Sisters' Treasure Read online

  “Hi, honey. How are you? Is everything okay?” Rory asked.

  “Are you alone?” Tracey lowered her voice.

  Rory chuckled. “No. Want me to whisper and take the phone in the closet? We could pretend to be teenagers.”

  “Dad!”

  “Well, that’s what you sound like. What’s the big deal?”

  Tracey huffed.

  “I know what that means, and I didn’t teach you to do it, by the way.”

  “Ha, ha. Okay, I’m avoiding Mom. Happy now that I’ve admitted it?”

  “I’m happy most of the time all on my own. You called me, remember?”

  “Can we start over?”

  “Excellent idea, honey. Ring, ring.”

  “Well, at least I come by my sense of humor honestly.” Tracey cleared her throat. “Hi, Dad. I’m having a problem with the bathroom sink faucet. Can you put me on your repair schedule?”

  Tracey rented half a duplex built and owned by her father. Her rent was slightly less than Adam’s since she did most of the maintenance on the two units as far as the lawn and painting.

  “How about if I come over this afternoon? I finished up a job this morning and came by the house to restock my van. I don’t need to be home for good until dinner. I was going to catch up on estimates.” Rory worked nonstop. He overbooked jobs, managed to assuage irate property owners, and was willing to be called out all hours without charging exorbitantly. He liked being busy, and he still liked working with people. He didn’t like sitting around his own house. As a rule, Sunday was his only day off.

  “It’s not that urgent, but sure, this afternoon is fine.”

  “See you in an hour or so.”

  Tracey glanced about the living room. She folded the treadmill and propped it against the back of the kitchen cabinets so the path to the bathroom was clear. She returned all the golf clubs to the bag and folded up the indoor putting green. She closed the door to the second bedroom that served as her office. Even she realized that having to sidle through a room was not a good thing. She went to the kitchen and started a pot of coffee, lingering at the Mark Twain biography she had begun reading with her morning cereal.

  The tap was followed by the opening of the door. “Are you decent, kiddo?”

  Rory entered the apartment carrying a plumber’s bag in each hand. He grinned as Tracey walked across the room to meet him.

  Tracey stretched up and hugged her father. “Did you eat lunch?” She looked at him closely. “You never gain any weight.”

  Rory Stephens was not quite six feet tall. His clothes hung loosely on his body. His black hair was streaked with gray that showed even with the buzz cut he claimed kept him cooler. His skin stayed tan year-round. His baseball cap sat on the back of his head. He walked with a slight limp from an injury when a teenager. He’d never attended college but read and created floor plans for projects, easily calculating materials in his head and generating invoices by hand.

  Rory glanced about the apartment. “I don’t think I brought enough tools to fix all this. No wonder your mother doesn’t like coming over here.”

  Tracey punched him in the upper arm. “I like things out where I can see and use them. It’s neat enough in its own way.” She followed his gaze to the clothes, equipment, and files brought home from work.

  “I’m glad you think so, honey.” He picked his way across the carpet, avoiding stepping on any of the magazines or shoes strewn about.

  Tracey took one of the tool bags from him and went into the bathroom. She glanced down at the contents and spied a box of miscellaneous washers. She already had the valve to the cold water tap turned off and the handle removed. “I’m hoping not to have to replace the entire faucet.” She searched through the washers, trying two before finding the right diameter and thickness.

  Rory leaned against the door casing. “You could’ve gone to the hardware store for that.”

  Tracey glanced over her shoulder. “But then I wouldn’t get to see you. Besides, I don’t take any repair for granted. I’ve seen too many lines disintegrate when touched not to have backup around.”

  Rory nodded. “You’re wasting your time at that museum. You should come to work with me.”

  Tracey snorted. “I don’t have your patience with the general public. That’s why I enjoy working with artifacts.”

  Rory glanced around. “It’s almost spring. Have you thought any more about what we talked about last time?”

  Tracey frowned. “I’m not sure I’m ready to sign my life away to a thirty-year mortgage.”

