“Yeah, I remember discussing this when we were in high school. You wanted to preserve the handmade features of houses.”
His gaze took on a faraway glint. “Those hand-carved balustrades and mantels, the built-in hutches and bookcases with beveled glass panels. The features that were the soul of the house.”
“You talked about restoring those houses to their original glory, one by one. What happened to those dreams?”
“You mean those idealistic dreams of our youth?” With a shake of his head, he spread his hands in front of him. “The real world happens. Projects like that take lots of money to start.”
She swung the tool to indicate the room where they stood. “I have to say, you still like doing the work, or you wouldn’t be here.”
“Only a hobby now.”
Vena went back to prying at the lath. Did she know people who worked at the dream jobs of their youth?
“Would you look at this?”
Finn’s voice reached her through her musings. Vena stepped toward the wall and peered over his shoulder as he pulled a faded book covered with dusty cobwebs from a space between the wall studs and cradled the book in his hands. The cover had probably once been red crushed velvet with ribbons running diagonally across the outer corners. Over time, the ribbons had been either broken or been chewed, and only the straggly ends tucked into the cover remained.
“What was a book doing in there?” She reached out a hand to brush at the gray, flyaway strands clinging to the fabric.
“Maybe someone hid it and forgot about it when this room was divided.” He leaned closer to the half-demolished partition wall and gazed upward, squinting against the swirling dust. “Or it dropped down the wall from an opening upstairs.”
Vena fingered the fragile binding. “May I see the book? Please?” When he passed her the volume, she was surprised at its solid weight. With careful movements, she eased open the front cover, slowing as she heard a creaking sound. A silverfish darted up the inside margin and ducked into the spine. “Somebody made this with love and care.”
As happened at the museum when she started a new project, her heart beat fast with anticipation. A border of fancy swirls decorated the first page. About one third of the way down the page, Our Journey West was written in bold calligraphy. At the bottom in small, spiky handwriting was a signature: Minnie Anzelm Quaid, 1868, Cantrell, Illinois.
“Finn, it’s a journal—must be someone from your family. Weren’t your ancestors in the group that founded Dry Creek?” She ran her fingers over the page’s uneven edge. “Feels like vellum.”
“Yeah, I think they were. Ask Moira, she keeps track of the genealogy stuff.”
“Vellum is good quality paper. Very expensive, especially back then. This was intended to be someone’s family heirloom.” She cradled the journal in her arms. “To be passed down to Minnie’s children.”
He stopped bagging the lath pieces and glanced over his shoulder. “How do you know that?”
“From college courses on the pioneer era. Women often wrote their daily experiences in a journal like this one. Then, upon reaching their destination, they used the information to advise friends and relatives who came later.” As she smoothed a gentle hand across the cover, her voice dropped to a whisper. “But I’ve never actually seen a copy.”
Vena searched the room and headed toward a relatively clean spot in the far corner. She sat and spread the book open on her lap. Her breath came in short, quick gasps.
This was an authentic diary of someone’s life during the same time period as the focus of her museum project. Turning aside the title page, Vena prayed what she was about to read would help in her writing. With a quick glance, she scanned the next page and admired the neat, even lines of old-fashioned writing.
April 10, 1868: Day dawned sunny with a few clouds—a good omen. Still a nip in the air, saw my breath on the way to the outhouse. Been a bride five days today, and my husband (I love writing those words) and I are heading to Oregon. Hiram’s uncle writes the land is bountiful and there is lots of it, so we will claim our share. Our new Conestoga is piled high with wedding gifts and food—will buy farm tools there. Mama cried and clung tight, weeping she’d never see me this side of Heaven. I promised we’d visit in a couple years, kissed her once, and climbed into the wagon seat. Had to turn my eyes to the west and look to our future. The team is full of spirit, and each horse tosses its head high as we start for St. Louis. What an adventure we will have.
Vena read on, intrigued by the rich detail of Minnie’s account but, knowing the proven pitfalls of the wagon trail, already afraid for what lay ahead for the newlywed Quaid pair.
