3. Chapter 3

Chapter 3

C aro: At least tell me his name.

Me : Whose name?

Caro : Your hunky guy with the hammers.

Me : He’s not my guy. He’s Grandma Lydia’s handyman.

Caro : Name, please.

Me: It’s Henry.

Caro: I want to do some cyberstalking.

Caro: Henry the handyman. It has a little ring to it. What year did he graduate from high school?

Me: You can’t possibly expect me to know that.

Caro: Well you said he’s a local. The high school here is tiny. He’s our age?

Me: I’m not participating in this.

Caro: You are such a buzzkill.

Caro: It’s okay, I’ll just cover the whole decade.

The next morning, Henry’s sitting on a pile of freshly delivered sandbags, waiting for me.

“Can I get you a coffee?” I ask. Even though I’m dressed for home repair and the whole reason Henry is here is so that he can fix up Grandma Lydia’s place, it feels weird to jump straight into the project.

“Thanks, but I’m all set. Feel free to finish yours, though.”

Self-consciously, I drain the last few inches in my cup. Henry doesn’t seem to be in a hurry at all. I didn’t even realize the sand for the brick repair had been delivered. Maybe he’s tired from hauling them over to the back of the house, where my grandma’s brick walkway is in wobbly, uneven disrepair.

As I finish my coffee, Henry surveys the backyard, almost conspicuously avoiding watching me. Which, conveniently, gives me the opportunity to watch him. Like yesterday, he’s dressed simply: a white shirt and black pants. The early sun brings out the reddish undertones of his hair, brightening the strands as if it’s shining right through them. With him looking away, the clean-shaven line of his jaw is more obvious.

When he looks back at me, I have to feign drinking a final sip of my coffee to justify the extra seconds I’ve spent silently staring. “Done,” I declare, setting my mug down on a nearby stone pedestal.

“Excellent,” Henry says, standing. “Let’s get to it, then.”

Even though we are working on a project, Henry is an easy conversationalist. He blends together comments about how to fix each section of the pathway with casual topics. It feels surprisingly natural to be next to him, working side by side. We lift bricks and fill the cracks between each paver, chatting about the mundane and, in small measure, the personal. I’m a history teacher; he does odd jobs but has a degree in business, which he doesn’t use much beyond his own odd-job work. I’m twenty-six; he’s twenty-five. (Caroline would be drooling over that tidbit, and I can picture her adding it to her stalker-sheet.) We talk about the town and about local history. I set up my Bluetooth speaker and we make a playlist for the morning. We talk about books we’ve read recently and Lydia’s love of New York Times games. By the time we finish the project, he feels more like a co-worker I’ve known for months instead of a man I just met the day before.

“Lydia has done a good job keeping up this place,” Henry says as we carry the tools back to the toolshed.

I wait until Henry has put down the shovel before pushing the wheelbarrow back into the shed and latching the door. “Yeah, she really cares about the place. It’s sentimental to her. To the whole family, really.”

“So, you don’t think that she’ll sell? The real estate prices around here are skyrocketing. The farm a few miles away sold last year for a lot—millions, I heard.”

I shake my head. “No. She loves it here. She’s lived here her whole life, you know.”

Henry nods. “Yeah, I remember that about her.” He tips his head in the direction of the road. “But she sold some land just a few years ago, right? She still has quite a chunk. Think she’ll sell off more?”

“No way.” I think of the letter on the counter this morning. Millions of dollars is accurate. “She doesn’t like all of the development coming in. She’s never cared that she’s far from all of the amenities of city life. She values the peace and privacy that rural living affords and thinks that if she sells off too much land, it would get developed, and it wouldn’t just be the town that continued to change but her day-to-day life, too. So no, I think she wouldn’t sell much of anything at all.”

Henry makes a noise of agreement and uses his forearm to push his hair back. I’m sweating a bit in the late morning sun, but he seems rather unaffected by the heat. It’s the way his russet waves keep falling across his forehead that seems to bother him. I have to look away to stop myself from staring.

“That’s good. There are only a few families still around that have enough land to hold back the rezoning that keeps getting proposed. If they sell, it will have ripple effects beyond housing developments. Cost of living increases and all that.”

I inch towards the house, looking for shade. “You seem pretty up to date on local politics,” I observe .

Henry follows, shrugging. “This is my home. I have lived here… well, my whole life. And I might just be one person, but I still want to do what I can for my community. Did Lydia tell you about Karl from across the street?”

“Yeah, she did. She said that he passed away and didn’t have any family or will, so his land is in some sort of liminal space.”

Henry opens his mouth as if about to say something but rethinking it. “That’s not… completely true,” he says, head tilted. The angle makes his hair slide back across his forehead. “I’m actually related to him, albeit distantly. I helped him with his property a bit.”

