely you don’t want to see the economic base of this town continue to erode year after year.”

  Sam shrugged. “I’ve made my peace with it. I figure I can hold on long enough to get to retirement. Then I’ll sell the store. No one but me would be fool enough to keep the Mercantile open.”

  “But you’re the only grocery store in town. When you’re gone, what will people do? Especially the ones who don’t have a car or can’t drive anymore?”

  Paul knew that Sam spent many an hour delivering groceries to townspeople who were ill or homebound.

  “They’ll have to find a way to the SuperMart in Pine Ridge, which most of them are doing anyway, judging by how my sales keep slipping.” Sam took a sip of his coffee.

  “Maybe the chamber, if it was actually effective, could change all that for the better.”

  Sam shook his head. “I doubt it, Paul. I figured out I couldn’t fight the SuperMart going up in Pine Ridge and tussle with Lawton Briddle too, so I threw in the towel.”

  “I have a friend coming to visit from San Antonio.” Paul knew that if the plan that had been forming in his mind was going to work, he’d need Sam’s help. Not just his help, but his leadership. “Bill was instrumental in turning around San Antonio’s economy by developing the tourist trade. I want him to visit Copper Mill and hopefully offer some suggestions for how we might bring this town back to life.”

  “Lawton and his boys...did they agree to meet with your guy?”

  Paul nodded. “But they’re wary, especially the mayor, and it won’t take much for them to shoot down any suggestion he makes. I need reinforcements, Sam.”

  “A ringer, you mean.”

  “People around here respect you. If you lead by example...”

  “You overestimate my influence, Paul. Look, I appreciate your willingness to try, but it’s not enough. It’s like that old joke...the one about how many shrinks it takes to change a lightbulb.”

  “Shrinks?”

  “Psychiatrists. Therapists.”

  Despite the seriousness of their discussion, Paul had to smile. “Okay, I’ll bite. How many shrinks does it take to change a lightbulb?”

  “Only one,” Sam said. “But the lightbulb really has to want to change.”

  Paul laughed in spite of himself. “Okay, okay. But let’s say, hypothetically speaking, that you wanted to try to convince the lightbulb to change. How would you go about it?”

  “I wouldn’t, because it can’t be done.”

  “Aw c’mon, Sam. Give me a break here.”

  “All right.” Sam looked around, stared hard at the tower of cornflake boxes, then rubbed his face. “I’m going to tell you what you already know. It’s always good if you can make them think something is their idea. And anything that reinforces their heartfelt beliefs about Copper Mill would help too.”

  “I agree, but how do I do those things?”

  “Paul, if I knew the answer to that, I’d still be a member of the chamber. Shoot, I’d be the president of it.” He shrugged. “All I can do is hang on as long as I can. With any luck, it will be long enough.”

  Paul shook his head. “God wants more for this town, I’m sure of it. And not mill jobs at the expense of the land.”

  “I hope you’re right.” Sam stood up. “But I wouldn’t lay money
on getting Lawton and his ilk to cooperate with the good Lord.”

  “I wouldn’t be so sure,” said Paul.

  LATER, AS PAUL WAS DRIVING HOME, he wondered whether Mike Rowland, the young man who was planning to look for work in Chattanooga, had left yet. He thought he’d contact Mike and suggest they meet for coffee after he and Kate made sure Clifton and his wife were settled in at the hospital. He was worried about Mike, rootless and alone in the city. In the meantime, he prayed that God would send a little inspiration his way as to how he could pry open the closed minds of the Copper Mill Chamber of Commerce.

  Chapter Eleven

  Anne Harrington Todd lived in Brentwood, a well-heeled suburb south of Nashville. Kate left after breakfast the next Monday morning and arrived a few minutes after the appointed time of ten o’clock. When she’d spoken with Anne the Friday before, the woman had agreed to see her on short notice, but something about the conversation left Kate feeling unsettled. Kate continued to use her class project as the ostensible reason for her visit, since she had no idea how this branch of the family might feel about Ellen or the prospect of a missing will.

  Kate approached Anne’s large home with its imposing columns with some trepidation. What would she find there? Suddenly she had second thoughts about the visit, but she took a deep breath and rang the bell.

  In moments, Anne Harrington Todd herself appeared, a well-groomed woman a few years older than Kate. Her blonde hair shone with highlights that were as subtle as they must have been expensive.

  “Mrs. Hanlon?” Anne held out a perfectly manicured hand and greeted Kate with an air of formality. “Nice to meet you. I am Anne Todd.”

  “Call me Kate, please.” Kate mustered her warmest smile as she clasped the other woman’s hand. Anne Todd’s handshake was as cool as her tone. “I can’t thank you enough for taking the time to see me.”

  “It’s my pleasure. Please come in.”

  Anne led Kate through the foyer and into a formal living room. Kate’s artistic eye admired the elegant decor, but the room felt more like a museum than a home.