Part 5

          Curled up with my sketchbook one morning, I flip slowly through its pages, reviewing my notes and sketches and impressions, gently tracing over the words Evelyn and Meres wrote with their own hands.  So.  Meres and Celestine, sweet and in love, for some reason let Azal (apparently not related to Meres) and his family take over their beautiful home.  Azal doesn't seem to care much for his family, his wife seeks comfort in the company of friends and other men, his kids grow up surprisingly sweet but guarded and protective of each other.
          Will I ever know why?  (And will I ever know why I'm supposed to know why?  What part am I supposed to be playing here, besides biographer and time-displaced artist/photographer?)
          Nearing the last of the used pages, I spot a name and a phone number.  Jeremy Mason!  Jim (who confirmed he is indeed the husband of town-hall-Claire) called me the day after I bumped into him with Jeremy's number - but I was way too sick at the time to do much more than croak out a thank you, and scrawl the number down.  I linger on the page a few minutes, thinking through how to approach the call.  I really am doing an art project revolving around the mansion and its gardens, so it's not like I'm lying, and given the notoriety of its story around town, I really doubt I'm the first to do one anyway.  Let's see, Jeremy would be... probably Cecil's son?  I flip back to the rough family tree I'd sketched out.  Cecil was Avery's youngest, born in 1910, which isn't far off from when my grandparents were born.  So that works out, Jeremy would probably be a bit older than my parents, chances are the deed wouldn't have passed on to the next generation yet.
          He's in Nevada, which is... I'm awful at time zones.  Sun rises in the east, where I am, so it's later here than it is in his time zone.  Three or four hours?  I'd better not call just yet.  Turning back to the page with his phone number, I jot down a few minor questions that pop into my head: Where did Evelyn end up, did any of the family come back to the area, what's the name of Cora's youngest child - making a note to not bring up its lineage, in case that skeleton's still hidden in the family closet.  Mainly, I'll just see what he can volunteer about the family's history here, anything more about the house or the grounds, and if he can point me to anyone else who might know more.  There's usually one person in every family, every couple of generations, who goes nuts with keeping track of family history and geneology, I'm sure he'll have a cousin or someone to point me toward.
          Putting the sketchbook aside, I pour myself a bowl of cereal, and start some coffee brewing.  I'm off work today, and had planned to go do some weeding and things around the gardens if the weather stays nice.  Carrying the cereal bowl with me, I walk over to the wall I've taped and sticky-tacked the Mason photos to.  It makes me grin to see prints of my digital photos alongside copies of photos printed a hundred years ago, of the same faces and places, it's so surreal and wonderful.  And the different cameras do capture things differently - the older prints have a much more textural quality to the carefully-composed images, there's a richness and a drama to the lighting and the subjects, despite the smaller, less-focused faces and backgrounds.  My digital shots are closer in range, capturing more fleeting little moments, but the values are flatter, a little duller, despite the color in many of them.  To have real color references for the clothing worn in the 1890s - not tinted illustrations, or photographs painted by hand days after they were taken, or crumbling bits of sun-bleached and time-leached fabric!
          Only I'll never be able to present them that way.  This really does twist a small dagger in my gut, knowing that I have all these precious remnants of a time, and beautiful place, and people, that are otherwise entirely lost, and I can't share them, at least, not as valid historical objects.  It's really just as well I so rarely have company over, I haven't decided how I'll explain the newer photos on the wall yet... Dressing up someone in the present for a photoshoot, I suppose, then doing some Photoshop trickery (though I'm really nowhere near good enough to have pulled that off).  I hate to lie, and I'm so awful at it, that I really should just stash the pictures out of sight when someone comes over.  But to hide that sweet little smile of Evelyn's, the soft light from the window caressing her childish rounded cheeks, as she's writing something funny in that gorgeous script of hers...

          "Hellllo?"  The voice is slow, old, a bit flat and dull.
          "Hi! Is Mr. Jeremy Mason available?"
