The House at Rose Creek

by Proctor, Jenny

  “Now wait, Douglas, let’s be fair.” A woman sitting at the end of the table interrupted him. The name plaque in front of her seat read Annabelle Markham. She was a short, round woman, with small, closely set eyes and short wispy hair that stuck out in every direction. Unimposing though she seemed, there was an element in her voice capable of commanding a room. Kate had barely noticed her presence until she’d spoken. Once the woman had Kate’s attention, Kate wondered how she had ever overlooked her before.

  “We can’t ignore the value of Harrison County history. If the house qualifies, then it qualifies. If it doesn’t, it doesn’t. We need to consider this petition exclusive of how it may or may not affect the highway construction project.” Ms. Markham raised her eyebrows at Mr. Bradley, daring him to challenge her.

  “But this isn’t an issue separate from the highway,” Mr. Bradley argued. “This petition is being made only to disqualify the property from being subject to eminent domain.”

  Voices from several other board members, all with various opinions on the subject, started chiming in, but it was Ms. Markham’s voice that overpowered in the end.

  “The time when it becomes a landmark doesn’t matter,” she argued, “whether it happened ten years ago or it happens tonight. If the house is worthy of preservation, then it is, end of story. We are not state transportation commissioners, Mr. Bradley. We are Harrison County commissioners. And it is our job to make decisions for the county as a whole. Highways are not the only things that matter in this county. The people matter. The history matters.”

  The woman looked in Kate’s direction, sending her a small smile of encouragement. Kate felt like giving the crazy-haired Annabelle Markham a hug.

  “Mr. Bradley?” Kate said. “The petition also includes my commitment to donate the several historical items found in the attic of the home to the Harrison County Preservation Museum. I would also be willing to erect a small plaque in the yard of the property, with a brief explanation of the home’s history. I believe there is a driving tour through the county already that identifies the existing landmarks. I would be happy to have the farmhouse included on the tour.”

  He sighed in frustration. “Does anyone have any questions regarding Ms. Sinclair’s petition?” he finally asked.

  Ms. Markham spoke again. “I’d like to hear Ms. Sinclair tell us a bit about her home’s history here in person, if there’s time for that.”

  Mr. Bradley turned to Kate and wearily nodded his head in approval.

  Kate started with a brief outline of Ian Wylie’s life, identifying the presence of his journal as well as the other artifacts she’d found in the attic of the farmhouse. She continued on through Ian’s great-grandson John and his arrival in Harrison County, as well as his land donation to the Methodist church just across the street from the very building where their meeting was being held. And then she discussed the generosity and character of her great-grandfather, Isaac Abraham Wylie.

  “There is a picture in the county museum that shows the original homestead of Isaac Wylie—my great-grandfather,” Kate said. “His modest home sat on the northeastern corner of nearly two hundred acres—acres and acres of farmland he worked his entire life. But along the south side of Ike Wylie’s property, there was farmland he didn’t work himself. Instead, he parceled it off and leased it to other farmers, those who didn’t own their own land. Several small homes lined the property and were constantly filled with those needing a place to live and a place to get started. Many citizens of Harrison County benefited from Isaac’s generosity. He was a kind landlord and always believed the best of people. While he did require a reasonable rent, he never required even the smallest portion of the profits that came from the harvest on his leased farmland. Angus McFinley,” Kate said, motioning to Mr. McFinley sitting a few seats away from her, “a volunteer for our local preservation society, told me about his own father, who came to Harrison County with a new wife and $1.25 in his pocket. He found himself at Isaac’s door and wound up staying in one of his cabins for four years, farming and working, until he could save enough money to purchase a piece of property for himself. Countless others were helped in similar ways. The old farmhouse still stands today—a relic of early twentieth-century architecture and a monument to the generosity and kindness of the Wylie family and those men who made valuable contributions to the very fabric of Harrison County history.”

  Kate finished, looking at each member of the board, scanning their faces for some hint of a positive response.

