When I Meet You

by Olivia Newport

  At the sound of car doors slamming, Jillian’s eyes focused on the view beyond the porch.

  She popped out of her chair.

  Two figures came up the sidewalk, one straggling behind the other, and up the broad steps to the porch. Jillian’s heart raced, and she went to the front door to open it before they even rang the bell.

  Min stared at her. “Good. You’re here.”

  At least Min hadn’t torn up her business card and tossed the pieces in the fireplace the moment Jillian left the little red house.

  “It’s good to see you,” Jillian said. “Please, come in.”

  Min strode into the main hallway. Drew shrugged a little as he followed, his neck buried in the collar of his jacket.

  “We can find a place to talk,” Jillian said. “How did you know where to find me?”

  “You’re not the only one who dropped a card,” Min said. “It turns out your friend Veronica left a card with Drew. When you weren’t home, we went there, and she suggested you might be here.”

  “I’m glad you found me,” Jillian said. “Did you decide you wanted to hear about the trunk after all?”

  “Don’t flatter yourself,” Min said.

  Nolan and Nia entered the hall from the dining room.

  “May I help you?” Nia said.

  “This is Min and Drew,” Jillian said.

  Nolan stepped forward to offer a handshake. Drew took his hand. Min did not.

  “Are you interested in staying at the Inn?” Nia asked.

  “No.” Min turned back to Jillian. “My only business is to ask Jillian to mind her own business.”

  Jillian’s stomach clenched. “You’ve come all the way to Canyon Mines to say that?” Min had made her feelings quite clear on Saturday.

  “Don’t take me for a fool,” Min said. “Drew is driving me to Casper for a visit with Michelle.”

  “Michelle?” Jillian would grasp at every name she heard.

  “My daughter. Not that this is any of your business either, but I don’t do distance driving on my own. People seem to think I’m too old for that. It didn’t seem that far out of the way to stop here and make sure you understand my position.”

  “I do. Very well.” Jillian searched for Drew’s eyes, but he refused to offer them. The friendly, dimpled man on the horse was still lost in whoever his great-aunt caused him to become. Compassion climbed through the core of her, but no words that would diffuse the clinched mood came to her. She glanced at Nolan, the one who usually knew what to say, wishing he could have met the Drew she first met.

  “We promise to respect your home and property,” Nolan said.

  Thank you, Dad. He hadn’t said they wouldn’t get at the truth. His answer allowed ample latitude to do it from a distance.

  “You’d better,” Min said. “And tell your friend at the Victorian shop that I made note of her license plate the other day. If I see her vehicle on my property again, I promise I will call the police.”

  Jillian glanced at Nolan, whose eyes implored her to remain calm. Drew blanched in silent embarrassment. Jillian hid her fists behind her back.

  “The trunk is in my living room,” Jillian said. “You could still see it, since you’re here.” It was a risky offer. Min might get it in her head to abscond with it—and all the evidence it contained. But if she’d been home when Min and Drew marched up her porch steps rather than Nia’s, the trunk would have been standing right there. Maybe seeing it would soften Min. Make her curious. At the very least, a few minutes of less hostile conversation could rule out that the photo on the mantel had anything to do with Lynnelle Bendeure. And if Min saw a connection—well, the path of conversation would change.

  Min scoffed. “It’s as if you’re not listening to a word I’m saying. Just mind your own business, please. Come on, Drew.” She pivoted and went out the door, dragging Drew in her undertow.

  “What just happened?” Nia asked once Drew’s truck pulled away.

  “What just happened,” Jillian said, “is that we found out where another branch of the family lives!”

  “Also what just happened,” Nolan said, “is that I’ve decided Jillian is right.”

  “Dad?”

  “It’s just plain odd for people not to be a little curious about their family from a hundred years ago,” Nolan said, “and it’s close to incriminating for them to go this far out of their way to tell you for a second time to back off.”

  Jillian smacked a big sloppy kiss on her father’s cheek.