  “Rates are low and material prices are holding. Plus people are selling off lots bought as buffers because they need the cash now. We could do a sweet deal on a house for you. I’m willing to do the work at cost. We could do a duplex like this if you want extra income to help with the mortgage payments. I can chip in on the loan down payment or co-sign.”

  “I know, Dad, and I really appreciate the offer. It’s a great deal. The holdup is me. What if I need to move in a year or two?” Tracey flipped her ponytail over her shoulder.

  Rory set the second bag down. “You mean away from Danville?”

  Tracey tightened the screw in the faucet handle. “It’s a possibility.”

  “Because of someone you’re dating?” Rory asked.

  Tracey didn’t look at him. “Yes, sir.”

  “Honey, one of the most important things you’ll do as an adult is find someone to share your life with. I was hoping that would happen here since you came back home after college. If it means moving, then you have to move.”

  Tracey stared at her father. “It depends on if she gets a promotion and has to work out of a major metropolitan area.” She watched her father’s reaction.

  He didn’t drop his gaze. A gentle smile crossed his face. “I always liked having a tomboy daughter.”

  Tracey was embarrassed by the tears that came to her eyes. “Oh, Dad, how long have you known?”

  “It’s not exactly something we talk about, is it? Known for sure—thirty seconds. Suspected—ever since you were in high school. Did the possibility cross my mind when they first put you in my arms as a baby—no. Does it change anything between us—absolutely not.” He processed his daughter’s coming out as though a project. “You and Paula are so different. You always wanted to be outside with your basketball or golf clubs or in the workshop using tools with me. The boys who came around always treated you like a buddy. It drove your mother crazy that you never went steady in high school.”

  Tracey reached under the sink and opened the valve. “Does Mom know?”

  Rory shook his head. “If she does, she’s not talking about it, and your mother’s not one to hold anything inside.”

  Tracey turned on the tap. No water leaked from the base of the faucet. “That’ll do for a while.”

  “I’ll pick up a new one the next time I’m running a big project through the books.”

  Tracey studied her father. “Are you and Mom okay?”

  Rory sighed. He glanced over his shoulder. “Do I smell coffee?”

  Tracey set the plumbing bags down in front of the treadmill and cleared off a stool at the cased opening with a narrow countertop separating kitchen and living room. She went into the kitchen, rinsed out two mugs, and poured them each coffee.

  Rory sipped and made a sound of contentment. “Harriet’s all about planning for her early retirement and filling her time away from the office with Paula’s girls.” He shifted on the stool, adjusting the position of his leg. “We’re slowing down, even though neither of us wants to admit it. Heck, I’ll be the first to claim title to old and boring.”

  Tracey quickly did the math. “You’re only fifty-five.”

  “I can feel a difference, though. I think Harriet and I are both going through menopause.” He glanced down at his cup. Tracey topped off the coffee. “I’m content enough, though. Heck, I’ll work like this until I drop. Your mother has always worried about things and opinions too much. She still hates it that I was a promising football player who suffered a bad enough injury my senior year to lose my college scholarship.” He blew air between his lips. “Big whoop. I’ve done just fine without college. I’d have gone nuts sitting in some office for thirty years. I don’t know how guys wear neckties every day. Our house is paid for. We have rental property for extra income. We’ve had no major illnesses. And we have you and your sister and the girls. I’ve got it made.”

  Tracey finished her coffee. “Is Mom going to blow a gasket when she figures out I’m dating a woman?”

  Rory considered the question. “If you tell her you’re planning on having kids in a serious relationship, I don’t think she’ll mind who you’re with.”

  Tracey did a double take. “I won’t be that serious about anyone for years.”

  Rory chuckled. “That’s what we all think in the beginning.”

  “You never mentioned college before, Dad.” Tracey tilted her head.

  “It was a long time ago. The best you can do is go along with how your life takes you. Fight it and you make yourself miserable. If you think you can control anything, you have another think coming.” Rory stood. “I’ve time to run by and quote a job. Everything else around here working okay?”