“Like you do with the little house in the woods?” I say. Again, Henry’s expression flits between uninterpretable emotions.

“Yes, like that,” he agrees. “I keep forgetting you know about it.”

“Well, I have spent my fair share of time in this town too, you know,” I tell him, sitting on the top step of the porch.

“I didn’t know that,” he replies. He leans against the post of the porch steps, legs crossed at the ankles. He’s a bit taller than me, so perched on the top step, I am looking down at him just slightly. “What’s brought you here so often?”

“My family, mostly. We always come in the summers and for Christmas.”

“Really? Are they—”

His question is cut off by the obnoxious ringer on my phone .

“Sorry, that’s my alarm,” I say, fumbling to pull my phone out. I have to awkwardly wipe my hands on my pants to not get it dirty. “I set it to remind me to get ready for my afternoon errands.” I hit the snooze button on the alarm and look back up at him. He’s looking right back at me, his cool, clear eyes bright. “Sorry,” I say. “What was it that we were saying?”

He smiles at me, a slight lifting of his lips. “Nothing. It’s fine. You go get ready. See you tomorrow, Rency.” He lifts his chin in a see-you-later nod, and I raise my hand in reply.

By the time I pull open the screen door, hoping to sneak one more glance at the too-handsome handyman, he’s already disappeared.

Oak River is a small town. It doesn’t have much to boast about beyond safe neighborhoods and the sort of charm that tiny historical buildings and small businesses offer. I feel inordinately attached to it: its one stoplight intersection, the tall brick buildings, the way the local committees and stores decorate the antique lamp posts for holidays.

My favorite corner of the downtown area is a wide alley between two sections of the historical buildings where the gap for the sky is covered with a domed glass ceiling, the walkway lit by sunshine and large pendulum lights. Instead of trash cans and graffiti, the pathway between buildings is lined with antique, hand-painted doors and wide windows, perfect for peering into the shops. There’s the stained-glass artist who has maintained a studio since the ’80s and has an upper shop, as does a cobbler. (Yes, an honest-to-goodness cobbler. ) Below them is a double storefront of an antique shop, selling mostly jewelry and furniture. A bookstore, which survived the minimal foot traffic of a small town only by selling books both in person and online, eats up both the downstairs and upstairs levels of one slice of the building. Other stores come and go from the arcade, but these always seem to be there. Currently there’s a real estate office occupying the bottom storefront of the section of the building that, above, houses the historical society.

I set out shortly after Henry had left, taking a quick shower and throwing on clean clothes, determined to make it to both the historical society to track down the newspaper article my grandmother had mentioned and to go to the funeral home museum to confess my crime. Both places have strange hours posted online, and I probably should have called ahead—a realization that only occurs to me when I face a handwritten sign taped onto the half-glass door of the historical society.

OUT FOR LUNCH. BE BACK AT TWO.

I check my watch. It’s just after one, and the historical society is—theoretically—only open until three thirty every day, so that’s quite a lunch break.

I occupy the first thirty minutes of waiting with a latte from the new coffee shop in the corner spot of the alley shops, followed by leisurely browsing the antique store. It s

pieces are lovely: art deco engagement rings that make my eyes practically turn into hearts and charm bracelets with quirky silver and gold tokens from the ’70s. I flip the tags on a few of the authentic mid-century modern pieces, clearly either lovingly kept or carefully restored, before reminding myself that not only do I not have my own home to furnish, but I most certainly cannot afford these sorts of prices on a teacher’s salary.

By the time two o’clock arrives, I’m back to lingering in front of the doors of the historical society. Next to it, plastered on the wide window panes, are the real estate office’s property fliers. As I wait, I peruse the listings. The prices are even more shocking than the tags on the vintage furniture. Anything with land was being sold for thousands more than I would have imagined. Houses on small lots still seem to be just as expensive as those in the nearby city where Caroline lives. Henry had commented on the property value, and I had seen the letter on Grandma Lydia’s counter, but I hadn’t really absorbed it until this moment.

“Anything catch your eye?” a voice asks, jolting me from my examination of a “quaint historic home on three point five acres” going for over a decade of my pre-tax salary.

“Ah, no, sorry,” I tell the man. He’s dressed in a button-up sans tie and a pair of khakis, his nametag informing me that he is Nathan, working for vanVals Real Estate. A woman hovers behind him, also dressed in stylish workwear. “I’m just browsing. Waiting for the historical society to re-open, actually.” I gesture, cup in hand, to the sign on the door.

“Are you not from around here, then?” he asks. “Because we also have some rental properties we manage, if you’re interested.”

“Oh, that’s okay. I’m not looking for anything.”

“Really? Are you sure?” he presses. “We have some great units.”

