When he reached her, he took the flashlight and shone it on the front of the trunk. She put her hand on the cold brass latch, then looked at him.
“Ready?”
“Ready.”
She pulled up the latch and pushed on the cracked leather lid. It swung back, coming to a stop when it hit the wall. Together, they leaned forward, hanging their heads over the side. It was mostly empty—except for one small package, wrapped in brown paper and tied with a piece of twine.
A gift from Gran.
Izzy’s hand shook just a bit as she removed the package from the trunk. “Do you think this is it?”
Max stared at it. “I don’t know. Open it and find out.”
There was no name on the package, no card to indicate who Gran had hoped would find it. But it stood to reason that since she left the house to Izzy, and the trunk was in the house, then the gift in the trunk was also meant for Izzy.
“Gran certainly was full of surprises,” she muttered as she tugged on the end of the twine bow.
Beneath the brown paper was a book-shaped object wrapped in tissue paper. On top of that was a folded piece of stationery. Izzy held it up. “Look familiar?”
Max nodded. “It’s the same as her other notes.”
Izzy unfolded the paper. Max leaned closer, training the light directly on Gran’s words.
My sweet Izzy,
I knew it was a risk hiding this in the attic, but I prayed the Lord would guide you. And here you are.
“How did she know you’d find it?” Max whispered.
“Why are you whispering?”
“I don’t know.” He cleared his throat, then spoke in his normal voice. “It seemed appropriate for the moment.”
Izzy smiled. “This is how she knew I’d be reading it.”
You are the only one in the family who would help Max in his search, so I’m sure you realize the documents he’s looking for were once in the very same trunk as the Wild Goose Chase quilt.
The light jiggled on the page, and Izzy looked at Max.
“Once?” It was hard to tell in the murkiness of the attic, but she thought he’d gone pale.
“There’s more.” She continued reading.
The diaries chronicling the history of the quilt, as well as our family, are too valuable to keep together in one place. This is why I’ve left only one volume here. I have faith that you will find the other two volumes and keep them safe.
“Three all together,” Max said. “She never told me how many there were.”
Remember what I’ve always told you: an object’s true value does not come from monetary worth. It comes from the emotions and memories the object evokes in your heart.
Love,
Gran
Izzy and Max looked at each other, neither wanting to spoil the moment with more words. Carefully, Izzy pulled back the tissue paper to reveal an old book. Its brown leather cover was dry and cracked. The edges of the pages had once been embossed, but most of the gold had worn away. Pinching the corner of the cover gently between her fingers, Izzy opened the book. Immediately, a piece of the leather came off in her hand.
“I shouldn’t be doing this. You’re the museum guy. You do it.”
She held it out to Max. He took it gingerly in one hand, passing the flashlight to Izzy. But she was so flustered she didn’t realize what he was doing. It landed on the floor with a thud and a pop. The light when out, leaving them in darkness.
Izzy and Max both scrambled for the light. Somehow they knocked heads.
“Ouch!”
“Sorry. Are you OK?”
“I can’t find the flashlight.”
From down below, the bell began to ring. The dog began to bark. Mom’s voice, unable to be muffled by mere ceilings and floorboards, called out.
“What are you two doing up there?”
“Izzy.” Max commanded. “Stop moving.”
Izzy froze.
“Turn around.”
She looked behind her and saw the open door in the floor.
“Now crawl to the light.” Max said with a grin in his voice. “I’ll be right behind you.”
17
That’s it?” Janice asked. “That’s what you were looking for?”
Max sat on the edge of the loveseat across from the couch, the diary balanced on his open palms. Beside him, Izzy looked from the book back to her mother. “It’s part of what we were looking for.”
After exiting the attic, Max and Izzy had stood in the hall and quickly discussed how much to tell Janice. They’d both decided the best thing was to be completely truthful. After all, the diary did contain family history, a history that concerned Janice as much as anybody else. But now, seeing the interest glowing in her mother’s eyes, Izzy wondered if maybe they’d made the wrong decision.
“It’s a diary that Mrs. Randolph left in a trunk in the attic,” Max said.
“She wrote a diary?” Janice’s eyes narrowed, as if concerned about what the book might contain.
Izzy shook her head. “No, it belonged to someone else in the family. Someone way back in the family tree.”
“Who?”
Max shrugged. “We don’t know yet. We haven’t read it.”
“And why are you interested in it, young man?” Janice pointed at him.
Max turned to Izzy. “Do you want to tell her?”
“No. You go ahead.”
“Mrs. Fontaine, your mother told me there was documentation left behind by the women who made the Wild Goose Chase quilt. It’s in these diaries.”
“Diaries? There’s more than one?”
“Yes, there are two others. We just don’t know where they are.”
Janice snorted. “I can tell you where one of them is.”
Izzy leaned so far forward, she almost fell off the loveseat. “You can? How?”
“Because I have one of them.”
Max stared at Janice Fontaine, tilting his head sideways as if he’d gain clarity from a different perspective. It didn’t work. “You have one? How could that be?”
“My mother sent it to me the week before she died.” Janice shrugged it off. “I didn’t know what it was. I thought it was one of those blank books, but then I saw writing on the pages and figured she had written something to me.”
