Sisters' Treasure Read online

  Sisters’

  Treasure

  Mary Jane Russell

  Sisters’ Treasure

  © 2012 by Mary Jane Russell

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in printed or electronic form without permission. Please do not participate in or encourage piracy of copyrighted materials in violation of the author’s rights. Purchase only authorized editions.

  ISBN 13: 978-1-935216-35-3

  First Printing: 2012

  This Trade Paperback Is Published By

  Intaglio Publications

  Walker, LA USA

  www.intagliopub.com

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  _____________________________________________

  Credits

  Executive Editor: Tara Young

  Cover design by Tiger Graphics

  Dedication

  For the Harvey women: Ada Harvey Gibson and Mildred Harvey Warters, two of my grandfather’s sisters; Alma Harvey Russell, my mother, and especially Nancy Harvey Floyd, my favorite aunt (Nancy always reminds me that she’s also my only aunt).

  Acknowledgments

  As always, many thanks to Kate Sweeney and Sheri Payton, those fabulous women of Intaglio Publications.

  To Tara Young, what can I say but “bless your heart” and thank you for your editing expertise and patience.

  To Joyce Coleman, my BFF, your support and advice over the years have been immeasurable.

  Any time I write about family, I think of my parents. I miss them more with each passing year. They instilled in me an appreciation of books and a love of my sister that have endured a lifetime.

  Finally—Aunt Nancy, this one’s for you, a small token of thanks for decades of love. There is no richer treasure than you.

  CHAPTER ONE

  “That’s my girl.” Tracey Stephens raised her can of Coke in a salute to the television screen. She was a creature of habit—as soon as she entered her apartment after a day’s work, she turned on the television for background noise and went to the refrigerator for an ice-cold Coca-Cola. She was fortunate that her metabolism was such that she burned off the sugar and caffeine with no ill effects to her weight or ability to sleep. She still wore the same size jeans as when a senior in high school seven years earlier. It didn’t hurt that she played golf every weekend unless there was drenching rain falling or snow on the ground.

  She set the can on the end table next to the sofa and pulled her hair back in a ponytail using a wide elastic band from an ashtray that had never been used for smoking. Her hair stayed a light blond year-round, thanks to her time outside playing golf, and reached midway down her back. She faced the sofa and pushed aside the pile of laundry that needed folding. If clean clothes stayed on the sofa too long, Tracey simply washed them again.

  She purposely kept the living room furniture to a minimum so there was no interference with the treadmill set against the back of the kitchen cabinets that divided the room or the golf clubs and water skis propped against the front wall. Her nonfiction books were in stacks on the floor of what was intended to be a second bedroom that had two folding tables piled high with papers instead of a bed. She considered herself a historically minded jock. She settled onto the sofa to watch the local evening news. Once the news ended, she’d switch to Netflix and her obsession with BBC programs. She tolerated cable television for The Weather Channel and ESPN. She refused to pay for premium channels yet hated sitting through commercials. She was halfway through Doc Martin, fascinated by how obtuse the main character was as she crushed on the schoolteacher. A typical winter evening was spent glancing at the television while reading a book or cataloging documents from the previous two centuries, or both.

  Ginny Daniels stood with microphone in hand, leaning toward Alese Walthall with genuine deference that emphasized a stark contrast of different generations of black women. Ginny was twenty-three, slim, and not born in Virginia. Alese was seventy, plump, and a native of Danville.

  “You’re a retired schoolteacher who now works at Southside Museum and volunteers at local historical sites?” Ginny asked. She nodded attentively during Alese’s summary of her careers and current activities.

  “You’ve no idea.” Tracey shook her head and sipped her drink, waiting.

  Mrs. Walthall had been one of Tracey’s elementary school teachers. She’d retired after three-and-a-half decades of teaching. Retirement bored her, so she joined the Southside Museum at its inception as its first museum educator. She’d been an excellent teacher, more so for riding out the first wave of soft integration in Virginia. She’d also been the first black professional woman Tracey’s mother had experienced when placed in her classroom in 1965. Alese survived the system to be Tracey’s teacher thirty years later. She was a gentle taskmaster who made her pupils work for the knowledge that lasted them a lifetime.

  Tracey credited Alese with her decision to be a history major. Tracey’s mother teased her that the only surprise was when Tracey decided not to follow her mentor’s footsteps and become a teacher. Tracey had been thrilled to reunite with Alese at the museum when she was hired as its curator three years earlier.

  “I hope you did your homework, girlfriend.” Tracey felt herself tensing as she sensed that Ginny was about to make the point of the interview—Black History Month justifiably came across as a double-edged sword in the South. Especially poignant was the impending anniversary of the start of the Civil War. So far, Virginia was the only state to appropriate funds for commemorative events. The NAACP was already cautioning members and organizing demonstrations against celebrating slavery.

  Ginny was an anomaly to the area and Tracey’s life. She was born and raised in Ohio with a strong family and upper middle-class neighborhood support structure. Her childhood friends were a mixed bag of Toledo’s population where no one paid much attention to last names. Both her parents had earned doctorates.

