Dear Lord, as I arose this morning I felt led to chronicle this new endeavor upon which we have embarked. I confess though, that as this new day begins, I also need to pour out my heart to you.
We have been so pressed in the past 48 hours. It was not until this morning I realized what I had lost in the fire: The only likenesses of Jan I possessed and the few photographs I owned of Joy as a baby and as she grew up. All of them burned in the lodge with everything else. Oh, Lord! Grief, heavy as a great rock, struck my heart at this realization.
So I pick up pen and ink and pour my sorrow onto this page. Father, please help me to bear the loss. I recall with gratitude that Søren and Meg still have a few photographs of Jan and one in particular of Søren and Joy together when she was a toddler. Thank you, Lord, for reminding me. I will ask them to have reproductions made for me, no matter how costly.
I must also acknowledge a great truth, if only to you. I acknowledge that had I been given a choice between keeping my precious mementoes or gaining the freedom of these even more valuable treasures—I speak of these young women, Lord!—I must have chosen these women.
For on those whom you have poured your Son’s lifeblood, you have also placed the most value. Can any earthly treasures be worth more? No, Lord, they cannot.
So I commit today, Lord, to honor these young women with the care I would have given my precious photographs. Strengthen me to care with all my heart, I pray, Lord God!
At the first lines, Kari’s brows drew together. Just what I need. Another religious weirdo preaching at me.
But as she continued reading, the tale on the page drew her in, especially the part about the fire and the lost photographs, the only ones she owned of . . . Jan and Joy?
Who were Jan and Joy to this woman? Kari wondered. Her children? As she read and reread the entry she couldn’t help but compare what she read with her own experience. I have no pictures of Mommy and I had none of Daddy until just recently—only my memories of him.
Her heart went out to the woman whose words she read. “Rose,” Kari whispered. “Rose Thoresen. I feel your pain.”
The tiny glimpse into this woman’s life—this Rose Thoresen—stirred something in Kari. She read the page again, moved and intrigued.
Kari stared at the page, no longer seeing it. The freedom of these even more valuable treasures? I speak of these young women?
What could it possibly mean?
For on those whom you have poured your Son’s lifeblood, you have also placed the most value. Can any earthly treasures be worth more?
Those two lines struck Kari deeply. “Your Son’s lifeblood,” she murmured.
And then it seemed that the light in the attic went out, leaving her in the dark. Kari gasped, but her reason soon prevailed: The late afternoon sun had at last dropped below the bottom of the attic window.
Kari fumbled around and found the flashlight she had brought up the ladder. She shone it on the contents of the trunk she had unpacked.
“I cannot leave these priceless things lying out,” she muttered. Neither could she repack the dresses the way she had found them without risking damage to them—the tissue paper so carefully folded around the dresses had fallen to bits.
Kari placed the journal and the unopened envelope in the cloth bag, returned the bag to the cedar box, and took them first into the house. She brought back another dust cloth, folded the dresses inside the two sheets, and carefully carried them down the ladder. The boxed hats, shoes, and handbags she left in the trunk. They would be fine until later.
It was nearly seven-thirty in the evening and twilight was upon them.
I need to contact someone familiar with the proper care of such aged clothing, Kari reflected, but I won’t find anyone this late in the day.
She went into the dining room and looked at the long, cloth-covered dining table. That will work. She gently deposited the gowns on a chair and then, on the table atop the clean cloth, she tenderly laid out each gown and covered them with other cloths.
It was while she was laying out the gowns that she finalized her decision. In the morning I will tell Clover that I am going to live in this house—for the time being. I will ask him to make the arrangements to have the house readied for occupancy.
And tomorrow I can ask Oskar or Clover for a recommendation regarding these gowns, she thought. Then she remembered the Cadillac. And ask them about the car!
She locked up the garage and house, set the alarm, and stood on the front porch thinking. In her hand was the carved cedar box. She was not about to leave that in the house! In fact, she could not wait to get it back to her hotel so that she could read more from the book she had found.