Izzy flexed her fingers, then knotted them together between her knees. “Didn’t you read any of it?”
“No,” Janice said with a shake of her head. “I didn’t need to read all the ways I’d disappointed her and fallen short of her expectations.”
Izzy stiffened. “Why would you think she’d write something like that?”
“It was a common theme with us.” Janice played with the fringe on the edge of the afghan covering her lap. “It made sense that’s what she would put in a book to me. But now that you’ve told me about the diaries, I’d be willing to bet that’s what it is.”
“We need to see that diary.” Max said.
Izzy nodded. “Can I go over to your house and get it?”
“No need. It’s in my purse.”
Izzy’s eyes swung to the knockoff Birkin bag taking up half of the coffee table. It was the same purse Mom had had at the funeral. “You’ve been carrying it around with you?”
“Since she died, yes. It was the last thing she gave me.”
For a moment, Janice sounded frail and lost, a little girl who missed her mother so much that she carried around a remembrance. Izzy reached out her hand, offering comfort. “Mom, I—”
Janice must have thought Izzy only wanted the diary. Once again presenting a strong front, she reached over and nudged the purse, pushing it closer to Izzy. “Go ahead. Let’s take a look.”
Izzy opened the bag, moving things around in the deep recesses of the lined leather. A wallet, hairbrush, mints, makeup, tissue, travel umbrella, sewing kit … was there anything her mother didn’t have in this purse? What would be the condition of the diary once she found it?
“Check the inner pocket,” Jani
ce said.
Izzy located the pocket and there it was. She pulled out a book wrapped in yellowing tissue paper. Beside her, Max blew out a relieved breath. Beneath the paper was another diary, this one not as old as the other. Without fear of destroying it, Izzy opened the front cover.
“Look at this.” She held up a bright purple triangle of fabric. “It’s another quilt piece.”
Janice squinted at it. “Is that what it’s supposed to be? I thought she meant for it to be a bookmark.”
“We assume that’s what it is,” Max said. “She seems to have put these pieces in all of her letters and gifts.”
Izzy nudged his arm. “There must be one in that diary, too.”
Max carefully lifted the cover with one finger. Sure enough, there was a quilt piece on top of the first page. Izzy pulled it out and held it up for all of them to look at. Janice’s eyes grew wide, and she leaned so far forward she looked like she could topple off the couch at any second.
“I recognize that fabric. It’s from the jumper you wore in your first-grade school picture.”
“Are you sure?” Izzy turned the piece of material over in her hand, examining the paisley swirls of red and orange on a pale pink background.
“Positive,” Janice said. “I tried to get you to wear something else that day, but you pitched a fit. It was that jumper or nothing. Get your photo album if you don’t believe me.”
“It’s not that I don’t believe you.” Izzy went to the bookcase, grabbed the album, and plopped back on the loveseat. “I just want to make sure.”
Max looked over her shoulder as she flipped through baby pictures and family photos. There were so many with her mom, dad, Brandon, and Izzy, all four of them smiling and happy. But then the pictures changed, and only three remained. There were a lot less of those, and a lot less smiles.
“I don’t see any dancing pictures,” he said softly.
She kept her voice equally low when she answered. “That’s a different album.” A few pages later, she stopped. “Here we go. Good grief.” She held the material up against the picture. “You were right, Mom. It’s the same fabric.”
“Your grandmother made that jumper for you. She must have saved the scraps.” Janice held out her hand. “Let me see that other piece. The purple one.”
Max handed it to her.
“This looks familiar, too. I think this came from an Easter dress Mom had years ago.”
Izzy looked at Max. “Do you think all the fabric pieces we’ve found are like this?”
“It makes sense. That’s how heirloom quilts were created. Women used pieces of leftover material and cut up clothes that were no longer wearable. Perhaps Mrs. Randolph wanted to make that connection.”
“It still doesn’t make sense.” Izzy closed the photo album and set it on the table. “Gran only found out about the quilt six months ago. Why would she have saved scraps from a jumper she made for me over twenty years ago?”
“Don’t look at me,” Janice said, settling back against the armrest of the couch. “She used to save all kinds of weird things. I never pretended to understand your grandmother.”
“There’s one more diary somewhere,” Max said. “Maybe when we find it, we’ll figure out how all this ties together.”
“Maybe.” Janice let her head flop to the side, sending Izzy a pitiful look. “I’m hungry. Can we have dinner now?”
“Sure, Mom.” Izzy stood, then looked at Max. “What do you want to do about the diaries?”
“Read them, of course. But they belong to your family. The decision is up to you.”
“Take them,” Janice said.
“What?” Izzy and Max spoke at the same time.
“You’re the antiquities expert. Take them to your museum; do whatever you need to do. Just bring them back when you’re done.”
Either Mom didn’t believe the diaries had any monetary value or she’d gotten to the point where she simply didn’t care. Izzy wasn’t going to press her luck by asking which was the case.
“Here you go.” She handed Max the newer diary, along with the quilt piece. “We should keep all this together.”