  Tracey lived in the shadow of generations of tobacco farmers who passed land but not money to the next generation. Danville had briefly served as the Confederate capital during the closing days of the Civil War. It was a city strongly rooted in country music, tobacco auctions, textile production, and its adjoining county’s annual cantaloupe festival. Tracey’s parents had been the first generation not to attend racially separated schools.

  Tracey had never had a black girlfriend. She’d been too shy during high school to be anything more than friends with anyone and had watched the girls she grew up with move away for college and careers. Tracey had been too focused on her golf scholarship and college curriculum to seriously date anyone, knowing her parents couldn’t afford the cost of another daughter’s undergraduate education.

  Once home and employed by the museum, Tracey concentrated on work. She’d been interviewed a little over a year before by Ginny and hadn’t been able to get her off her mind since. She’d thanked Ginny for the increased foot traffic to the textile exhibit by taking her to dinner and been delighted to discover that Ginny had an ulterior motive for the interview that had begun with a nudge from a mutual friend who thought they needed to meet. They’d been a couple ever since, traveling to North Carolina’s nearby metro areas for concerts and women’s basketball.

  “Was there Underground Railroad activity in this area in the decades before the Civil War?” Ginny held the microphone toward Alese.

  “None that has been documented this far inland. The Tidewater area had churches linked to steamship routes.” Alese folded one hand over the other, clearly displeased that research wa
s lacking or she was being manipulated.

  “My ancestors fled Virginia in the eighteen fifties and served the North during the war. Yet here you are, a native, working on the preparations for theone hundred fiftieth celebration of the beginning of the Civil War as part of Danville’s tourism effort.” Ginny held up a recent brochure from the state office of tourism.

  Tracey groaned.

  Alese stiffened. “I’m a guide at the National Cemetery where the federal soldiers from Danville’s Confederate prisons were buried and at the Freedman’s Cemetery that once was part of Green Hill Cemetery. I work at the museum to bring to light the wealth of African-American artifacts hidden amongst family collections. We’ve commemorated the pain and suffering of the labor force, as well as the strides made since the time of Abraham Lincoln. Some of us stayed here to make it easier for successive generations rather than being lured away from our heritage by anonymity and paychecks in Northern factories.”

  “Danville—a contradiction to itself.” Ginny walked with the camera as the adjoining cemeteries were panned. The newscast went to commercial break.

  “She did not just say that.” A man’s voice was raised to be heard through the dividing wall of the duplex.

  “Oh, yes, she did.” Tracey went to the refrigerator for two more Cokes, then dashed from her front door to the adjoining unit without a jacket to ward off February’s chill.

  Adam Bruffy held the door open. His apartment was as sparse as Tracey’s was cluttered. He resisted all urges to decorate after his divorce other than adding a bar in the corner of the living room to display his beer bottle collection. It also served to hide empty liquor bottles en route to recycling. He’d amassed a collection of bean bag chairs that he piled together in the middle of the living room. His bed was a mattress thrown on the carpet of the master bedroom. His one furniture purchase had been a race car bed for the second bedroom. Adam lived for his visitation rights with his son.

  Tracey handed off the cold Coke to Adam, continuing into his kitchen to transfer groceries from bags to cabinets. He was as bad about food as she was clothing, often leaving plastic bags along the wall until the contents were used. Tracey made it a habit to check the contents—laundry didn’t spoil.

  “Wonder how many people are watching this.” Adam directed his voice to the kitchen while his eyes focused on the screen. “I haven’t seen that look on Mrs. Walthall’s face since I mooned the audience of the sixth-grade play.”

  Tracey chuckled. “I forgot she was your teacher also. I just remember you being the star high school quarterback that most of the girls, including my big sister, had a huge crush on. I was so jealous.”

  “Who’d have ever thought I’d end up as the divorced land surveyor who drinks too much?” Adam set the Coke aside in favor of the bottle of beer he was half through. “Thanks for reminding me that I’m older and of the same romantic persuasion as you.”

  “I wonder how many people are looking for the parent station’s telephone number in Lynchburg. Ginny’s days as a one-woman affiliate may be numbered.” Tracey held up one of the cans of chili. “I’m assuming you don’t have any hot dates in your future.”

  “Lesbian buddies and pay-per-view are my bestest friends.” Adam flashed a toothy smile at her, then waggled his mustache.

  “Eww.” Tracey shook her head. She teased Adam about being a throwback to a Burt Reynolds wannabe. His black hair was shaggy on his collar, and his mustache was heavy on his upper lip and corners of his mouth.

  Adam laughed. “I’m betting you won’t be taking Ginny home to meet the parents this weekend.”

  “I’m not closeted, just very private about my social life. I had enough of a don’t-ask-don’t-tell reaction from Paula to learn my lesson.”

  “I never would’ve guessed your sister was so uptight.” He tried the Coke again and made a face. “I think this needs more sugar. How do you chug these things?”

  “Paula went to college to nab a husband and earn a degree she had no intention of using. Poor Ashton built her a huge house and fathered her prerequisite—and I love them dearly—two children, so she could climb the ladder with the Baptist Young Women and support the Republican Party.” Tracey shuddered. “Don’t waste any of that Coke. At least my addiction is legal.”

