Hope Between the Pages by Pepper Basham (ebook reader for surface pro .txt) 📕

romance now and again? Though I’d prefer to live one. What about you, dearest fairy?

Your Book Goblin,

Oliver

Book goblin? Oliver? Was this the person who left the notes in Evelyn Blackwell’s Bible? Were Oliver and the Book Goblin the same, then?

Clara looked over at her mother who had leaned back against a bookshelf, her face flushed, palm pressed to her chest. “Mom?”

“I’m all right.” She waved a hand, attempting to dismiss Clara’s concern. “Just got a little overexcited with all the research.” Her smile spread wider despite the perspiration on her brow. “I’d always told your father there was more to Sadie’s story than she ever mentioned to us. She kept quiet about her younger life, but I just knew she’d loved deeply. You could see it in her faraway glances.”

“Faraway glances?”

“When you fall in love, you’ll understand, my dear.” She stared at Clara in the tender way she often did when she was thinking of Dad. “There are conversations Sadie had with your father and me that have been resurrecting in my mind since we discovered these papers. I wish I’d written things down.” Mom shook her head and waved a book in front of her like a fan. Then suddenly she pointed the book at Clara. “Which is all the more reason you need to write things down, so you won’t end up regretting it like your mother.”

“You think this Oliver was romantically connected with Sadie?” Clara slid a chair over to her mother’s side and gestured for her to take a seat. She leaned against the wall and examined the postcard again, though keeping a close eye on her mother’s demeanor. Her breathing was slowing by degrees. Good. “Oliver, from who knows when?”

“Your grandfather’s middle name is Oliver, Clara.” Mother tsked, her lips taking a playful turn.

“Which was and is a common name, Mother,” Clara exaggerated the word. “It doesn’t provide a direct link.”

“But you can’t rule it out as mere coincidence, or the fact that this Oliver was at Biltmore when Sadie was there.” Mom gestured toward the postcard. “I checked with my friend, Marlana Carter, who works in Biltmore’s archives. The Vanderbilts stopped making those particular postcards, the ones with the smaller trees featured near the house, the year after Mr. Vanderbilt died. 1915. So our Oliver had to have been at Biltmore some time between Sadie’s mother’s death and the end of 1915.”

“Sadie’s mother’s death?”

Mama nodded, her pallor and breathing returning to normal the longer she sat. Congestive heart failure loomed like a strange sort of constant waiting. “Sadie took over her mother’s place at Biltmore after her mother died. Granny Sadie mentioned it once when I was determined to find out more about her early life.”

“Well, you are notoriously stubborn when you set your mind to it.” Clara eyed her mother, who refused visiting the doctor any more than absolutely necessary despite Clara’s urging. “Especially about your health.”

“There’s nothing else to be done, Clara.” Her mother held her attention, almost as if trying to brand her words into Clara’s head. “Except to live all the days of our lives, however long or short those may be. And I have, dear girl. I have.”

Tingles stung at the bridge of Clara’s nose, so she glanced back at the postcard, embracing the choice she’d made. Loving her parents well because they’d needed her. Their example had been one to pedestal. A quick certainty of the right match. A deep affection. A lifelong friendship surrounded by laughter, books, tea, and music. A relationship like that probably only happened once in an entire family history. In those faraway glances, did her mom long to be with her dad again?

“What about this key?” Mom gestured toward the small item in Clara’s hand. “It looks like one of those lockbox keys.”

“An old one.” Clara raised the key for closer examination. “Have you ever found a lockbox among Dad’s or Granny’s things?”

“Nothing.” Mom shook her head, her bun bobbing. “But if your granny kept it all these years, there has to be a reason.”

But what? And where else could she possibly look?

She shifted her attention back to the postcard, a frown pulling at her lips. “So, some man by the name of Oliver left this note for Sadie?” She sighed. “Mom, can you imagine how hard it would be to find one Oliver in all the Olivers that worked at Biltmore?”

“Or visited?” Her mother’s pale brow rose. “To use a postcard would suggest—”

“A houseguest?” Clara reached for a chair of her own and slid down into it. Austen and Downton Abbey swirled through her thoughts. “That would mean Granny Sadie may have had a forbidden romance. Servant and houseguest?”

“Maybe.” Her mother’s grin emerged. “Only one way to find out, my dear.” She tapped the card with her finger. “I’ve set up an appointment for you with Marlana at Biltmore.”

“What?”

“She’s the one who suggested that the years could be narrowed down based on the postcard we had, and of course she’d want to see anything related to the house’s history.” Mom chuckled and pushed herself to a stand. “It’s what historians do.”

“Mom, Sadie’s name isn’t even on this card.” Clara stood and slid her arm through her mom’s as they walked to the back of the room where their little apartment joined the shop. “This Oliver guy could have sent this to anyone.”

“But why would Sadie have saved it, if it was meant for someone else?” They slid through the adjoining door to their quaint little living area. Her mother squeezed Clara’s arm. “You must start thinking like a sleuth. What happened to the girl who devoured Nancy Drew books when she was eight?”

Clara’s feet faltered in following her mom. What had happened to that girl? She’d stopped looking for clues in imaginary mysteries and started watching for physical signs of her parents’ health and future needs. Imaginary mysteries seemed too trivial. Her attention fell back on the postcard and key. Was there a place for mysteries, adventure, and even romance in