  Tracey nodded. “Will you check the lawnmower in a week or two? It’s almost time to start yard work.”

  “I already have a new blade for it. Make Adam mow this year.” He drained his cup and shook his head when Tracey held the pot up, offering a refill.

  Tracey snorted. “Not if you don’t want the shrubs ruined. He only mows with a beer in hand. I learned my lesson from the one time I asked for his help last year. Besides, I like having an excuse to putter around the yard. I can’t play golf all weekend.”

  Rory stopped in the doorway. “I’m sure you have something or someone to occupy yourself with.” He grinned and touched the brim of his hat.

  “Thanks, Dad. Love you.” Tracey waved from the doorway. She hoped she still had Ginny in her life. Their conversations had been polite and brief this past week. They’d taken a break this weekend with Ginny traveling alone to cover a network story and hoping for airtime. Tracey kept thinking about Ginny’s wistful tone when talking about working in a big city. Tracey was afraid she was leading her on. Danville had a strong hold on her. Tracey knew there was something here that she was meant to do. She didn’t expect Ginny to understand what she couldn’t articulate.

  Tracey sighed and unfolded the treadmill. Maybe a few miles would help clear her mind. “Kids,” she said. Rory had given her yet another major life choice to consider.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  Tracey perched on the edge of the sofa cushion as though ready to bolt and willed herself not to fidget. She wished she hadn’t worn a sweater. She longed for pants rather than the skirt and pantyhose she’d felt obligated to wear. The weather had taken a spring-like lurch with March daytime temperatures uncharacteristically in the sixties. The owner of the house had not adjusted her thermostat accordingly.

  Sara Lukens was in her early eighties yet carried herself as erectly as though twenty years younger. The bright red Mini Cooper parked in the driveway attested to her state of mind. She was taller than Tracey, thin, and immaculately dressed and coifed. She lived with the ease of old money. Her husband’s family had made their profits in tobacco warehousing and sold out before the market bottomed, making wise investments overseas. Her husband had been a well-respected attorney. Her only child had been killed in Vietnam.

  Tracey smiled and held her hand over her cup, declining more coffee. She was close enough to breaking a sweat without drinking anything hot. This was one part of her job she didn’t think she’d ever become used to—glorified begging.

  The forties-era house had the appearance of large sums of money being spent on the services of an interior decorator. The walls and furniture were all in blending pastels, the window treatments sheer to allow daylight, and the floors covered with a rich mahogany laminate. The furniture was without dings and screamed high-dollar antiques.

  Mrs. Lukens had shown Tracey to the conservatory on the front corner of the house for their chat. If her intention had been for a more informal setting to put Tracey at ease, the strategy hadn’t worked. To reach the conservatory, they passed the library. It had taken all of Tracey’s willpower not to detour into the room and roam the floor-to-ceiling shelves for books long out of print and no longer available to anyone on a budget. The entire contents of the house were a treasure trove as far as Tracey was concerned.

  Tracey tugged at her collar. She wore a golf shirt under her sweater, both a shade of blue to accentuate her eyes. She had pulled her hair back into a chignon, trying to appear older and more feminine. Mitch had snickered in passing all morning before she left the museum for the appointment after accusing her of playing dress-up.

  She’d reminded him that the reason she was making the call was to broaden their dead industry base with a genealogy room. Mrs. Lukens was the perfect sponsor of such an endeavor. If she supported the project, others in the community would follow her lead.

  “Do you mind if I turn on the television?” Mrs. Lukens asked.

  “By all means,” Tracey said.

  The flat screen came to life with women’s college basketball.

  Tracey blinked.

  “I have to keep up with my girls from Old Dominion University—my alma mater.” Mrs. Lukens turned the sound down. “When I attended, it was the Norfolk division of the College of William and Mary.”

  Tracey grinned. “I had no idea you were a basketball fan, or I wouldn’t have asked for an appointment during the tournament.” She felt herself relaxing.

  Mrs. Lukens’s gaze didn’t leave the screen. “You played in college, didn’t you? I love seeing the girls swishing their ponytails up and down the court.”