  “I heard that.” Adam crushed the can and threw it behind the bar.

  “I’m hoping Alese won’t hold this against me. I introduced Ginny to her to set up the interview.” Tracey took her cell phone out of her pocket and hit the speed dial for Ginny. She waited through the voice mail prompt. “You looked great on the news tonight as always, sweetie. Isn’t Mrs. Walthall something? Don’t forget dinner Friday night.” Tracey closed the phone with a snap.

  “Chickenshit.” Adam was engrossed in the five-day weather forecast that determined how much he’d be able to work.

  “You betcha. That’s chickenshit with a date, thank you.” Tracey thumped Adam on the crown of his head in passing.

  CHAPTER TWO

  Tracey wore exam gloves at work as second nature. She’d nagged her boss into ordering a box of smalls shortly after being hired so her hands weren’t engulfed by the powdered latex.

  Southside Museum had been initially funded by the proceeds from the national tobacco settlement administered by the Virginia Tobacco Indemnification and Community Revitalization Commission. The thirty-one-member body was responsible for economic growth and development in the communities dependent on raising tobacco. The commission was nearing the end of payment to farmers or quota owners who once depended on flue-cured or burley tobacco for their livelihood. To date, and Tracey followed the grant awards closely, the commission had doled out almost $800 million above the nearly $300 million in indemnification payments over the past eleven years.

  Tracey would never forget meeting the museum’s executive director, Mitchell Wilkins, at her interview.

  He’d leaned so far back in his chair that Tracey feared he’d topple over. “First of all, call me Mitch. Secondly, how do you feel about being part of a museum that glorifies the three dead Ts—tobacco, textiles, and trains?”

  Tracey had sputtered through an answer based on growing up outside of Danville. She knew the museum’s disciplines firsthand.

  Mitch had ended the interview by congratulating her on her new job and consoling her. “At least we didn’t completely sell our souls for the funding—we don’t have to dress in period costumes.”

  Tracey loved the square, three-story building that had begun as a tobacco warehouse, been converted to a Civil War hospital, survived the fire of 1890 that decimated the adjoining city block, and been renovated for the museum with large, high-ceilinged open rooms.

  She adjusted the angle of the diary she was attempting to read and wished again that the diarist hadn’t experimented with a purple ink that faded worse than the usual sepia. She pulled the swivel arm of the light clamped on the edge of her table so the fixture was centered over the book and straightened on her stool to look through the round magnifying glass surrounded by a fluorescent tube. Last resort would be an ultraviolet light that was often more trouble to connect than it was worth to use.

  Tracey adored the drafting table that she worked at more comfortably than her desk. It was fifty years old, solid oak, and a whopping three feet by six feet with drawers large enough for blueprints and family tree charts. The top surface was a mint green board cover preferred by draftsmen for ease on the eyes. Tracy was thankful for the Internet shopping sites that allowed her to replace the cover once a year.

  She wondered if any draftsmen continued to work by hand on paper—another form of dinosaur heading to extinction—rather than hunching before a computer terminal. Drafting tables in engineers’ and architects’ offices were abandoned for metal desks and large monitors. Adam had salvaged hers from the auction pile where he worked after hearing her wish for a surface big enough to actually spread her documents out on. “Their loss, my gain,” Tracey said.

  The telephone
warbled. They had far too many choices for ringtones. Tracey looked over her shoulder, debating letting voice mail take the call.

  “I know you’re in there,” her boss shouted from the next room. “It might be a blue hair who won’t leave a message regarding a huge donation.” Mitch had lost no time in delegating calls from elderly women to Tracey.

  As two-thirds of the full-time staff, she and Mitch worked out of offices on the first floor of the museum, dividing an interior room that was between the two galleries on the rear of the building behind the large main gallery room that spanned the entire width of the building. Alese worked from a classroom on the second floor. Part-timers and volunteers shared space in the second floor or basement workrooms. Their secretary was beside the front door in the large gallery, so she managed ticket sales between answering the telephone and turning Mitch’s scribblings on legal pads into Word documents—a task Tracey thought worthy of any archivist.

  Tracey sighed and carefully placed the diary on the table before dashing for the phone. She didn’t have a chance to speak.

  “Just don’t say it. I had no choice but to call you at work to get you to talk to me. I need to hear an actual voice now and again to verify that you’re among the living. You never answer the phone at your apartment. I’m tired of leaving messages that are ignored.”

  Tracey rolled her eyes. “Mom.”

  “Don’t start on me with that tone of voice. You’re the one who won’t answer. I even tried your cell phone, but no, you use caller ID to avoid me. You brought this on yourself.”

  “Okay, Mom. Point made and taken. I’ve been busy lately.” Tracey began rearranging the piles on her desk.

  “And I haven’t? I work full time, as well as plenty of overtime when we’re running large cases, remember? As does your father.” Harriet was a paralegal with a firm that practiced criminal law. Rory was a self-employed contractor who always overbooked renovation projects.