          "This is him."
          "Oh great!" I try to sound cheerful and friendly, hopefully without sounding too chipper and perky.  I don't need him to have a "you kids get off-a my lawn!" moment when I'm already nervous and insecure.  "My name is Kimberly Bennett, I live in Mapleton, North Carolina.  Jim and Claire Cumbings gave me your number, I've been doing some research on the old Mason home and gardens in town here - for an art project, nothing big or official or anything."
          He grunts.  What does a grunt mean??
          "I guess Claire mentioned something about it to my wife.  You aren't causing any trouble on the site, leaving garbage or throwing parties or anything? Jim does check up on it now and again for me."
          "Oh, no, not at all!  I did a little weeding around the old garden beds, I hope that's all right?"
          Another grunt.  "Fine."
          Oh my God, this man is impossible to read over the phone!  His voice is a gruff suspicious monotone, it sounds like he can hardly be bothered to talk to me at all.  It's so hard to push him, but, I can't just hang up now...
          "I, uh, I was wondering if there was any information you could give me about the people who lived there, or anything about the house?  There's not much in the town records, mostly just ghost story gossip about the fire."
          "Never been there.  Land passed from my grandfather to my father and then to me, I don't think my father was ever out there either, just hung onto it as an investment.  Sold some of it off to help send me to college.  Don't remember Granddad ever talking about his parents or his childhood, I wouldn't know any more about it than you do."
          My heart is sinking, my gut twisting in bitter disappointment.  I know my voice is starting to sound a little desperate, but I can't help it.  "Is there anyone else in your family who might?  Someone who keeps tabs on family histories or anything, or that moved back out this way?"
          "Well, no, no-one ever did go back there that I know of.  Granddad didn't, and I've lived out here in Nevada my whole life."  There's a pause, and I'm about to ask again if there's anyone else, but then I hear him take a long breath.  "Well, I guess you could try asking Rosemary, she's done some work on the family tree."
          "That would be perfect, and so much appreciated!"
          "Hold on a few minutes, let me go find her number."  He says this with such weariness that I feel horribly guilty about the whole thing.  But I've already heard the soft thud as he set the phone down, so no use telling him not to bother now.  Ugh.  I hate calling people, I hate imposing on people, I hate causing anyone trouble like this.  (A small voice in the back of my head screams: "Calm down, the man is opening a desk drawer to read you a number!  It's not really any trouble.  He's a crotchity old man and that's his own problem."  I am never good at believing this tiny voice, but it does make me feel a little better.)
          After what feels like an eternity, I hear a fumbling, and then a grunt.  "Number is five-six-two three-six-seven two-oh-seven-eight."
          I read it back to him to confirm I've got it right, and he grunts, presumably in the affirmative.  "Thank you again, so much, I know this must be such an odd request."
          He grunts again.  "Anything else?"
          "No, you've been such a help, thank you!"
          A click, and a dialtone.  Well.  Mr. Chipper, he might not be, but I have another lead to follow at least!  But one phone call is enough trauma for one day.  I also got tacit approval to weed the gardens, so that's what I'm going to do with my day.  I sift through the reference materials by my drawings, and dig out my list of flower meanings, and grab my smaller flowr guide book.  (I have a growing list of things I've succeeded in identifying, and their meanings, in my sketchbook, but I know I have a long way to go.)  I have a sandwich and waterbottle waiting in the fridge, and after finding my nice heavy-duty gardening gloves (bought for a garden that's not my own, ha), I pop in my headphones and head out the door.
          There's a trail starting to form now, between my place and the Masons', so the going's not as bad as it would otherwise be in the dense summer underbrush.  Still, it's not far from noon and awfully hot, so I pause beside the stream to drink some water and wipe the  sweat off my face.
          Then a thought strikes me, and I pull out my flower meaning list.  I break into a grin as I find the entry I wanted:
          "Rosemary - rememberance."  Perfect.