He smiled at my expression. “You think I’m crazy, but you should see some of these guys. I know one guy who has his punkin attached to all this monitoring equipment. He can tell you how much it grows every hour. He’s got graphs, pollination records, and a seed collection like you wouldn’t believe. And some of them have huge fields on their farms. I’m just doing it in my backyard.”
I smiled back. I’d always thought of Sam Brown as an amiable, if rather dull sort of man, but in talking about his pumpkins he was transformed, his eyes alight, the energy fairly crackling from him.
I’d always been fascinated by people who were fully engaged with something, whatever it was. So many people never found their passion in life.
Marybeth was due at 10 a.m., so I said good-bye to Sam and hurried home to get ready. But when I opened Sometimes a Great Notion, there was an apologetic message on the machine. Apparently she’d tried to line up a couple of places, but one of them had just rented, and the owner of the other decided it wasn’t ready to show.
I gritted my teeth. Marybeth probably just wanted to go golfing again.
When Laura arrived, I explained that I wasn’t going out, but I could still use her help. We set to work cleaning out the upstairs bedrooms, which was one of those projects I’d been meaning to get to, but never had.
Numerous yard and estate sale purchases were piled up against the wall, mainly things that needed repair or were missing a match. I cheered to discover some vintage postcards from an auction I’d attended in the spring. Somewhere in this mess was a collection of old valentines, too, and I’d planned to display them together.
It was so much faster and nicer with someone to share the job. Laura was always so amenable and willing to work hard. I promised myself I’d do whatever I could to take care of her, no matter what happened with the store.
Although she came to an abrupt halt when she picked up a pale green glass plate.
“Laura? What is it?”
“Sorry. This reminds me of my mom.” She ran her fingers lightly over the intricate beaded pattern.
It suddenly struck me that I didn’t know that much about her. She’d never revealed a lot about her family or her background. Who was Laura Grayling?
“Your mother collected sandwich glass?” I asked gently, aware of the brightness in her eyes.
She nodded. “I don’t remember that much about her. She died when my little brother was five.”
“That must have been hard for you.” I thought of my wonderful, quirky daughter, off on a film set in Spain. Sarah had been adored and spoiled her whole life and still gaily complained about anything and everything.
Here was a girl who’d had a lot more to deal with and had still found her way.
“I expect you had to grow up fast, taking care of your brothers and sisters.”
“Yes, but I didn’t mind. We’re very close.”
She didn’t seem to want to say any more, so I said briskly, “Okay, let’s move some of this stuff downstairs for sale.”
As I set out some postcards from the turn of the last century on the Welsh dresser, the terse inscriptions made me smile.
One from Weatherly, PA, sent in 1916, said, “This town is much nicer than I thought. Wish you were here. Your wife, Elsie.” Another from the Devil’s Pool, Wissahickon Creek, Philadelphia, was inscribed simply, “Having a fine time,” and signed with the sender’s initials.
The lost art of letter writing.
I found a boudoir dresser scarf in another box, and knew immediately where it had come from. There was that elusive scent of Sophie’s again, still clinging to the navy silk. The scarf was hand-embroidered with baskets of roses and lilacs at each end.