had met the barber’s daughter. Neither spoke of Elise’s condition, though obviously her father had her on his mind. He’d had the gall to suggest that Callie Mitchell had persuaded his daughter to move in with her. Jake had leaped to her defense, raising Langley’s ire. The man used his scissors to emphasize his points. Jake was fortunate to still be in possession of his ears.
Mrs. Mitchell opened the screen door. “Do you need the fruit jar refilled?”
Did this woman never stop thinking of others? “I’d appreciate it.” He carried the jar to her, promptly getting lost in the depths of her dazzling blue-green eyes.
“Did Mr. Langley say anything about Elise?”
“He’s not happy she’s living here.”
Her eyes dimmed. “I know.”
An urge to teach Langley a thing or two for upsetting Mrs. Mitchell this way gripped Jake. But what did he know about being a father? About dealing with an unwed daughter in a family way?
“Yoo-hoo! Callie!” A twig of a woman, white hair frizzing around her face like a windblown cloud, lurched up the walk pulling a loaded wagon, impressive for someone surely approaching eighty.
“Mildred, whatever are you toting in that wagon?”
“Memories, dear. Births, deaths and everything in between.” The lady’s hand swept the stacks of newspapers and scrapbooks crammed to overflowing. “Some of this memorabilia dates back to the town’s beginnings.”
“That’s nice but…I don’t understand why you’re bringing all that here.”
“You will as soon as I explain.” She tilted her head toward Jake. “You’re that fellow who stopped at my place looking for work. I’d have hired you, but I’m not sure of my plans for the house.” Jake nodded.
“It’s about time you got help, Callie, before this house falls down around your ears. Not an easy way to get them pierced.” She gave an unladylike snort.
“Mr. Smith’s already replaced the roof shingles.”
“Ah, a hard worker and easy on the eyes.” The woman winked. “I may be old as dirt, but I can still appreciate a good-looking man. Not why I wed my dear husband, but I enjoyed that handsome face of his more than dessert after a meal.”
At Mrs. Uland’s perusal, Jake’s neck heated. The feisty older woman merely grinned, as if enjoying his discomfort.
“This old Victorian sat empty too long. All it needs is someone who cares like Callie here and someone with the know-how to give it life.” Her approving gaze rested on Jake. “Appears that’s you, Mr. Smith.”
“Sitting empty isn’t good for a house,” he said.
“Sitting in an empty house isn’t good for a person, either.” Mrs. Uland laughed. “I’m not in mine, more than I have to be.”
He motioned to the wagon. “Let me help with that.”
“Oh, a knight in shining armor.” She wagged a knobby finger. “Just keep your nose out of them. Took me hours to get those issues in order of publication.”
“They’re safe with me.” His mind raced like a hound dog after a fox. The information in this wagon could possibly unlock his birth mother’s identity. If he examined these newspapers, he might find his birth announcement.
“I’m not following you,” Mrs. Mitchell said, looking slightly dazed.
“Of course, you’re not, dear. If you have time for tea, I’ll explain.”
“I do.”
Jake scooped up an armload of newspapers. “Where do you want these?”
From the flicker of dismay in Callie Mitchell’s eyes, she didn’t want them anywhere, but she didn’t let on. “Follow me,” she said, gathering the scrapbooks, then taking the older woman’s arm. “Watch your step, Mildred.”
They picked their way across the dilapidated porch. “A strong man around the place comes in mighty handy.” She lowered her voice, but not so low that Jake couldn’t hear. “Maybe you can find a way to keep him around permanently.”
For a moment, Mrs. Mitchell hesitated, and then hurried her elderly neighbor along, as if fearing what would come out of her mouth next.
The women entered the house and led him down a wide hallway, the wooden floor gleaming, past a magnificent staircase nestled into the curve of the outside wall. The house was an extraordinary example of Victorian architecture.
At the back of the house, they stopped at a door opening into a small library, the book-laden shelves rising from floor to ceiling. He stacked the newspapers on the large desk, a desire to look at them building inside him. As soon as he finished the porch, he’d ask permission. He suspected both ladies would question his interest. But he wouldn’t open that Pandora’s box.
With the contents of the wagon stowed in the library and the wagon back in Mrs. Uland’s yard, Jake returned to the porch.
Inside, Callie Mitchell sat across the table from her neighbor, a pot of tea and some kind of secret between them.
Callie poured Mildred’s cup of tea. “What’s this about?”
“I’ve spent days rummaging through every nook and cranny in my house searching for that memorabilia, then getting it in order.”
Callie’s usually dapper neighbor looked like she’d gotten into a brawl and lost. Her hair appeared uncombed. The lapels on her dress tipped like a bird in flight. Her stockings were drooping around her ankles. Finding and putting those newspapers in order had taken its toil.
“I’ll tell you it wore me out. I’m not what I used to be. Why, last week I had to rest while weeding the garden.” She smiled. “Isn’t the early lettuce yummy? I love wilting it, though it’s tender enough to eat straight out of the garden.”
Though she had a sharp mind, upon occasion Mildred went off on some tangent and forgot the point of the conversation.
Her eyes met Callie’s. “Oh, sorry, dear. You asked about the newspapers.”
“Why did you bring them here?”
“Those newspapers and scrapbooks are records you’ll need.” Her voice had a slightly impatient tone, as if unable to understand Callie’s dim-wittedness.
“Why would I need them?” Callie asked gently.
“So you can write our town’s history.”
“Why me?”
“Your wonderful essays and poems used to make me cry. You love history. Told me that yourself. I wouldn’t trust anyone else with the job.”
“That’s nice of you to say, but why do you want a history written?”
“I’ve lived in Peaceful all my life. One look at the obituary column makes it clear we oldsters are dying off. Soon no one