****
Finn brushed the dust and dirt from his hands and glanced at his watch. Since opening that book, Vena had been lost to the world. “Uh, Vena?”
No response.
He walked closer and tapped her shoulder. “Vena, do you know what time it is?”
She peered upward and blinked a couple of times. “What?”
That dreamy look in her eyes was one he enjoyed. If only he’d been the one to put it there. “It’s after one o’clock.”
“Already?”
He watched her stretch out one leg and then the other from the crossed position she’d been in for the last thirty minutes. “The protest…at two o’clock…?” Seeing her confused expression, he continued, “You remember, at the police station.”
With a groan, she shook her head. “Oh, that. Ugh.” She jumped up and brushed off the back of her skirt before bending and scooping up the book.
As she approached, her smile stretched wide, and a light of excitement danced in her eyes. “This journal is just what I needed. Minnie and Hiram are traveling on the Oregon Trail in 1868—not exactly the same time for the clothing collection, but the firsthand research can’t be ignored. Oh, Finn, she sounds so sweet, and trusting, and naive. By seeing the world through her eyes, I’ve found the spark that will put the right empathy into Lola’s story.”
Finn had always loved watching Vena when she got excited. When she latched onto an idea and made it her own, the expression that came over her was…beautiful. He leaned a shoulder on a nearby support beam and relaxed, enjoying the view.
“After reading this, I realize emotion was missing in what I wrote. The wishes and wants and dreams of the people I’m writing about. People can’t live a full life, and characters can’t sound like real people, unless they have them. And I’m the one who has to create those things, so—”
He cleared his throat. “Sorry to interrupt this breakthrough, but the time.”
Her shoulders slumped, and she sighed. “What was I thinking last night?”
“You weren’t. Tootie’s booze was in control.”
“Well, I can’t admit that. I’ll make a short statement and then leave before anyone starts asking questions. Or…” She turned, eyes wide and shining.
When he spotted the glow in her eyes, he straightened. What was she up to? “I know that look and I don’t like it.”
“I’ll write an apology for getting everyone out there, and you can read it. You know, like a spokesperson at a press conference.”
“Not a good idea.” Finn rubbed a hand through his hair and shook his head. “I don’t want to get involved. You read it, and then say you’d prefer not to answer questions.”
The front doorbell rang, accompanied by a titter of female voices.
Vena dropped onto a nearby folding chair, jumped up, removed a hammer, and then sat again.
Finn opened the door to a porch full of the Gray Ladies. Looking at the group, he shook his head and shuddered. “Elfie, it’s for you.” He glanced over his shoulder and waited for her to appear.
When she came into sight in the hallway, a high-pitched cry went up. “There’s our leader. We’re behind you, Vena.”
Tootie stepped forward, placard held high. “We’re here to escort you to the demonstration. What do you think of our signs?”
Finn wa
tched Vena’s eyes widen like a scared rabbit caught within range of a hungry wolf.
She surveyed the crowd assembled before her, slowly turned to him, and mouthed the words, What do I do?
He held out his hands, palms up, and shrugged. The placards waved in front of his face, and he read, ‘Stop police brutality’, ‘Free the streets’, ‘Women walk alone’, and ‘Down with Dwayne’. He thought their messages would have been more powerful painted in colors other than powder blue and daffodil yellow. As he pictured these women picketing in front of the police station, he chuckled. This he had to see.
Today, he would definitely not want to be Deputy Dwayne.
Chapter Thirteen
FROM FINN’S TRUCK PARKED in the Chamber of Commerce lot, Vena stared at the growing crowd assembling across the street. A knot formed in her stomach. Along the curb facing the police station, people unfolded lawn chairs and campstools, then sat, arranging ice chests nearby. Umbrellas snapped onto the backs of chairs. Just like waiting for a parade. “I can’t believe this, Finn.”
“I warned you.” Lifting his ball cap, he ran a hand through his hair. “This is what happens in small towns.”