  “Despite his demeanor, my gut tells me Drew is plenty curious,” Nolan said.

  “What is the power she has over him?” Jillian asked. “I wish you could have met him before she showed up the other day. His personality changed completely when she came in. Now today he didn’t say a single word. I don’t think he even wanted to come inside.”

  “Your methods were rather like a search without a warrant,” Nolan said, “and I still want you to be careful, but I agree it’s a little hard to walk away from what she just stirred up.”

  “I’ve got a family tree to work on.”

  “You still don’t know that it’s Lynnelle.” Nolan’s tone carried caution.

  “No, but I sure plan to find out.”

  “What are you people talking about?” Nia asked. “Who is Lynnelle? Where did you meet those people? And what did you do to make that woman so angry?”

  Jillian and Nolan laughed.

  “It’s a long story,” Jillian said.

  “Well, hold that thought then,” Nia said. “Right now I need to know if it’s really going to work to have you standing here in the hall for your talk.”

  They returned to the preparations for the Legacy Jubilee meal. Between her guests and the dinner, Nia would be swamped. She couldn’t get caught up in last-minute problems that could just as well be worked out now.

  Back in their own home, Nolan mixed salt, chopped onion, bay leaves, pepper, dried crushed rosemary, thyme, and cloves to rub into the brisket before returning it to the refrigerator—day two. He would turn and rub the salt mixture into the beef once a day for the next two days before roasting the meat with vegetables. Then they both went back to work.

  In the evening Jillian turned her attention to the family tree she was trying to build. Now that she had Drew Lawson’s name, she could work backward as well as forward from the names of the couple who bought the ranch so long ago.

  In theory.

  Even using Andrew in place of Drew didn’t get her what she wanted. It must not be his given first name. She didn’t know Michelle’s last name—or Min’s. And Min was no doubt short for something. Minnie? Minerva? It could be short for a given name, or it could be a family nickname. Jillian needed a day clear of other commitments to devote to sleuthing through this conundrum. She couldn’t stay up all night again.

  Nolan had checked the locks and gone up to bed an hour ago. Now Jillian shut down her computer, turned off the lights in her office, and went up the back stairs. On the landing, though, she hesitated. Instead of going toward her bedroom, she opened the door to the attic and flipped the light switch.

  The trunk. She blew out her breath and put a palm to her forehead. Her father was not entirely wrong. He rarely was. The arrival of Lynnelle’s trunk cranked up and triggered every emotion she felt about her own.

  Jillian climbed the stairs. The trunk’s shape beckoned from under the blankets. She wanted to turn around. Retreat down the stairs. Go to bed at a sensible time, just as she’d planned.

  She swallowed and moved toward it. Dragged it out from under the eaves. Uncovered it. Raised the lid. Removed the tray.

  She had to be missing something. A small thing that could make all the difference, something she hadn’t seen all these years.

  Jillian lifted the box of odds and ends and stared at them. What happened between those two letters addressed to her great-great-great-grandfather Sal? She’d always surmised, without proof, that Lou was another brother. And Geppetto? Growing
up with the story of Pinocchio, it hadn’t occurred to her that real people had that name. Because of its fragility, she still hesitated to unfold the streetcar map, but with great care she spread it under the brightest light in the attic. It was unremarkable in every respect but one. Hotel. The black ink word was scrawled in tiny letters next to a lopsided star at an intersection that would have been a good distance from downtown Denver at the time. Not until she was in college and had access to the university library, with its historical images, did Jillian find an early twentieth-century five-story building on that corner and references to a brief period of time in its history when it had been a hotel.

  But if there’d ever been a family story for why it should be marked on a streetcar map, she’d waited too long to be curious.

  Jillian’s hands shook as she folded the map and replaced it in the box. Could she never forgive herself? She packed the trunk, closed it, and covered it. She should have just gone to bed rather than torturing herself.

