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“What’s that?” I asked.
“An art gallery, but honestly, it’s so much more than that. It occurred to me the owner might know the family you asked about. Hers has lived here forever,” the woman responded. “Wait, they’re closed on Sunday and Monday, so you’ll have to wait until Tuesday to talk to her.”
Since we had to leave Wednesday, I doubted I’d have time to meet the owner, but I didn’t tell her that.
A man seated at another table stood and approached ours. “Somebody said you were asking about the Coverts?”
“That’s right,” Beau responded. “Do you know them?”
The man shook his head. “Not me, but my father might.” He pointed to the gentleman seated at another table. “He can be a little forgetful, but I’ve found he remembers things from the past more than what’s happened recently.”
“May we talk to him?” Beau asked.
“I don’t want to interrupt your dinner, but I’ve got to get Pops home soon.”
“We’re finished,” I told him.
Beau motioned for me to go ahead while he settled the check.
“My name is Samantha,” I told the younger of the two men. When we reached the table, he pulled out a chair for me and, after I sat, introduced me to his father.
“Henry Allen,” the man said, reaching over to shake my hand. “This here’s my son, Hank.”
“Dad, do you remember the Coverts?”
Mr. Allen shook his head, but I saw something in his eyes. Perhaps the name sounded familiar, but he couldn’t recall why.
“They owned the Lilacs, out on Ostrander Road.”
“Yes,” said the older man, nodding. “Beautiful place.”
“Cena Covert recently passed away, and I’m doing some research about the family.” The fib was something Beau had come up with, suggesting I might not want to share the real details of why I was seeking information.
“Manley was a meansonuvabitch,” Mr. Allen spat. “The old man, not the kid. Actually, not him. Her brother.”
“Oh!” I exclaimed. “So you do know them?”
He shook his head. “Nope, don’t know ’em.”
“Sorry,” Hank mouthed.
“They went to that church.” Mr. Allen nudged his son. “You know where I mean.”
“I don’t. Do you recall the name of it?”
“It’s on Woodard Road. Services are at nine on Sundays.”
“Were you a member of the church, Dad?”
We both smiled when he said he hadn’t been.
“What did I miss?” Beau asked, joining us.
“Mr. Allen mentioned a church the Coverts went to,” I told him.
“You English?” the older man asked Beau.
“I’m actually not, but I did spend a lot of time there when I was growing up,” he responded.