She turned and noticed him slouching against the door. “What should I do?” She hated being indecisive, but knew if she stood in front of that crowd, she’d become a stuttering fool.
“Remember, I’m just the driver.” He flashed a grin, but slouched lower in the seat. “Hey, you’re the writer—you’ll think of something.”
With a hesitant move, she eased open the truck door and stepped down to the gravel lot, patting the pocket of her skirt to feel her written speech. This task was not impossible—she could get through the next fifteen minutes and still live. As long as she remembered to breathe. Vena walked a few feet, taking small, hesitant steps.
“There she is.” Hazel Sims waved her sign.
“Here comes Vena,” Tootie cried out.
When she heard the voices, Vena shot a quick look over her shoulder in the direction of Finn’s truck. His cap was barely visible over the rim of the steering wheel. The big coward.
At a soft touch on her arm, she turned and gazed into her friend’s sweet face. “Hi, Auntie. Wow, this is some reception.”
“Isn’t it great?” Tootie’s eyes glowed. “We haven’t seen this much excitement since we ran off those big-time developers wanting to build a water slide park out on Sims Creek. And that was darn near two years ago.” She grabbed Vena’s elbow and propelled her through the crowd. “Make way. Vena Fenton’s coming through.”
Vena wished she could fall through a crack in the sidewalk and disappear. How could she go through with this? Since grade school, she’d done everything possible to avoid speaking in public. In class projects, she volunteered for a greater portion of the group’s work to avoid the oral part. In college, she’d grilled friends about the content of particular courses, avoiding those that required oral presentations.
Anything and everything to keep from talking in front of a crowd.
And now, this.
Finally, Vena and Tootie reached the glass doors of the station house, and Vena turned to face the crowd. Voices lowered to a whisper, and people turned expectant gazes her way. She thought of the hints friends had suggested over the years. Defocus your gaze. Stare over their heads. Pick a spot on the back wall and focus. Imagine them in their underwear.
Nothing helped. Her stomach clenched like a vise, and she counted her breaths to keep her concentration. She pulled the speech from her pocket, unfolded the paper, and began. “F-folks, I want to th-thank you for coming t-today. I’m s-sorry you’ve ch-changed your regular plans…” When she heard several people start whispering, she stopped. But nothing would save her—she needed to continue. “Unfortunately, there’s been a m-mistake.”
Tootie’s picket sign drooped to the pavement. “What are you saying?”
Vena hated to disappoint Nana Gwen’s dearest friend and others she had known growing up. Perspiration beaded along her hairline and trickled behind an ear. “There’s no d-demonstration—”
The station door opened with a shrill squeak, and she heard several people gasp.
From behind, footsteps thudded to her right and pebbles scratched the sidewalk as the big man sauntered into view. Today Deputy Dwayne was dressed in full uniform, wearing both hat and sunglasses, his belt weighted down with a nightstick, handcuffs, and his service revolver. Vena noted his deliberate swagger, with thumbs hooked over his belt, like he owned the sidewalk. “Didn’t think you’d show,” he muttered, stopping three feet away.
Vena stiffened. His disparaging tone grated on her nerves, but she kept hers sweet and even. “Is there a problem, Officer?”
“I’m here to investigate. A permit is required for public gatherings of more than fifty. I’ll take a headcount.” He walked to the front of the group and, using the earpiece of his aviators to indicate each face in turn, counted aloud, “One, two, three…”
Vena noticed several people in the back row duck their heads and cross the street. After stepping up on the opposite curb, they turned and craned their necks to watch.
“…Forty-three, forty-four, forty-five. Well, looks like the permit’s not required.”
“Anything else?” Dwayne’s uniform and arrogance had scared off those people, and that just wasn’t right. After being at the man’s mercy the previous day, she refused to relinquish an ounce of power. He didn’t have the authority to censure her opinions.
