Read A Fireproof Home for the Bride Online
Authors: Amy Scheibe
A Fireproof Home for the Bride (53 page)
His smile was almost demure. “I don’t know what I would have done if something had happened to you.”
The sentiment was so pure that Emmy grappled with her composure. “How’s Elise?” she stammered.
Jim squinted and whistled low. “Why do you always ask about my sister when things get serious?” he asked. “It’s a strange habit.”
Emmy burst into startled, laughing tears. She put her hand over her mouth to hide her joy. “She’s not your wife?” she asked with a small squeal.
“She’s not my wife,” Jim replied, laughing along. “She’s my twin, in fact.”
“Your
twin
?” Emmy dabbed at the tip of her nose with a napkin. “Oh, I’m such a
fool
!”
“Not at all the word I’d use,” he said, his face once again calm. “I can see why you’d think that, grown children so close and all.” He spooned some sugar into his tea and stirred once, leaving the cup untouched. “When my mother died I promised her I’d take care of Elise.” He looked out the window. “She’s not like most girls.”
“She’s
different
?” Emmy asked, conjuring up the magical word.
Jim slid the cup and saucer out of the way and reached across the table. He took Emmy’s hands. “All the best girls are.”
The tears came to Emmy’s eyes quickly, making the room sparkle as she tried to blink them away. “I have to warn you,” she said, barely able to raise her voice above a whisper. “I’m the kind of girl who breaks hearts.”
“I know,” he said, letting go of her hands and picking up his satchel from the floor. The moment ended as quickly as it had begun, but the promise of more hung in the air like a cottony cloud in a sunny blue sky. Jim slung open the top of the bag, the two leather straps slapping against the wooden table. “I brought you this.”
“I forgot all about it,” she said as Jim drew out the contents, including the things she had gathered from her grandfather’s desk.
“Your friend Ambrose gave it to me. He’s cooperating with the police.” Jim scooted the little leather address book across the table toward her. “This is the key piece,” he said. “All the codes are in here.” Emmy flipped quickly through the pages and saw clusters of numbers and letters that meant nothing to her. The rush of discovery began to flow and she instantly knew she never wanted to be anywhere else, doing anything else.
“And this,” he said, holding the varnished wooden handle of the small wooden stamp in the air, “is what Benjamin Nelson used to falsify these.” Jim scattered the handful of yellowed cards on the table and Emmy sifted through them.
“Driver’s licenses?” she asked, still not putting it all together.
“Proof of citizenship,” he said. “For all the
betabeleros
in the county at the time, regardless of their nationality. So they could vote. Your grandfather was county auditor from 1920 until 1928. County auditors oversee elections.” Jim squinted at her, waiting for her to puzzle it through. She couldn’t.
“I still don’t get it,” she said, embarrassed by how much she wanted to impress him. To kiss him.
“The Klan fixed the elections on the local level by forcing the migrants to vote for their candidates.” He put the papers back into a neat little stack. “The Citizens’ Council was preparing to do something similar this time around.”
Emmy shook her head. “Not much of a smoking gun,” she said.
“Oh, that’s just the iceberg,” Jim said, his smile widening into a full grin as he pulled the encoded journals out of the satchel. “Now that we have the ciphers, this here’s the
Titanic.
”
“Well then,” Emmy said, playfully snatching a spiral notebook out of Jim’s hand, a fierce ambition struck from the glow between them. “Let’s get cracking, shall we?”
Let me start with undying thanks to my mother, Catherine Jents Scheibe. Without her encouragement, experience, feminism, and humor, this book would not exist. Beside her stand all the fantastic women of Probstfield blood, living and dead, whose stories helped shape my sensibility and built the sod house within which all that happens to Emmy Nelson is contained. In particular are the sisters: Edris, Helen, June, and Evie, the ghosts of whom inspire the spirit of Josephine Randall. Had I only known Phyllis, I’m sure there would be one more shade added.