As she opened her car another thought came to her, this one somewhat troubling: Who was Rose Thoresen and why was her journal hidden at the bottom of Alicia Granger’s trunk?
Kari spent hours that night reading Rose Thoresen’s journal, completely caught up in the family and events Rose had described on the journal’s pages.
I had no idea that girls back then were often kidnapped and forced into prostitution! Kari was appalled but experienced a vicarious thrill as Rose described rescuing many such women.
She wrinkled her nose as she thought of Albuquerque’s “war zone,” the area on and around Central Avenue near the fair grounds, so notorious for streetwalkers, drugs, and gang violence.
Surely raping, beating, and enslaving girls in prostitution doesn’t happen today . . . does it? Kari’s forehead puckered as a few doubts and questions crossed her mind.
She returned to the journal, and much to Kari’s surprise, even the way Rose interwove her prayers with the goings-on and often troubling events of “Palmer House” fascinated her.
She puts little distinction between her concerns and her prayers, Kari mulled, as though she were having conversations with God, as though she knew God . . . on an intimate footing . . . as though her faith were a tangible thing and God were nearby, actually listening. That is not how I’ve thought of Christianity.
By the time she finished reading Rose’s journal, the clock read two-thirty in the morning. Kari only stopped because the journal had come to an abrupt end. The last entry was April 12, 1911, and yet many blank pages remained in the little book.
Kari stared at the last entry, chagrined and frustrated. Her mind was filled with unanswered questions: What became of Rose Thoresen? What became of her daughter Joy? What about Joy’s husband, Grant, and their little baby boy, little Edmund, named after their dear friend? Rose had described Grant’s illness, and the prognosis had not been good.
Kari was vexed. What could doctors possibly do for heart disease back then? And what about Mei-Xing and her little daughter? Were they kept safe from Shan-Rose’s awful grandmother, Fang-Hua? What became of them—and Breona and Tabitha and Sara and . . .
Kari sighed, keenly disappointed. In the space of hours she had become intimately involved in so many lives—only to have their stories cut off with no explanation! None!
Reluctantly, Kari laid the book aside and climbed into bed. She lay with her eyes open in the dark pondering the mysterious Rose, the two unusual and amazing years she had chronicled . . . and her faith.
If I were to ever believe in God, Kari confessed, I would want it to be real like that, real all the time, like how it was real to Rose. She sighed. But I know better—I will never be talked or tricked into believing in a god who is so heartless in the face of so much suffering. So it does not matter.
Only . . . I wish I knew what happened to Rose.
Without realizing it was happening, Kari had grown possessive feelings for this woman. Perhaps there is a way to learn more about her, she thought as she drifted off.
Kari woke the next morning filled with plans. Before she had breakfast, she changed into shorts, a t-shirt, and running shoes and left the hotel by a side door. Twenty minutes of running showed her how difficult jogging in New Orleans summer heat would be, even in the early morning. She was soaked when
she returned to the hotel and slunk through the lobby, avoiding the disparaging eyes of the front desk manager.
She showered, ordered breakfast, and called Clover at home as soon as she knew he would be up and around. “Clover? Yes, good morning! Thank you; I’ve had a lovely time the last two days wandering all over the house, exploring all its ‘wonders.’”
She listened, smiling, as he enthused with her over the house. “I also went into the garage yesterday,” she inserted when he took a breath.
“Ah-ha! And did you find the car?”
“Oh, I did! And, Clover, it is gorgeous! Can it ever be driven, do you think?”
“My dear, the engine has only a few thousand miles on it. Not even properly broken in, I suspect. Mr. Peter bought it brand-spanking new in 1959 but, because his strength was declining, never did drive it much. When he passed away in 1964, we found that the tires had gone bad—ruined from disuse.
“We hired some boys who specialized in long-term auto dry storage to prepare it properly. They drained the engine and crankcase, removed the battery, and put the car on blocks. Covered it, of course, and mouse-proofed the garage.