“Folks, keep the sidewalk clear. We got a complaint from a business owner about his store access being blocked.” He sauntered closer to the crowd and moved along the front line. “Harvey, pull your cooler back by your chair. Miss Pearl, can you move your dog’s blanket? No obstructions to the station or businesses.”
Vena studied the crowd and recognized several of the storeowners. She doubted anyone had called to complain, more likely Dwayne cited from his infamous rulebook again. “Friends, please comply with the officer’s requests. We wouldn’t want to break any rules today and risk getting arrested.” She jabbed a thumb into the middle of her chest. “Believe me, I know how easily that can happen.”
Tootie raised her ‘Women Walk Alone’ sign high and yelled, “You tell them, sweetie.”
“I know, because just yesterday,” Vena’s voice gained strength, “I was minding my own business, taking a walk—which I had no idea was an infraction of the laws in any American town—when this officer stopped and questioned me.”
Sounds of outrage erupted from the crowd.
“Shame on you, Dwayne Mullen.”
“What did he say to you, Vena?” Ruth Maguire prompted.
“He wanted to know who I was and ordered me to show identification. I told him to stop his joking, that he knew exactly who I was, and I tried to walk away.” She paused and surveyed the crowd. “Next thing I know, he slaps handcuffs on me, claiming I resisted arrest. Imagine, a law-abiding citizen arrested just for being a stranger in town.”
“Right on, Vena.”
“You tell him.”
The Gray Ladies’ protest signs stating ‘Down with Deputy Dwayne’ and ‘Stop Police Brutality’ bobbed up and down.
“Folks, calm down a minute,” Dwayne interrupted. “That’s not the way things happened.”
Earl Foley stepped forward. “By cracky, I told Ethel the paper was wrong. Tell us what really happened, Deputy.”
Dwayne paused, setting a belligerent stance, legs apart and arms crossed. He drew in a deep breath, bringing attention to his shiny badge, and rocked heel to toe on polished black shoes. “Yesterday at seventeen hundred fifteen hours, using my cruiser, I executed a vehicular block of the southwest exit from Primrose Alley and began investigating a report—”
“Cut the police lingo, sonny.” This gruff command came from a thin, elderly man in the front row sitting forward, a hand cupped around an ear. Clyde gave Vena a two-finger salute and a wink.
She flashed him a grin and gave him an
answering wave.
Dwayne cleared his throat and hitched up his belt. “Where was I? Oh yes, Miss Fenton’s identification. I asked—”
“That’s plain stupid, Dwayne Mullen,” Miss Pennington, the retired school principal, called from the back of the crowd. “You’ve known Vena Fenton for years.”
“Besides,” Tootie spoke up, “everybody knows your Aunt Blanche called in the report.”
“I couldn’t be sure this woman was who she said she was. I was just a kid when she left town.” His voice trailed off.
“You were not.” Vena’s temper flashed, and her fists shot to her hips. “I’m not that much older.”
“Sure you are, Vena,” Edna piped in. “Old enough to have changed his britches when he was still in diapers.”
Dwayne’s lips thinned, and red splotches crept up his neck toward his face.
“Not exactly,” Vena corrected. “I did babysit him, but when he was in elementary school. Still, he should have remembered me.”
“What about the gun?” a thin voice called out.
“Thanks for bringing that up.” Energy from the crowd’s support flowed, and she pointed in the officer’s direction. “I certainly didn’t pose a threat to you or anyone else. You never should have pulled your gun.”
The crowd jeered and booed. A wad of crumpled paper landed at the officer’s feet.
Dwayne stepped backward and raised his hands to the gathering. “Hold on, folks.”
“Yeah, why did you draw your weapon against her?”
“She’s just a little slip of a gal. Were you scared?”
After several more jeers, Vena lost track of who asked which question. The crowd was getting too agitated. Bodies edged forward, waiting for Dwayne’s answer. She investigated both sides of the crowd, gauging the best escape route.
Clearing his throat, Dwayne ran a finger along the inside of his collar. “I, uh, well…she was disregarding the law. I told her to stop and—”
Rekindled Dreams Page 15