Jennifer Robins (9 page)

A little before one o’clock, she had the kitchen dishes put away and was ready to start on the good china in the dining room. But first, she wanted — and needed — a break. She sat at the kitchen table with a glass of iced tea, thinking about the photograph and the names in the old Bible. It dawned on her that old houses like this often had records in the local library. She had plenty of time to go into town and take a look. John would be late anyway, and she didn’t have to worry about dinner.

She showered and changed, then headed for town. She parked the car in front of the old stone church near the library and walked up to the front entrance. It was now two forty-five. Pausing for a moment, she looked around the square, thinking about Chicago with all of the skyscrapers, the heavy traffic, and noise. How pleasant it was in this quiet little town compared to the big city.

A librarian at the desk directed her to the lower level, where a young woman showed her where to find the records of the town. “The records of century-old houses are over here.” She pointed to a section with shelves. The books were in alphabetical order. “If you need anything, just let me know,” the young woman said as she walked away.

The shelves were filled with large plate books and ledgers. Andrea walked back and forth, trying to find the right one. The assistant librarian across the room saw her and came over. “Let me help you. What is the name of the street you want to look up?”

Andrea stuttered a little. “Ah…um…” She couldn’t think. “Oh, yes, Chesterfield Avenue. I almost forgot the name of my own street. We just moved here.”

“That would be right in here.” She handed Andrea a large book from the second shelf. It was so heavy Andrea hurried to set it down on the table in front of the shelves. She thanked the woman and asked her how late the library was open.

The soft-spoken lady told her, “Our hours are from eight to seven Monday through Friday, and noon till five on Saturday. We are closed on Sundays. You have plenty of time. If you need any further help, I’ll be right over there.”

It took a while, but Andrea finally found Chesterfield Avenue, only to learn it had been changed from Old Oak Road about fifty years ago. She would have to look up Old Oak Road to find what she wanted. The reference list was in alphabetical order, so she was able to find it quickly. She started to look for her house but could not find it. She took down one book after another and looked through them to no avail.

After exhausting all the listings in the books, she called the young girl over to help. “I can’t find the house I ‘m looking for. Maybe you can have better luck.” Andrea gave the girl her address, and the girl was able to find it with no trouble at all.

“Here it is.” She set another book on the table and opened it to the page that read Old Oak Road.

Amazed at the number of people who had occupied the house through the years, Andrea thumbed down the list, looking for the right one.
I wonder why none of these people ever found that old wooden box up in the attic?
It occurred to her that maybe it had been waiting just for her, but it was only a silly thought.

The house had been built in 1885. At that time, the property had sat on one hundred acres. Over the years, parcels had been sold off. Joseph and Anna Dickens were listed as the first owners. Theirs was a moderately small family with origins in England. Little had been written about Anna Dickens. Andrea once again had to rely on her gut feeling. Anna had to be the one in the photograph. It seemed unlikely it was anyone else.

She made notes on a pad of paper, listing all the owners of the house to date. Many questions entered her mind as she wrote. Was the woman in the photograph really Anna? When had the county acquired the property for back taxes? And why had that old wooden box been hidden under the floorboards in the attic?

Suddenly, a voice startled her. “The library will be closing in five minutes. Have you found what you were looking for?” It was the librarian who showed her to the room earlier.

Andrea stood up. “Oh, my! I can’t believe I was here so long. Is it seven o’clock already?”

“Almost,” the woman told her.

Andrea hurried to the stairs, the librarian right behind her. “I should have been home by now. My husband is probably worried about where I am. I didn’t leave him a note. I wasn’t planning on staying here so long.”

At the entrance door, she thanked the woman and rushed out to her car and drove away. It was all she could do to refrain from speeding down the highway. What would she tell John? The last thing she wanted was to worry him. Her first day in their new home, and she’d gone off on a wild goose chase over something she couldn’t explain. But Andrea knew she had to find out more about the woman in the photograph.