“I’ll take good care of them. They’re safe with me.”
“I know they are.” Izzy smiled. “Call when you know something.”
“I will.” He turned to Janice. “Good-bye, Mrs. Fontaine. Thank you for trusting me with your family treasures.”
She waved her hand in limp response. “Enjoy decoding them, or whatever it is you do.” Then she turned back to Izzy. “Do we have any of that penne pasta you made the other night? That was easy to eat with one hand.”
“Coming right up.” Izzy ushered Max outside, waving from the front porch as he drove away. She smiled to herself as she went into the kitchen. The mystery of the Wild Goose Chase quilt, its heritage, and what in the world Gran was up to would have to wait. Janice Fontaine was ready for dinner.
18
For the next three days, Max did little more than pore over the diaries. He spent hours in his office, turning pages with cotton-glove-covered fingers, peering through a magnifying sheet, transcribing, and making digital images of important passages. The handwriting on the pages of the older diary was faded and done in such a formal, curling script that it was difficult to decipher. Janice Fontaine’s joke about decoding was truer than she realized. At times, it was only by unraveling the surrounding words that he could make out particular sentences. It made for slow, tedious work. But it was fascinating.
A knock sounded on his door, and he lifted bleary eyes to look across the room. “Come in.”
Tara pushed open the door, a stack of files in the crook of her arm. She looked at the fast-food containers on the coffee table and the pillows arranged haphazardly on the couch from when he’d taken a quick nap. “When was the last time you went home?”
“Last night.” He’d left the museum at midnight, then fallen into his bed, only to wake up a few hours later with a revelation about a particularly troubling passage. After a shower and a quick breakfast of coffee and a bagel, he’d been back in his office.
“Really? Then I guess you’ve decided to grow a beard for the winter.”
He rubbed his hand across his chin. Doggone, he’d forgotten to shave. With what he hoped was a disarming smile, he pointed down at the diary. “This is fascinating stuff.”
She walked around the desk and looked over his shoulder. “How far have you gotten?”
“Almost all the way through the first diary. Or rather, the oldest of the two. I don’t believe this is the first in the series of diaries.”
“Why not?”
“It’s not old enough. The first entry is dated June 1, 1864. From what Mrs. Randolph told me, the quilt was started in the early 1800s. Also, there’s an entry in here that mentions cutting pieces of a dress to add to the quilt, which makes it sound like it was in the process of being made.”
“Wow.” Tara set the files on the desk, leaning closer to the old, worn pages. “Do you think every woman who worked on the quilt also kept a diary?”
“I’m not sure. I can tell you that, so far, this particular diary was only written in by one woman. It’s possible that the woman who started the quilt kept a diary, then passed it on with the partially completed quilt. That may have encouraged other woman to do the same and it became a family tradition.”
“It’s quite a find, boss.” She patted him on the shoulder. “Just don’t forget it’s not the only thing on your to-do list.”
Max pinched the bridge of his nose and sighed. “Have I been falling down on the job?”
“A little bit. But no one noticed except me. I covered for you.”
He laughed and pushed back his chair. “I could use a break and some coffee. Why don’t we head to the lunch room and you can fill me in on what I’ve missed.”
Before leaving, she gathered a handful of fast-food trash from the table. He did the same, and listened to her as they walked down the hall. She’d located the missin
g Mexican pottery for the San Diego museum. A local author had called, wanting to set up a seminar about the book she’d written on the spiritual significance of arrowheads. And the maintenance staff had put up the Christmas decorations.
Normally, the last bit of information would have brought a zing of sadness to his chest. But today, the mention of Christmas decorations didn’t take him back to those black days with his mother. It reminded him of Izzy. Of hanging ornaments on her tree, her musical laughter as she explained why as a child she believed Santa Claus lived in Palm Springs, the sparkle in her eye, and how his fingertips brushed hers when she took the ornament he handed her.
“Man, you really do need a break.”
“What?” They stood in the middle of the break room, and Tara caught him daydreaming.
“You glazed over for a second.” She poured him a mug of hot coffee. “Here. You should probably drink it black.”
“Thanks.” Holding the cup under his nose, breathing in the aroma, he looked around the room. It was cold, sterile. Not a very festive place to hang out during breaks from work. “We need some decorations in here.”
“Excuse me?” Tara put the inside of her wrist on his forehead. “Are you sick? Do you have a fever?”
Max winced and pulled back. Had he really been that much of a Scrooge over the years? “It may come as a shock to you, but I’m not anti-Christmas.”
Tara kept silent, but her eyes said, You could have fooled me.
He set down the mug, took his wallet from his back pocket, and removed a few bills. “Here. Buy some nice stuff and decorate however you’d like.”
“You don’t have to tell me twice.” She plucked the bills from his hand and slipped them in the pocket of her blazer. “I don’t know if it’s from lack of sleep or change of heart, but I like the new you.”
He frowned. “What was wrong with the old me?”
“Nothing. The new you is just better.” She started to leave the room, but turned around in the doorway. “I almost forgot. Dalton Reed called. He wants to talk to you.”
A Wild Goose Chase Christmas: Quilts of Love Series Page 12