  In her room, changed and ready for bed with teeth brushed, she climbed under the quilt. Veronica’s oddball dissertation on the history of Italian immigration sat on the nightstand. Jillian thought she’d read everything under the sun on that topic years ago, but she’d never seen this. She picked it up and turned to the index at the back, a research habit that she found gave her an idea of what to expect in a large document before she dove in. Many entries were what she expected, including the long section on the Mafia.

  Then there it was.

  Parisi.

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  Just watching Marilyn made Jillian antsy. The Legacy Jubilee was still two weeks away, and the museum director was getting more tightly wound by the day.

  “She’s got her clipboard,” Jillian whispered to Kris Bryant in the community room at the Heritage Society during the assembly of business owners involved in the weekend’s events.

  “I’m ready.” Kris slapped a fist into an open palm. “Supplies ordered. Extra temporary staff recruited. Machines in optimal working condition.”

  “Are you here to put the rest of us to shame?” Jillian leaned into her father’s shoulder on the other side.

  “Ahem,” Nolan said. “I have … lists.”

  “Why aren’t you in Denver today?” Kris asked.

  “And miss all this?” Nolan said.

  “What he means,” Jillian said, “is that he has to go to Denver on Friday anyway, so he swapped work-from-home days from Friday to Thursday.”

  He checked his watch. “I do actually have to work at some point.”

  Jillian yawned and tried to push her eyes open wider. In the end, she’d stayed up later Tuesday night than she’d meant to. In fact, the dissertation had absorbed the last two evenings. The list of pages on which Parisi appeared numbered more than a few, and she would never have gone to sleep without at least scanning for some context. The first night, she’d gone downstairs, flipped on the lights, and made a photocopy of the entire document so she could mark it up when she had time for a more thorough reading. The second night, she’d dug in to begin a careful read.

  Marilyn worked her way down her clipboard checklist. Silently, Jillian admitted the details were worth reviewing. Everyone would know what to expect during the Legacy Jubilee, and today’s process likely would save the chaos and incessant questions on four very busy days two weeks from now. With all the participants in one place, before they opened their own businesses for the day, Marilyn could also ask her individual questions and save time chasing down people who weren’t returning calls. As the meeting proceeded, Jillian’s appreciation for Marilyn’s organized analytical approach increased. If she ever ran for mayor, she’d have Jillian’s vote.

  Nolan’s turn came. Marilyn pointed the end of her pen at him. “Menu, Nolan. By tomorrow.”

  “You’ll have it.”

  “Can you give me some idea?”

  “Choice of soup, salads, breads, one or two meats, side dishes, three or four vegetables, Irish specialty dishes for particular interest, vegetarian options, of course, and an array of desserts.”

  Marilyn’s lips pursed. “That doesn’t seem very specific. You do understand it is a sit-down meal and not a buffet.”

  “I’m still narrowing things down.” He wagged one eyebrow.

  Unimpressed, Marilyn nevertheless moved on, and Nolan exhaled. Jillian didn’t blame him. While Marilyn’s method was expedient, it was a bit like being called to the board at the front of the room to show your work in algebra class.

  “Jillian has given us a lovely topic,” Marilyn said. “She will speak on ‘Your Family’s Then and Your Now: Knotting the Threads Together.’”

  “No fair,” Nolan muttered. “You used that theme at a conference last year.”

  Jillian shrugged.

  Marilyn finished her rounds and dismissed the group with a final admonition to read emails to remain informed of any changing details and gratitude for everyone’s support for the museum.

  “Gotta scoot,” Kris said. “Carolyn and I are cooking up some Legacy Jubilee special combos with her Digger’s Delight chocolates and my ice cream. We’re still experimenting.”

  “You don’t have to turn in a menu on Friday?” Nolan said.

  Kris laughed and left.

  Nia beelined toward them. “Nolan! Too many options! No wonder you’re talking about cooking in two kitchens. Can’t you simplify?”

  “Simplify, schimplify,” Nolan said. “It’s supposed to be elegant. Do you think the Victorians ate simplified menus?”

  “Jillian,” Nia said, “somebody has to tame him, and I think it’s going to be you.”

