Page 33 of Sipping Seduction
“When we get home tonight, I’ll play it for you. I guarantee you’ll hear the difference.”
I could always tell when he was serious about something because a line would show up right between his brows. It made him look like a little boy, but I’d never tell him that.
“Okay. I’ll try listening to your records again.” We’d had this conversation before. Every time he swore the music sounded different, and every time I listened to him play an album on the pre-eighties turntable he’d rescued from his parents’ rec room, I felt the same way.
“Hey, at least I picked out something. You haven’t bought anything yet.” Our server had delivered our meal while we’d been talking, and Evan was halfway done with his burger already.
“I haven’t found anything that’s moved me yet.” As much as I loved history and learning more about the people who’d lived and loved before me, I was pretty selective when deciding what to spend my money on. My grandmother’s house had always been so full of collectibles it felt claustrophobic. For me to dedicate space to an item, it had to feel a certain way to me. It was difficult to explain, but I always knew in my gut when I needed to bring something home.
“Maybe you’ll be moved by something on the way back to the truck.” Evan cleared our baskets away. “We probably need to get back to let Pete the Dog out before we head to dinner.”
Dinner. With his family. That’s what I’d agreed to. I was looking forward to catching up with Ruby and Evan’s parents. Except for running into each other in town from time to time, I hadn’t seen much of them since Evan came back. As for his brothers, I wouldn’t necessarily mind if they had other plans. When all four of them got together, I was liable to get caught in the middle of a good-natured ribbing fest or something much worse.
We took off down the sidewalk and almost passed a narrow shop tucked between two much larger buildings. “Let’s go in here.”
Evan let me lead the way into the cozy shop. The scent of spiced apples hung in the air, along with something I couldn’t quite put my finger on.
The shop held a mix of old and new that appeared to be on consignment. Little tags attached to each item showed the price as well as a number assigned to the owner. I passed by the checkout counter and smiled at an older woman with curly gray hair who was petting a fat orange cat in her lap.
A bookcase on the opposite wall drew my attention. “Evan, look at these old pictures of Beaver Bluff.”
He came up next to me and picked up a black-and-white picture in a glass frame. “That’s the distillery. They’ve got the same picture hanging on the wall in the front office.”
“We’ve got several items from folks who lived in Beaver Bluff,” the woman offered. “I think I’ve even got a diary over here from one of the early Bishops that just came in.”
I met the woman at a glass display case. “How did you get a diary from one of the Bishops?”
“I’d like to know the answer to that as well.” Evan had come up next to me. “I thought all the family history was either with the family or down at the historical society.”
“We never know what’s going to come in.” The woman unlocked the case and carefully picked up an old leather-bound journal. “This just came in last week from a woman who lives way out west. She said she’d just lost her dad and was cleaning out his attic. Take a look.”
I was too nervous to flip the yellowed pages, so I held it in my hand. A sense of knowing swept over me. This was what I needed to take home. “What are you asking for it?”
“It’s in pretty good condition for its age. I’m not sure all the pages are legible, but fifty dollars sounds like a fair price to me.”
Evan reached into his pocket and pulled out his wallet. “We’ll take it.”
CHAPTER17
Evan
Spendingan evening with my family and not being able to say a word about the diary Frannie and I picked up just about killed me. We’d promised each other we wouldn’t tell anyone until we’d had a chance to skim over some of the entries. Based on what Frannie had read on the way home, it belonged to someone named Cornelia, and the earliest entry was dated a hundred and fifty years ago, almost to the day. Cole was the one who knew our family history best. If the diary really had belonged to one of our ancestors, he’d probably recognize the name.
My mom came through on the pot roast. She’d always made a big deal out of Sunday night dinners and expected my siblings and me to show up unless we were out of town or had a damn good excuse. Since she and my dad had officially retired from the distillery and put Vaughn in charge, they’d been the ones who hadn’t been around. It had been a few weeks since we’d all sat down to a family dinner, and this time, we had quite a few extras at the table.
Cole and Danica sat next to each other. With their wedding only a week away, my mom was beside herself trying to take care of last-minute details. Since he was the first one of us kids to get married, his wedding was turning into a huge ordeal. We were all expected to pitch in and make sure it went off without a hitch.
Vaughn was at the distillery, but said he might stop in later. I rarely saw him outside of work except for the Monday night softball games. Every once in a while, I’d see him at Pappy’s on a Friday night when I was there with Frannie, but usually he just stopped in to pick up a burger to take home. If anyone could use a little light in his life, it was Vaughn.
Miller and Amalie sat across from Cole and Danica, with Miller’s son Jack between them. They’d probably be the next ones to get married, though Mom made Miller promise to wait at least a year to give her time to recover after Cole’s wedding. I’d always thought it was more work for the bride’s family than the groom’s, but I guess that didn’t count in Beaver Bluff.
The only one unaccounted for was Ruby. Cole said she’d left that afternoon for a whiskey festival in Indiana. I didn’t even know she was going, but I’d also never been one to keep close tabs on my little sister.
Mom brought in the serving plate holding the roast, and I followed with a dish full of brown-sugar-glazed carrots in one hand and homemade yeast rolls in the other. Walking into the dining room with everyone watching made me hyperaware of my limp. I could feel Dad’s eyes as if they were burning a hole right through me. As I set the rolls down in front of Jack so he could get first dibs, I sent a silent wish out into the universe that Dad wouldn’t say anything.
“How’s that leg of yours doing?” Dad asked from where he sat at the head of the table. “Looks like you’re getting around a little better than you used to on it.”
“It’s all good.” I braced myself for an inquisition, but Mom shook her head. The movement was so slight that I almost missed it, but it was a signal my dad must have understood. At least enough to change the subject.