“I’m sure,” I say. “But I’m staying with my grandmother, actually, so I don’t need any rental properties. Thanks though.” I try to end the conversation by turning my body slightly. I fumble for my phone to use it as a social shield, but it must not work because the woman mutters something in a mumbling, prompting sort of tone, and a beat later the man is asking me a follow-up question. “Who’s your grandmother? It’s a small town. Maybe I’ve sold her a condo. I’ve managed over a hundred sales in the past few years.”

Not wanting to be rude, I lower my phone. “Oh no, she’s lived in the same house her whole life. Lydia Faber?”

“The huge farm next to the Bakker property,” the woman says, voice just slightly louder this time. “What’s the story there?” She’s not talking to me, instead looking over at Nathan, who shifts uncomfortably.

“I know the place,” Nathan says, not paying any mind to his colleague. “It’s down the dirt road, near the river and the Bakker property.”

“Yes,” I say, confused. Hadn’t the woman just said that?

“It’s a big farm, isn’t it?”

I blink. “Yes, it is.” Is there an echo in here?

“Think she’d sell?” Nathan pushes. “Property prices are a seller’s market out here. She must have over fifty acres. We work closely with developers who would love to obtain large parcels of land like that.”

I’m saved from answering by the appearance of two ladies in their sixties, keys in hand, approaching the door of the historical society. I shift away from him, simultaneously draining my coffee cup of its final sips and edging my way towards the door. “She’ll never sell,” I tell him.

“Here, take my card anyway,” he says, following me. The business card is between us, and politeness compels me to take it. I bite back the “thank you” that would normally follow the exchange. I don’t like how pushy he is, and I don’t like the strange dynamic between him and his coworker. “Maybe she’ll change her mind.”

The ladies slip through the antique door and up the stairs, and I grab the door before it can close behind them.

“She won’t,” I reassure him, stepping into the doorway.

As the door closes behind me, I swear I hear the woman mutter, “We’ll see.”

The stairs up to the historical society are steep and old, each worn down in the center. Still, I’m happy for every foot they put between me and the strange, hovering real estate agents below. One of the women from before has settled at a small front desk area piled high with papers, as if it’s more of an office space than a greeting area. She looks up at me when my shoes click against the floorboards.

“Good afternoon,” I greet. “I’m hoping you can help me find an old newspaper article from the late 1920s.”

“Perhaps,” the woman says noncommittally. She’s sizing me up, and I flash her my brightest, hello-fellow-historian smile. It only seems to warm her up incrementally. “What sort of project brings you in today?”

“Well, I’m here for the summer, helping out my grandmother. We’re working on a bit of a historical family project—a genealogy and a bit of an archive, really. Maybe you know her? Lydia Faber?”

My grandmother’s name is the key: the woman brightens up immediately. “Ah, you are one of Lydia’s granddaughters, are you?”

Score. “Guilty as charged,” I reply, grinning wider. “I’m Florence, but I go by Rency. Florence is a family name.”

“Well Rency, it’s such a delight to meet one of Lydia’s granddaughters. You know, your grandmother has some of the loveliest gardens. She always participates in the Garden Tour series, and just last year she cut me a huge hunk of hosta right out of her own backyard. She’s such a generous lady.”

“She really is,” I agree. Grandma Lydia has always been like that: kind and so giving of herself.

“Well, you are doing a bit of a family archive project, you say?”

“That’s right. But really, what I’m looking for today is an article from a story she told me about the neighbors across the street. She said that, in the newspaper from August of 1929, there was a story about a man who almost married my great-grandmother but was struck by lightning and killed on his wedding day.”

“Wow, what a story!” the woman agrees. A regretful expression crosses her face. “I wish I could help you today, but we actually have just been doing a bit of rearranging, and all of our pre-1950 documents are still stacked up in boxes in the back. We haven’t digitized anything before the 1960s, so it wouldn’t be in our system, either.”

“That is a problem,” I muse. I look around the carefully organized space of this main room, wondering what chaos the back rooms might house. Maybe she would let me go through them myself and look.

I suggest this to her, but she shakes her head. “Sorry dear, but we have a policy about how documents should be handled. How about you write down your information and I will pull it for you, yes? And give you a call when I get to it.”

“Agreed,” I say, although my heart is sinking. I adore dusty boxes and rooms packed with papers and would have loved to get my hands on some other documents too. She passes me a piece of historical society stationary, and I write down my name, phone number, and email address, just in case they want to scan it for me. Then, I write down the year and the month based on Grandma Lydia’s memory and a few keywords, just in case .

Thankfully, when I swing the door open and step back into the arcade, Nathan and the mumbling lady are nowhere to be found. Still, the disappointment of the day and the strangeness of that interaction follow me out onto the street.

My only bit of luck today is that by the time I make it to the funeral home museum to confess to my act of vandalism, the open sign has been flipped to CLOSED and, with a sigh of relief, I turn around to head back home, crime unconfessed for another day.