I sat on the tailgate of the wagon and rubbed my silver charm bracelet.
“I found a letter in the journal,” I said. “Grandfather told his brother he couldn’t take credit for the name. It belonged to Mary.”
“He named it, Martha,” Clara said, her voice rising as she slammed the tailgate shut. “The town knows he named it. Don’t start this.”
“To be precise, the letters in this journal do not match the official company story,” I said.
Clara leaned against the car, her right foot tapping against the gravel.
“He wasn’t rich, Martha,” she said. “I found a hidden bank notice from October of 1937. He owed money. A lot of money. If he didn’t take that hundred dollars, we wouldn’t have had this house.”
“He never cashed the check, Clara,” I said.
“Then he was a fool,” she said.
She climbed into the cab and started the engine, leaving me alone in the yard.
The diner parking lot was dark by eight, the gravel damp under the yellow high-pressure sodium lights.
Evelyn was sitting in her sedan, the engine idling with a low, rhythmic rattle.
