well,” Hemmingway reminded him on various occasions, “black folk still suffering.”
Cole dedicated one of the empty rooms to his craft. Bottles of all sizes and shapes lined the baseboard like glass soldiers. Boxes containing sheets of canvas, oil paints, brushes, needles, and odd-shaped tools were strewn haphazardly around the room.
He now owned volumes of books on the American Indian. Books paged through so often, the spines had split and the pages were creased and wrinkled.
Cole’s most prized Indian collectible was a framed sepia-colored photograph of Geronimo. He had paid a pretty penny for the original print, which was taken in 1913 by the renowned photographer Adolph Muhr. Cole referred to Geronimo as “the greatest Indian chief ever known.”
Hemmingway didn’t think the man looked great at all, he just looked like an old man dressed in a shabby suit.
Cole looked up from his tedious task, pushed his wirerimmed frames up onto his forehead, and said, “You don’t trust who?”
Hemmingway sighed and stepped into the room. “That woman downstairs, the one I told you about.”
Cole smirked. “What’s her name again?”
“Charlotte Custer.”
“Did she say what she wants?”
Hemmingway shook her head.
“Oh, okay then.” He rose from the chair, unzipped his pants, and shoved his shirttails inside his waistband. “Bring us some lemonade,” he said as he brushed past her. “But no cookies, I don’t want her to feel like she can dawdle.”
Upon entering the parlor, Cole extended his hand and said, “Miss Custer?”
Charlotte nodded.
“Cole Payne. Sorry to keep you waiting. How can I help you?” He took a seat across from her.
“Mr. Payne,” Charlotte began in a syrupy-sweet voice, “it is so nice to finally meet you.”
Her words melted into babble in Cole’s ears. His mind was upstairs, hovering over his latest masterpiece. So reluctant was he to be there in that room with that woman, whose name had already faded from his mind, that he didn’t even notice how incredibly beautiful she was.
To say he had sworn off women would not be a fair statement. But a man does not easily recover from the loss of a wife and a lover all in one day. His heart was still healing, the scab tender enough to remind him that love, and the loss of it, was painful.
Hemmingway entered the room carrying a pitcher of lemonade and two glasses.
“Oh, thank you so much,” Charlotte said.
Hemmingway shot Cole a piercing look before exiting the room.
Charlotte reached for her glass, raised it to her lips, and took two small sips. She made a face, then set the glass down.
“Something wrong, Ms. Custer?”
“It’s just a little tart for my taste.”
“Tart?”
No one could accuse Hemmingway of making tart lemonade. If an allegation could be leveled, it would be that she made it too sweet. Cole raised his glass to his mouth, took a large gulp, and gagged.
Tart was kind—the mixture was downright sour!
“Sorry,” Cole murmured, and glanced at the doorway. “I can have her make another batch if you like.”
Charlotte shook her hand. “No, don’t worry. I can’t stay.” She stood up. “I just wanted to meet the man who had so much interest in my family. Now I have met him.”
The smile she offered was as big and bright as the sun, it lit up her face in a way Cole could not ignore.
“Your f-family?” he stammered stupidly. “I’m confused, Miss … uhm …”
Charlotte continued to smile. “I knew you weren’t listening.” She wagged a delicate finger at him. “I could see it in your eyes.”
Cole gave her a sheepish look.
“Well,” Charlotte sighed, and eased back down into the chair, “a friend of a friend passed one of your letters onto me …”
“Letters?”
“Yes.” Charlotte opened the clam-shaped purse that dangled from her wrist, pulled out an envelope, and handed it to him.
Cole studied the script; it was his.
Mr. T. Farmer
Sherman Publishing House
89 Park Avenue
New York City, NY
The letter was dated December 1928. He quickly scanned the paragraphs before looking back up at Charlotte. “I don’t understand.”
The woman, still smiling, shifted a bit in her seat. “Is that not a letter written by your own hand, Mr. Payne?”
“Yes.”
“In the letter you refer to Mr. Farmer’s book, Forever, Monahseetah, do you not?”
“I do.”
“You wanted to know if Mr. Farmer had located the children of Monahseetah and General Custer. Is that correct?’
Cole nodded.
“I am the granddaughter.”
Cole blinked. “The granddaughter of whom?”
Charlotte’s smile turned bland. Even Hemming-way, who was eavesdropping in the hall, bristled with frustration.
“Of General Custer and Monahseetah,” Charlotte replied pointedly.
It took another moment for Cole to comprehend what the woman sitting across from him had just said.
“You?”
Charlotte bobbed her head.
His obsession with Native American culture had led him to the book entitled Forever, Monahseetah, written by Theodore Farmer, which chronicled the love affair between Monahseetah and the famed Civil War and Indian War hero, General George Armstrong Custer.
In the book, the author claimed to have located and interviewed the aged Monahseetah on a Cheyenne reservation in Oklahoma. Farmer wrote that Monahseetah had been quite candid with him about her relationship with the general and the children she had borne him— a boy in January of 1869, and in December of that same year, a girl.
The boy, called Yellow Bird, had Monahseetah’s brown complexion and dark eyes, but not her ink-colored hair. His locks were light brown streaked with blond.
