Father By Choice. M.J. Rodgers
belongs to me.”
Emily knew Dean Himlot as she knew most of the notables in this crowd. He could be a bit full of himself, forgetting sometimes that it was his family’s famous name that had enabled him to get elected.
Still, she’d never known him to be abrasive, especially in the company of his social peers. Just proof that lots of money and clout didn’t buy class.
“Actually, Dean,” the mayor said amicably as he took the mike from Oliver, “according to the letter that I read previously, everything in this time capsule was bequeathed to the people of Courage Bay, not any individual. However, rest assured that you will be given a copy of your ancestor’s letter as soon as—”
“Don’t open the box,” Dean said. “That letter is a family heirloom. You could ruin it by exposing it to the air.”
“Get a grip, Dean,” Gerald Fitzwalter spoke up from the spectators in a clearly annoyed manner.
Gerald was president of his family’s local bank and head of the Chamber of Commerce. He was also a descendant of a Ranger crewman. Gerald and Dean had been feuding for twenty years. It all started when they were on opposing football teams in high school competing against each other in a regional championship. A fumble on the field resulted in a fight between them and they both got kicked out of the game. Each blamed the other.
“I wasn’t going to open the box of these letters at this time,” Oliver said in the tone of a professor addressing dense pupils. “I’m perfectly aware that some of these letters could have been written a hundred and fifty years ago and may, therefore, be doubly sensitive to the elements. Now, if I may proceed?”
The mayor nodded in his direction and Oliver finished naming the surviving crewmen. Emily already knew their names, as she was certain did most of this crowd.
Oliver then put the box aside and opened the next in the capsule. The letters within were written by average citizens depicting community life.
The first one was by a farmer—who, fortunately, didn’t have any descendants in the audience—but who, unfortunately, had included more details about raising chickens than Emily ever wanted to know.
The second letter Oliver read started out to be a great deal more interesting. It was from an amateur gardener who claimed to have found a wonderful medicinal plant that had cured her of the blinding headaches she’d had since adolescence. The gardener had included a copper tin that was filled with its seeds, which she described as a soothing intoxicant.
There were two pages to her letter. But to Emily’s disappointment, Oliver read what appeared to be only half of the first before he suddenly stopped and closed it.
“We shouldn’t expose these documents to the light any longer,” he said by way of explanation.
The mayor nodded as he addressed the crowd. “The documents, artifacts and photos will be digitized and placed on the City’s Web site. Ladies and gentlemen, the founders of Courage Bay have left us a priceless piece of their history and ours. We’ll ensure that it is preserved for all to enjoy.”
When the mayor stepped away, Emily retook the podium and invited the audience to reconvene in the reception room of the Heritage Museum behind them, where drinks and hors d’oeuvres were being served.
The mayor and city council quickly joined the spectators headed toward those promised refreshments and the political shoulder-rubbing that was always the highlight of this type of social event.
Emily turned off the microphone just in time to prevent the argument that started behind her from being broadcast throughout the Botanical Gardens.
“How dare you imply that I’m too old and weak to catalog these artifacts correctly?” Phoebe asked in her seventy-three-year-old voice that was about as feeble as a two-by-four.
Oliver’s skin was turning a rosy pink beneath his full white beard. “You know damn well that’s not what I said, Phoebe. I simply pointed out that when it comes to computers, you are not up to speed.”
“Look who’s talking,” Phoebe said. “Last month, when Dorothy mentioned that we needed to update the Society’s hard drive, you were the one who got all hot and bothered because you thought that she was trying to reschedule our spring golf tournament.”
Oliver’s lips tightened. “I may not be familiar with the terminology, but need I remind you that the pharmaceutical company I ran for forty years is full of computers and competent operators?”
“We are not handing over these valuable items to some computer operator who hasn’t the faintest idea how to preserve them,” Phoebe said.
“What’s going on?” Emily whispered to Dorothy.
“Oliver just got a call from the hospital,” Dorothy whispered back. “Wayne won’t be able to take custody of the time capsule’s contents as planned. He’s had a stroke.”
“These irreplaceable items must stay in the hands of the Historical Society,” Phoebe continued. “Now, my grandniece Fiona is quite competent with computers. Together, she and I can—”
“Only last week you were complaining that Fiona was so tired chasing after her two preschoolers that she didn’t even have the energy to come see you,” Oliver interrupted.
“I’ll hire a sitter for her,” Phoebe said, undaunted.
“And how long will that take?” Oliver challenged. “You went through nearly sixty applicants and four months before you finally chose Mrs. Hanna to be the librarian. And what a choice that was.”
“Mrs. Hanna’s credentials as a historian are impeccable, not to mention the fact that she speaks five languages.”
“We didn’t need someone with impeccable credentials or who could speak five languages. We needed someone who could work the library’s computer! Now we’re paying Holly to come in and do it after school!”
“Ken, I need another picture of this imbecile,” Phoebe said, pointing to Oliver. “The last one of him I put on my dartboard is already full of holes.”
The photographer looked amused but made no effort to comply. Ken—like the rest of them—was used to Phoebe and Oliver’s verbal sparring matches. When these two crossed swords, the best thing anyone could do was stay out of the way.
“And that’s another thing,” Oliver said. “Ken’s supposed to be the Society’s photographer, but I can’t get him to do a damn thing for me. Every time I try he tells me he’ll have to clear it with you first.”
Oliver was talking about Ken as though he wasn’t there. Typical of Oliver. And typical of Ken that he showed no sign of offense.
“He has the editing and printing of the newsletter to see to,” Phoebe countered. “He’s not one of your lackeys. Speaking of which, where is this illustrious and purportedly proficient historian who was supposed to be on hand today to take custody of the time capsule contents?”
“Damn it, Phoebe, I already told you.” Oliver was shouting now. “Wayne had a stroke. Are you going to blame me for that?”
“Please, Oliver, Phoebe,” Dorothy interrupted as she stepped between her fellow board members. “I know this is disappointing. I, too, was counting on Wayne’s expert assistance. But he’s seriously ill. We should set aside concerns about the time capsule for the moment and think of him.”
“His doctor told Wayne’s wife that the stroke was minor,” Oliver said, as though Dorothy was making a big deal over nothing. “He’ll be all right.”
“That’s good to hear,” Emily said carefully. “But I believe the point that Dorothy was making is that Wayne needs to know how concerned all of us in the organization are for his welfare.”
“Thank you, Emily,” Dorothy said with emphasis.
“Oh, very well,” Phoebe said. “I’ll send