  A man sitting to Mr. Bradley’s left cleared his throat and began to speak. “You’ve painted a pretty picture for us, for sure. But I think it’s important to remind the board that the feasibility studies for this highway are complete. If this house is no longer eligible and a new route must be identified, it could set the project back weeks, even months. Countless other properties could be pulled in, new homeowners, new hearings . . . This isn’t a process we want to go through again, is it?”

  “That’s not fair,” Kate said, struggling to keep the edge out of her voice. “The preservation of my house is not just an issue of convenience—some inconsequential structure that doesn’t matter to anyone. This is a century-old farmhouse that didn’t see indoor plumbing for the first half of its existence, that has experienced life and death, stood through the Great Depression, the world wars. No amount of money could replace the parts of history this house has helped write and certainly no highway is worth its demise.”

  “She’s right, Douglas,” Ms. Markham said, looking directly at Mr. Bradley. “Where’s the architect?” she asked, looking across the room to find Andrew. “Without all of the technical mumbo jumbo you wrote in here,” she said, holding up the petition, “what can you tell us of the architectural history of the structure?”

  Andrew cleared his throat and stood. “The house demonstrates ample characteristics in line with traditional early twentieth-century construction. With the exception of the major renovations that introduced modern conveniences to the house—indoor plumbing, heating, and air conditioning, that sort of thing—the changes made to the house have been very superficial. The core patterns of construction, the bones of the house, if you will, are still intact. The original plaster walls, for example, are still present, as well as the original wood flooring in several bedrooms upstairs. The exterior of the house has a large wraparound porch, with a raised-seam tin roof and slender Doric columns, consistent with the influences of the Colonial Revival style present in the farmhouse’s period of construction. All in all, the house is a unique study in architecture and could be considered a valuable resource in demonstrating patterns of construction and design of that period. I would even go so far as to say that with proper marketing, the house could even pull students of architecture into Harrison County with the specific purpose of viewing the property.”

  Kate watched as Mr. Bradley tossed down his pen and removed his glasses, rubbing his eyes in frustration. He looked defeated, which made Kate feel even more hopeful.

  “Ms. Sinclair?” he asked, still not looking up. “You’ve made an excellent case for the preservation of your property. In other circumstances, I have no doubt the board would be thrilled to consider your home a part of our preservation society. But I will ask you once again, are there not any other accommodations we could make? I’m sure the state, at this point, would be willing to compensate you above and beyond fair market value. Are you far beyond reach in that regard?”

  “I assure you, sir, there is no sum adequate enough to compensate for losing the house.”

  “There’s nothing left to do but vote on it, Douglas,” Ms. Markham said from the corner.

  “Might I say a brief word, please?” Kate turned and saw Mr. McFinley standing up, waiting for the opportunity to speak. He winked at Kate and smiled then turned his attention back to the board.

  “Angus, what association do you have with this petition?” Mr. Bradley asked with an air of familiarity, indicating the two men knew each oth
er.

  “None whatsoever,” the spry little man responded, “except that I’m nearly as old as that house. And I know a bit about our county’s history, if you don’t mind me sharing.” He moved from his chair and took a few shuffling steps toward Mr. Bradley. “You know, I remember your grandfather. Walter Bradley worked at the mill with my brother for nearly thirty years. He was a good man—the kind of man who acknowledged the kindness of others and expressed appreciation whenever he could.”

  “Angus, I appreciate your sterling remarks regarding my grandfather, but are you going to make a point?”

  “I wonder if you’re aware, Doug, of where your grandfather was living when he purchased the land your family owns. You still live there, I believe—on the land your grandfather first purchased when he arrived in Harrison County.” Mr. McFinley moved slowly forward and handed Mr. Bradley a single sheet of paper.

  Mr. Bradley looked over the document, nodding his head in recognition. “This is the record of the land purchase,” he said. “You gave me a copy when I was first elected to the board.”

  “Yes, I did,” Mr. McFinley said. “If you take a look right here,” he continued, pointing with his wobbly, crooked finger, “and then look at an old map of Harrison County, I believe you’ll find that the address listed as Walter Bradley’s current residence at the time he purchased the land was located on old Ike Wylie’s farm. Why, it seems, Doug, that your own grandfather was a recipient of Wylie’s generosity.”