“We’ll need to locate a vintage car specialist as those good ol’ boys have been out of business for fifteen years. We’ll have the specialists tow the little beauty to their garage and put it to rights for you.”
“Oh, thank you! I can’t wait to see it then.” And drive it! she enthused.
“Clover, I’ve been thinking. I’ve decided to stay here during the probate. Would you please make the arrangements so that I can move into the house?”
“My dear, I am delighted to hear this! It was Mr. Peter’s express wish that Michael come back to live in his childhood home. Since it cannot be him, I am glad it is you. I shall have Oskar call the Bodeens right away. He will also arrange for the plumbing to be flushed out and tested and the gas turned on. You shall have things to do, also, you know.”
“What will I need to do?”
“I will have Oskar call on you to help you make a list. You must choose one of the bedrooms for your use and purchase a new mattress for the bed, buy all new linens for it and the bathrooms. A myriad of little things before you move in. Perhaps you would like to repaint and paper. Just put it all on your credit card and we will take care of the bills.”
“I-I . . . just go and buy whatever I like?”
“My dear, again, plenty of money. You buy for yourself and the house whatever you like. In fact, buy yourself a new wardrobe while you are at it. Use the card.”
“Um, I have no idea where to go . . .”
“Ah. Quite so.” Kari heard him tapping a pen on his desk. “Would you care for Lorene’s company? She knows just where to go for what. I don’t wonder but she would love to help you shop—bearing in mind that my girl is no spring chicken anymore.”
“Do you think she would? Oh, I will be careful with her, Clover, I promise. We can do a little at a time, if that works best for her.”
“Then give her a call. She will be elated. Now about that lunch we talked about. Are you available Friday?”
“Yes! I so want to hear more about Daddy.”
“Then let me pick you up, say around 11:30 Friday morning? We’ll go somewhere special.”
“Thank you, Clover.”
Kari went on to tell him about the trunk in the garage’s attic filled with Alicia Granger’s exquisite dresses and handbags. “Can you suggest someone who could help me to properly preserve these beautiful things?”
“Yes, yes, I believe so. Let me look them up. I will give them your name and number.”
Kari inhaled and then blew out her breath. Yesterday she had nothing left to do in New Orleans; today she was inundated with tasks and activities that would last days if not weeks.
Then she remembered: “Oh, I almost forgot! Clover, I found something else in that trunk, a woman’s journal. Did you ever hear the name ‘Rose Thoresen’ before?”
“Is that whose journal it was?”
“Yes. I-I’ve read it already. I hope that’s all right.”
“What are the dates in the journal?”
“It starts in 1909. More than eighty years ago. At the end, she had just become a grandmother.”
“Well, then, Miss Kari, we can’t expect Rose Thoresen to still be living and, as the journal is among your uncle’s things, I see no harm in your reading it. But to answer your question, no; I’ve never heard that name. Perhaps a relation to Alicia Granger?”
“Maybe . . .” but Kari was deep in thought again. If Rose Thoresen was related to Alicia, wouldn’t Rose have mentioned her? Anyway, why hide the book in a box, lock and seal it up, and hide it at the bottom of Alicia’s trunk, beneath her gowns?
It was a tantalizing mystery!
Kari said her goodbyes to Clover automatically. As she hung up the receiver, she was already reaching for the cedar box and the sealed envelope.
She peered at the faded writing on the envelope, turning it this way and that to get more light on it. “Still can’t make it out,” she muttered. “Part of it looks smeared.”
She stared at the envelope until the name Owen Washington came to her. “Owen! He’s an investigator—surely he would know how to make the writing on this envelope readable?”
“Owen Washington.” He spoke with that warm, honeyed NOLA drawl Kari had learned to love.
“Mr. Washington? This is Kari Hillyer calling.”
“Miss Kari! It is good to hear you. How are you doing?”
