Practice Makes Perfect
Page 9
“What about the brothel?” she said when she finally let him come up for air.
“I don’t care about the brothel anymore.”
She raised an eyebrow at him. “Don’t lie to me, Henry Beckham.”
He sighed and sat down on the couch. But he didn’t let go of her, and she came down with him. “I don’t know. I took the diary and what it could mean to the committee. It’s up to them now.”
“Surely they can’t tear the house down now? It’s a landmark.”
“They’re really determined to build a new archive.”
Helen sat back and pulled her knees up to her chest. They still needed an archive, and rehabilitation was still more expensive than demolition.
“You’ll be heartbroken if they tear that house down,” she told him, as if he didn’t know.
He nodded. “It will be a mistake. But the house is falling apart. It’s tragic that it was left to rot, but there’s nothing I can do about that. Whatever happens, we have the diary, and there’s a lot we can learn from it, even without the house. Still, I’ll keep fighting. And I won’t let the house get between us.”
She brushed the side of his face. “You’ll try not to let it get between us.”
He turned her hand and placed a kiss in her palm. “I’ll try,” he promised. “Please don’t let me.”
“I love you too, you know.”
She felt his smile against her palm. It was even better than the kiss.
He was her Henry.
Epilogue
Madame Renee’s brothel still stands.
Although now it is the more genteelly named Pembroke College Department of Archives and Local History. That’s a bit of a mouthful, though, so everyone just calls it “the Brothel.”
True to his word, Henry fought the demolition of the building, using Madame Renee’s journal as evidence of its historical import. He and Jake drew up plans to make it structurally sound enough to support bookshelves without destroying the integrity of the architecture. Soon other historians from across the state got on board, finding evidence that Madame Renee was hiding fugitive slaves in the attic while she entertained Confederate generals in the parlor. They connected her with early advocacy in support of birth control and disease prevention as a woman’s right, in addition to being good business. They found evidence that she wore pants.
Although initially scandalized by her racy reputation, the fierce white-haired old ladies of the historical society soon embraced their rebel foremother.
The most surprising voice for the building, though, was Lou. She posited, loudly, that supporting the rehabilitation of the house in no way interfered with her vision for a new archive; it just adjusted it slightly. Once she was convinced that housing the Pembroke archives in a building that was, in and of itself, a historical document of sorts, there was no stopping her. She volunteered to lie down in front of the wrecking ball, if necessary. It never came to that. This did not stop her from offering, at least once a month.
Renovating a house according to historical standards takes a long time. Moving all of those boxes of dusty, disorganized documents took another forever. But it happened, and it opened, and there was a big, fancy reception where everybody got all dressed up and toasted Henry Beckham and his brilliant historian’s mind and keen eye.
Helen even cut her book tour short to come to the reception. She told Henry it was just an excuse to put on a fancy dress, but really, she was so proud of him that even a pack of wild Kentucky horses couldn’t keep her away. Besides, Henry had dropped everything to celebrate her book deal, then her book’s appearance on the bestseller lists, then to fly to New York to be wined and dined by her publishers while they hammered out a new, three-book deal.
Once the reception was over and the last hand was shaken and the last glass was washed and sent away with the caterers, Helen and Henry went home. George and Tammy met them at the door, whining and howling and shaking their little basset hound butts. Henry let them out while Helen went to change out of her very un-librarian heels. A few minutes later, she heard the dogs come back in, then Henry’s footsteps behind them. She turned to meet him at the door to her bedroom, and she led him inside, his hand warm in hers. She pulled on his bow tie. It came undone easily, with just a flick of her fingers. She tossed it aside and drew Henry close while the dogs settled in for a long night on the couch.
Sarah Title has worked as a barista, a secretary, a furniture painter, and once managed a team of giant walking beans. She currently leads a much more normal life as a mild-mannered(ish) librarian in North Carolina. She is the author of the Southern Comfort series, set in small-town Kentucky; Kentucky Home, her first novel, was published in 2013. She comments irregularly and insightfully on her blog: Title, Author, at SarahTitle.com, and if you like pictures of elderly poodles, follow her on Instagram (titleauthor), Twitter (@titleauthor), and Facebook (facebook.com/sarahtitlebooks).
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