  Mr. Bradley sighed. “I’m sure Grandfather was grateful for any assistance offered by his neighbors and friends when he was settling in Harrison County, but that’s hardly a significant reason—”

  “I think your grandfather might have disagreed with you there,” Mr. McFinley said.

  He glanced at Kate and smiled conspiratorially. She continued to watch, wondering what Angus McFinley had up his sleeve. He returned to his seat and pulled out a second document then returned to the front of the room, handing it to Mr. Bradley. He turned to address the room at large.

  “When Isaac Wylie died, the mayor of Rose Creek felt compelled to express his gratitude for all Ike did for those around him. So he drafted a letter pledging his support to protect the Wylie farm as an acknowledgement of—and you’ll note I’m quoting from the letter—‘the significant impact the Wylie farm and family had on the growth and success of Harrison County.’ It appears Ms. Sinclair’s property is already protected to some degree.”

  Mr. Bradley looked at the letter he’d been given then passed it down the row so his fellow commissioners could see it as well. “Am I really to believe that in all the research that has been done regarding this highway project, every single person involved failed to discover this letter?”

  Mr. McFinley shrugged. “It’s not so hard to believe. The physical address of the property changed in 1952, so perhaps it was simply a technicality that kept the truth from coming to light. Or perhaps it was just what I always say . . . Sometimes we are so occupied looking forward, we forget to look back.”

  Annabelle Markham cleared her throat. “In light of this recent discovery and to avoid all the questions and red tape that might ensue if we try to validate what protection the claims of a sixty-year-old letter from the mayor might or might not entail, I motion to accept Ms. Sinclair’s petition and grant official historical landmark status as dictated by our current laws today for her property located on Red Dogwood Lane. All in favor, say aye.”

  Kate watched as the vote moved from one commissioner to the next. She counted each vote . . . one yes, two, three, four, five, and then Mr. Bradley, the sixth and final yes.

  Chairman Bradley straightened in his chair. “Well, I guess it’s decided then. With six votes in favor and none against, your petition has been accepted, Ms. Sinclair. We will refer you to our preservation society, who will help you complete all necessary paperwork for submission to the state organization, as well as the list of requirements for you to comply with county guidelines.”

  Kate closed her eyes and released her breath, holding on to the chair in front of her for support. “Thank you,” she said.

  After the meeting, her family gathered around her, complimenting and congratulating.

  Mr. McFinley gave her a hug. “Welcome aboard, my dear. We’re delighted to have you and your lovely old house,” he said, smiling.

  “Mr. McFinley, thank you for your help,” Kate said. “How did you find that letter?”

  He smiled, his twinkling eyes disappearing in the wrinkly creases of his face. “Oh, an old man has his secrets,” he said. He winked again and then left Kate to her family. She watched as he worked his way to the front of the room, where he shook hands with Mr. Bradley.

  Annabelle Markham was the next person to approach Kate. She smiled warmly. “Congratulations,” she said. “And might I say, a job well done!”

  “Ms. Markham, thank you so much,” Kate said. “I’m not sure things would have gone my way if you hadn’t spoken up when you did.”

  “I was happy to help,” she said. “Please, do call me Annabelle. Besides, we’re family.”

  Kate was taken aback by her claim. “What do you mean?” she asked.

  Annabelle laughed. “Don’t worry. I wouldn’t have known you from my house cat before I heard your story. But I just so happen to be a descendant of old Isaac Wylie myself. And I have the history to prove it.”

  Kate shook her head. “I never would have guessed,” she said. “I didn’t realize there were any other Wylies in Harrison County.”

  “Well, not Wylie exactly,” she said. “Old Ike had three sons, but he also had an adopted daughter named Melissa. She was the daughter of a widowed woman who was a tenant of the Wylies. When the widow fell ill and died, Old Ike and his wife took six-year-old Melissa into their home and raised her like their own. Melissa was my grandmother.” Annabelle smiled.