If it weren’t for Sarah Burnes, this book would not be worth reading. She’s my gold standard, my all-in-all, my naysayer, my angel. A thousand years ago she said, “A love story about the KKK in ’50s North Dakota? Okay!” I’m still not sure she meant it, but with hard work and pressure, she got the diamond she was looking for in the coal of those first few conversations.
Elizabeth Beier. The fabulous, dauntless, heroic, loyal lover of my pen. I feel like a contract player: blind, absolute, keep me by your side forever.
My rabbi, William Goldman, and his co-conspirator, Susan Burden, have lit my path on the darkest days with their support. They have read this in so many versions, and I will never be able to repay their generosity and love.
I owe an apology as much as thanks to my early readers, first sharp-eyed Cynthia Sweeney, and then Lauri Del Commune, Mindy Marin, Tina Constable, Kendra Harpster, Sloane Tanen, Susan Lauinger, Rick Monteith, and Judith Shulevitz. Everything you hated then is now gone. Jenny McPhee, Portia Racasi, Linda Greene, Jackie Maas, Jenny Blagen, Jen Strozier, Rebecca Odes, Jill Soloway, Bernie Boscoe, Jessica Gibbons, Anne Sansevero, Catherine Tangney, Karyn Gooden, Yuki Kimura, Sophie Terrisse, Jen Walther, Tristana Nesvig Trani, Natasha Lehrer, Ashley McDermott, and Holly Peterson—thank you for listening to me talk about “my novel” without rolling your eyes. All the members of the Scheibe-Flynn families for keeping me real. And also eternal thanks to my darling David Rakoff, whose words, though stopped, will always prod me forward.
To the everyday saints at the Gernert Company, in particular Logan Garrison, Anna Worrell, Rebecca Gardner, Stephanie Cabot, and Will Roberts. I thank my stars every time I think of how lucky Sarah and I are to have landed in your laps.
My home team away from home, St. Martin’s Press, who took one look at this book and said, “Yes,” and have been saying yes ever since: George Witte, Sally Richardson, Michelle Richter, Anya Lichtenstein, Frances Sayers, Emily Walters, Cheryl Mamaril, Jessica Lawrence, Ivan Lett, Kathryn Parise, and Laura Clark.
If I had three more pages, I would thank by name all the wonderful sales people and booksellers who still believe that the book is king. In their hands my hopes rest. Special thanks to Ruth Liebmann and Heather McCormack, because they know how to love books.
Many inspirations have sparked the writing of this book, first of which was an article in
Real Simple
by Liz Welch. Thanks to Brianna McNelly for digging in all the archives that the Internet still fails to reach, primarily those at North Dakota State University.
North for the Harvest
by Jim Norris is a fascinating look at the Mexican migrants working the sugar fields of the upper Midwest.
Behind the Mask of Chivalry
by Nancy MacLean helped guide me late in the game, verifying much of what was found in the archives at NDSU. The Minnesota Historical Society and the Clay County Historical Society were likewise wonderful resources. Many other books and articles were inspiring, but none more so than
Candles in the Wind
, a novel written and self-published decades ago by my late great-aunt Edris Probstfield Hack.
My kids are now old enough to get their own line: thank you, Bo, and thank you, Hedda, for letting me squirrel away and play with my imaginary friends while you are at school every day.
And you, Brian:
As you wish
.
Amy Scheibe
is the author of the novel
What Do You Do All Day?
She has written for
Dame
magazine,
Seattle Weekly,
and many other publications. Born in Minnesota and reared in North Dakota, she now lives in New York City with her husband and two children. You can sign up for email updates
here
.
Also by
Amy Scheibe
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Contents
Prologue: His Wonders to Perform
6.
A Reflection of Human Frailty
13.
All Progress Is Precarious
24.
I Will Overturn, Overturn, Overturn It, and It Shall Be No More
This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, organizations, and events portrayed in this novel are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.
A FIREPROOF HOME FOR THE BRIDE.
Copyright © 2015 by Amy Scheibe. All rights reserved. For information, address St. Martin’s Press, 175 Fifth Avenue, New York, N.Y. 10010.
