I was right in hesitating in asking. The woman’s face pales and her eyes grow wider.
“The Conrath Plantation?” she questions me. “What interests you in that old place?”
I hesitate in answering. The woman studies me, and I wonder if she’s recognizing features in me that my father had. I don’t know how well the people in town knew him. It would seem he should be known, since it’s a small town, but I get the impression he didn’t go out much.
“It’s such a beautiful place. I was just curious about it’s history,” I lie.
She looks at me for a long moment. And I already feel like an outsider in this tiny town. I am an alien here.
“I’ll see what I can find for you,” she finally says. “But you won’t have long. We close in thirty minutes and we don’t allow the city record books to be checked out.”
“Thank you,” I let out in a relieved breath. “I really appreciate it.”
She looks over her shoulder back at me one more time as she shuffles off to a back room.
I turn and observe the library.
It’s small. Rows of bookshelves are divided in half, one side labeled fiction, the other non-fiction. A row of tables occupy the space between them. I settle myself into the closest one.
A few minutes later, the librarian returns with a large, leather bound book and a copy of what appears to be a newspaper article.
“This is what I could find,” she says as she sets them down in front of me. She turns to a marked page in the book.
“Thank you,” I say again. “What’s your name?”
The woman looks at me, and for the first time, I realize that she seems nervous. Anxious. Suspicious, even. “Bella,” she offers.
“I’m Alivia,” I say, trying to smooth out the bumps in our meeting, even though I’m not quite sure as to the reason why they’re there.
She just gives me a little nod and shuffles away.
My eyes turn down to the page Bella opened for me. At the top of the page, it says clear as day: Conrath Plantation. But what is surprising about the page, are the blots of ink, blocking out large portions of the text.
I turn a few pages back and forth. The book seems to be a record and history of all the old houses in Silent Bend, put together by the historical society. But the Conrath page is the only one that seems to have been tampered with.
The two Conrath plantations were bought and purchased by brothers who had recently emigrated from England to the Americas. Bringing with them a large fortune, each brother bought a large parcel of land. They built their separate homes and began to establish cotton plantations.
The plantation established by Henry Conrath is located on the north end of town, and the one established by Elijah Conrath is located on the south.
Each plantation remained in operation until 1875, when Elijah Conrath was killed.
There then are two entire paragraphs inked out.
Little is known about the north plantation after that time. Production was ended and Henry Conrath is rumored to have died soon after his brother.
More blotted out text in that same paragraph. And that brought me to the end of the page.
My father must have been named after his great-something-grandfather. Rath told me the Conrath estate, mine, the north one, was built in 1799. Assuming the south one was built at the same time, Elijah would have been quite old when he was killed.
I wonder who owns the south house now? Did Elijah have his own children he passed it down to? Or has it long since been sold and bought by some stranger?
My fingers reach for the copy of the news article. The title reads “Double Fires.”
“I’m sorry, Alivia.” I jump hard when the voice cuts through the absolute silence. I turn to see Bella standing behind me. “But we have to close now. You’re of course welcome to take the copy with you.”
“Okay,” I say, swallowing hard, calming the adrenaline in me back. “Thanks again for your help.”
She still looks at me with questions and uncertainty as I hand the book over to her. She watches me go as I fold the copy of the article and slide it into my back pocket.
My phone dings when I step outside, and I pull it out to find a text from Rath.
Where are you?
I chuckle. I’ve never had a father my entire life. I’m twenty-two years old, and my father’s former helper man is checking in on me like I’m fifteen.
In town, I reply. Be back soon.
It’s strange. But kind of nice.
Be back before dark.
Even stranger. And frankly, it kind of annoys me.
I’m a big girl. I can handle myself.
I walk back up Main Street a little ways to the deli I saw earlier and grab myself a sandwich. Everyone is friendly and kind, but in the way that they know they’ll forget me in sixty seconds or less. And I realize—everyone in this town thinks I’m a tourist.