  Kate looked at Linny and Sam, who’d just come to join her in the hallway and picked up the last details of Annabelle’s story. “Can you believe we’ve never heard this story?” Kate asked, still incredulous. “How could Grandpa have had a sister that his family never knew anything about?”

  “We were very young when Grandpa died. There’s probably a lot we don’t know about him,” Sam said.

  “Well, and Melissa was much younger than your grandfather,” Annabelle said. “The three boys were long out of the house before she ever went to live with Isaac.”

  Kate understood how Melissa’s existence could have been overlooked in her family’s accounts of their history but was grateful just the same to learn about her now. She felt a sudden kinship with the woman, perhaps because they’d both lost their parents at a young age and been left in the care of someone new. She hoped Annabelle would be able to tell her more about Melissa.

  “Would you like to hear the best part?” Annabelle asked, face glowing with anticipation.

  Kate and Sam nodded in unison.

  “I have Isaac’s ledger. He kept a list of every person who ever stayed on his property, as well as the dates of their stay. I’ve kept it all these years, not really knowing if it would ever be of value to anyone. I wish I’d known to look for old Bradley’s grandpa in there. Wasn’t that wonderful how it all worked out? At any rate, I think you ought to have the ledger now. Perhaps it could be included in what you donate to the museum.”

  “Oh, that would be wonderful, Annabelle. I can’t wait to see it.” Kate embraced the woman and thanked her again, overwhelmed and grateful for her generosity. “Would you come for dinner on Sunday?” Kate asked. “Bring the ledger and come see the farmhouse and the journal.”

  “That’s very kind,” Annabelle said. “I have plans for dinner, but I’d love to come by afterward, if that’s all right.”

  Kate and the rest of her party finally moved to the parking lot. By the time she had finished her conversation with Annabelle, she figured Andrew was probably already gone. But she saw him across the lot, almost to his car. She hurried after him. “Andr
ew!”

  He paused and waited for her to catch up. She stopped a few feet away.

  “I just wanted to say thank you again,” she said. “I never would have been able to do this without you.”

  “I’m glad it worked out for you, Kate,” he said sincerely. “It really is a great house.”

  “I just met Annabelle Markham,” Kate said. “Would you believe she’s almost my family? Isaac Wylie and his wife took in her grandmother when her grandmother’s parents died. I’d never heard anything about the story before now, but Annabelle has this really wonderful ledger that recorded all of the people who ever stayed on Isaac Wylie’s farm . . .”

  Andrew shifted his weight from one foot to the other and pushed both of his hands deep into his pockets. Kate’s nerves were making her talkative. Get to the point, she thought.

  “So you got the job in Raleigh,” she said.

  Andrew nodded his head. “They called this morning with an offer. I haven’t accepted it yet.”

  “You may not?”

  “It was my first interview back in the industry,” he explained. “I’d like to explore my options a bit more before making a decision.”

  “Oh,” Kate said. She chewed on her lip and looked at her feet. Mustering one final surge of courage, she blurted out, “Andrew, I don’t want you to take the job in Raleigh. I don’t want you to leave Rose Creek at all.”

  Andrew raised his eyebrows in question but otherwise didn’t respond.

  “I’m not in a relationship with Steve,” she continued. “I was at one point, before you and I even met, but not anymore. I don’t know why he said what he did. But it isn’t him I care about. It’s you. It’s always been you.”

  Andrew moved to the side of his car and leaned against the driver’s side door. His hands were still in his pockets, his face looking down so that in the shadow of the late evening, Kate could barely see his expression.

  “I don’t know if I’m the kind of person you deserve,” she said. “I have a list a mile long of reasons I’m not. But here I am. This is all I can offer—me with all of my shortcomings. I’m not a morning person. I eat too much junk food. I’m an emotional wimp. I have a short temper, and I’m prone to running away from difficult situations. My family life, at the moment, is a complete mess. My cousin won’t speak to me, and my aunt thinks my religion is going to ruin the family. But I’m here. I’m here asking you to still care, to overlook all of that and love me anyway. I’m asking you to love me because I have fallen in love with you.”