  “Me!” Jillian put her hands up, stop signs. “I don’t control him.”

  Nia shook her finger at Nolan. “For the sake of Marilyn’s sanity and the good of my kitchen, narrow down the options to something reasonable—and specific. And not too messy. Things you can prep ahead.”

  “What happened to everyone’s imagination?” Nolan chuckled. “But all right. Message received. Final menu due tomorrow. Specific. Fewer options. Not messy.”

  Nia turned on her heel and went to consult Marilyn.

  Veronica sauntered over. “Did Min and Drew find you? What a shock to see them!”

  “They did find us,” Jillian said. “Was Min as courteous to you as she was to us?”

  “She’s a piece of work.”

  “She slipped up a little,” Jillian said. “She has a daughter in Casper. That’s where they were heading.”

  “Ooh. Name?”

  “She didn’t slip up that much,” Nolan said. “Just a first name.”

  “I have a leaf for the family tree in the generation between Min and Drew,” Jillian said, “and I know that at least part of the family migrated to Casper. Maybe somebody with the family name did as well. I need a chunk of time to do some digging.”

  “You just made me promise to focus on the heritage event,” Nolan said. “Don’t you need to update your talk so it doesn’t sound tired and recycled?”

  “You wish. I could give that talk in my sleep.” Jillian grinned. “But I do have some actual paying work that needs attention today.”

  “I’m supposed to tell you Luke has been emailing more people about the papers,” Veronica said. “He’s hoping to have something for you soon.”

  “Ah.” Nolan inclined his head toward Jillian. “Another reason to be inquisitive but not headlong.”

  “Message received.” Jillian saluted as she echoed her father’s earlier words. “No more going off the grid.” Some mental machinations would leave no outward evidence while she waited for Luke’s results, and the dissertation now posed considerable distraction for the hours after she dispatched her professional obligations.

  After four days of turning and rubbing the seasonings and turning again, the spiced brisket was ready to bake. Nolan filled the roasting pan with generous portions of onions, carrots, celery, and beef broth and roasted the meat all afternoon, filling the house wi
th an aroma tantalizing Jillian’s taste buds incessantly. Nolan’s requirement for serving it, however, was her honest opinion.

  She rolled a bite around on her tongue in three directions before finally swallowing it.

  “Fewer cloves, more rosemary?” Jillian squinted her eyes at Nolan.

  “Is that a question or advice?”

  “My best guess.” She stabbed her fork into the meat for another bite. “But it’s good.”

  “It has to be excellent,” Nolan said. “I have just enough days for another practice run before starting the real thing. But I’d better get my order in with the butcher.”

  “Two hundred meals,” Jillian said.

  “Where exactly is that butcher shop?”

  Jillian rolled her eyes. He’d found the butcher on Saturday to buy the brisket they were eating now. He was just playing helpless. But she could do a little penance. “I’ll go tomorrow. How many pounds do you want altogether?”

  She cleared out of the kitchen after supper. Nolan donned his white apron and chef’s hat and started singing Puccini. The Italian text was fitting to Jillian’s reading material as she settled into her favorite chair and ottoman in the living room with the photocopied dissertation on Italian immigration, a yellow highlighter, and bright-colored self-stick notes in her hands to review again the details that had emerged over the last two evenings.

  Three Parisi brothers arrived together from Sicily in the late 1800s. Jillian already knew this was an era of large waves of Italian immigration. The dissertation did not give birth dates or specific ages. This was not its purpose. The Parisi story was only significant for its intersection with the narrative of the Mastranga crime family in New Orleans, which used a saloon and a brothel as the base for its operations. Italian laborers of all sorts, but especially dockworkers, handed over a cut of their earnings or faced the prospect of having their livelihoods terminated. South African fruit. Produce. Grocery stores. Shipping. Wagons. It was one big network, a minefield of business monopoly. What good was it to have imported perishable produce, even the best quality, without a way to get it off the docks? And what good were agreements to sell it in stores without local transportation to get it there?