Kari appreciated the concern she heard on the other end of the line. “Actually, I think I’m adjusting, but only because I’m taking things a day at a time.”
“The best way to live, in my opinion.”
“Thank you.”
Kari told him of her decision to stay in New Orleans for the time being. “I shall be stumbling about town for a few weeks buying mattresses and towels, I suppose, but I have decided to move into the house as soon as it can be readied.”
“I am glad you are staying, Kari. I hope you’ll make your home here, but that is a premature hope, I think. After you’ve fallen in love with NOLA, you may think you could not live elsewhere. Now, what can I do to help you today?”
Kari explained to him about the trunk, the journal, and the sealed envelope with faded ink. “Whatever is written on the envelope must be important, because there is writing across the seal, too. I can’t read what it says because the ink is so faint and scratchy.”
“Why don’t you just open the envelope?” he asked. “Perhaps the contents will explain themselves.”
Kari thought about his suggestion. “I guess I wouldn’t feel right about it. I’d like to read the outside first. That’s why I called. Would you know how to make old ink readable again?”
“That’s not usually too difficult, and I have a friend, another investigator, who has a little home laboratory. Would you like me to call him?”
“Yes, please! I would really like to know what it says.”
“I’ll call you back then.”
Kari hung up and started making a list. “I need to go back to the house and choose a bedroom,” she realized.
That afternoon she met Oskar at the house and they toured the four bedrooms on the second floor. The logical choice was the master bedroom with the bathroom “ensuite” as Clover had called it, but Kari didn’t think she’d be comfortable sleeping in Peter Granger’s bedroom or his bed—even with a new mattress!
Even if nearly three decades had passed, something about the man gave her the shivers.
“When Mr. Peter added the bathroom to his bedroom, he incorporated what had originally been Mr. Michael’s nursery,” Oskar mentioned. “That was in the 1930s. Although the bath was remodeled in the 1950s, it is sorely in need of an upgrade.”
The nursery! Where Daddy’s mother rocked him to sleep and where he played with his toys as a little boy. Maybe later I will have it all remodeled, especially the bathroom, she considered.
She
was finding it easier to think about spending money from her father’s inheritance from his uncle—now her inheritance from her father.
Kari studied the room Alicia had lived in until she died. Then she looked over the guest room. All the bedrooms were of ample size. Of course, the bathroom was at the end of the hall.
I can deal with that, Kari decided.
Oskar stood outside the last bedroom door and gestured. “I understand from the Bodeens that Mr. Michael moved to this room when he was a very young man. It is much larger than the nursery was.”
The idea of sleeping in her father’s room did appeal to Kari. It’s where he grew up, she thought, where he slept. Where he grew to be a man. The walls he was so familiar with. Even his furniture.
Michael Granger’s furniture was all golden maple, bright and cheery—a bedstead with four short posts and a headboard, a nightstand, a large dresser with deep drawers, and a wardrobe.
“Yes, I’ll use this room, for now,” Kari announced, looking around and envisioning a new comforter and matching curtains, perhaps new wallpaper and paint.
As she said the words aloud, she exhaled, and felt a burden lift. It was as though she’d made a correct decision, like things were right and something good was just ahead, like—
Like what Ruth said, Kari admitted. Like what she said she prayed for me, that God would bring something good out of this.
But is God even interested in doing good things, wonderful things, for people? she whispered to herself, thinking of the prayers of her childhood. More importantly . . . is he interested in anything good when it comes to me?
~~**~~
Chapter 10
Clover’s long, black town car pulled up in front of the hotel at 11:30 Friday morning. Kari was ready. He took her to Antoine’s in the French quarter (Clover referred to it as just “The Quarter”) where they were seated in a large dining room with high ceilings, tall windows curtained in French sheers, wonderful wood trim throughout, and tables set with white cloths and stylish place settings.
Kari loved the elegance and history of the old restaurant. She studied those who dined near them, realizing again how underdressed she was—even in the best clothes she owned—to move in Clover’s circle.
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