  Tracey chuckled—she could do ponytail. “I was too short and ended up in too many shoving matches to play anything but intramural or pickup basketball games. I was and still am a golfer.”

  Mrs. Lukens nodded. “That’s right. I remember now that you played in the country club tournaments, winning when you were still in high school. Our garden club awarded you a small scholarship when you were accepted at UNCG.”

  Traced smiled at the thought of the University of North Carolina Greensboro. “I greatly appreciated all the help I received. I’m so fortunate to have a degree and no debt.”

  “I haven’t missed a Greater Greensboro Open yet.” Mrs. Lukens referred to the annual PGA tournament. “Sam Snead won there eight times.”

  Tracey caught herself before she bounced with the excitement of making a real connection with her prospect. “I’ve played the course. Fuzzy Zoeller and Davis Love did wonders with the Forest Oaks greens.”

  “I’m surprised you didn’t turn pro after college.” Mrs. Lukens turned off the television, satisfied her team had a strong enough lead over their dark-horse opponent.

  “I came close, but I didn’t want to play professionally at the cost of losing my love of the game. I enjoy the amateur tournaments too much. Golf kept me out of trouble through high school and paid for my college education. I still play on the weekends. It was always about bettering my technique and last score, not beating someone else.” Tracey took a sip of cold coffee. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to ramble.”

  Mrs. Lukens settled back in her wing chair. “So what brings you to see me today?”

  Tracey nodded. “I’m on a mission.” She smiled.

  Mrs. Lukens waited.

  Tracey eased back on the sofa, finally comfortable with her request. “I’ve approached my boss, Mitchell Wilkins, about adding a genealogy library to the museum. We’ve so many family papers in our archives that never see the light of day. There’s such an interest nowadays, particularly with collections that are scanned and made available on the Internet. My pet project has been an inventory of the family and county histories that were vanity published. The museum has acquired the publication rights to a few and plans to reissue special editions for fundraising.”

  “I knew Mitchell’s parents well. He comes from good stock. I’ve always felt very reassured with him being in charge of our museum.” Mrs. Lukens nodded at her own statement. “I called in favors eleven years ago when the museum was created.”

  “I’m fortunate to work for him. He’s taught me well and much in the three years I’ve been with the museum.” Tracey never missed an opportunity to sing Mitch’s praises—all well deserved.

  “I know your family also,” Mrs. Lukens said.

  Tracey held her breath. Whenever anyone said that to her, it was as though waiting for the proverbial second shoe to drop. Which of her family members was she about to have to defend? She was descended from extremes—Quakers, as well as slave owners. “I never forget that this is a relatively small community.”

  Mrs. Lukens laughed. “You can relax. I worked at Dan River with Agnes and Marian before I married. Those two were the life of the party, always trying to get me to go to some speakeasy with them. I was almost arrested with them once, but Agnes talked our way out of it. No one could dance, drink, or curse like those two.”

  Tracey gulped. She had heard it said that back in the day most Danville adults either farmed or worked at the textile mill. Her great aunts had been no exceptions before marrying and settling down.

  “You’re not like either of them. You’re more like your grandmother Harry, who worked on the farm rather than at the mill.” A smile passed quickly across Mrs. Lukens’s face at the thought of the youngest of the Martin girls of her generation. “You’re certainly nothing like your sister.”

  “You know Paula?” Tracey tensed again.

  Mrs. Lukens nodded. “She’s after me to sponsor her for the presidency of our garden club. She can’t climb the ranks of the Baptist Young Women fast enough—too many ahead of her. All that misplaced ambition.” She glanced out the row of windows toward the street, letting her thoughts drift. “We called your grandmother Harry instead of Harriet. She liked the nickname. She was the baby of the family, a tagalong to Agnes and Marian. They kept her in gum in exchange for running errands for makeup and cigarettes for them. Even as a child, she was serious and, simply put, good—the same traits I see in you. I know your family was devastated to lose her.”