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The sound seemed to come from the hope chest. I pressed my ear against the wooden trunk. Though marginally louder, the cries were still indistinct.
Is that crying, sobbing, or chirping? I recalled a similar sound once, when I left a smoke detector in the garage, and the temperature dropped below freezing. Its insistent tweets didn’t stop until I brought it inside and changed its battery.
But what’s making this sound? I unpacked the diaries, careful to keep them in chronological order.
Though still faint, the intermittent cries were louder.
The chest’s empty. Where’s the sound coming from? I put my ear to the cedar frame. And is it crying or rustling like cellophane?
Unable to think of other options, I loosened a corner of the lining’s ancient stitching, and a mound of sand emptied into the chest.
What the…? I fingered the fine, beige powder. It felt coarse but not gritty. That’s not sand. That’s sawdust.
I ripped out the lining, and a horde of black carpenter ants swarmed from their hollowed-out excavations. Behind the fabric, the antique, wooden chest was riddled with tunnels where the ants had laid their eggs.
I was about to slam down the top, when I noticed several yellowed, crumbling documents tied together with a faded pink ribbon. Only partly visible, the bundle was wedged in the corner behind the torn lining.
What’s this?
****
I showed Luke the letters, clippings, and yellowish-brown pages at breakfast.
“Have you read them?”
“Not yet but look at the page numbers—these are the first sixteen pages of Marianna’s diary.”
His eyes widened.
“Exactly.” I smiled as I sipped my coffee. “Want to read a page or two before we head out to the vineyard?”
“Sure.” Taking plates from the cupboard, he gestured toward the crumbling, dog-eared pages with his head. “Why don’t you read, while I dish up the bacon and eggs? You make Marianna’s words come alive.” He set two steaming breakfast plates before us, then sat close, peering over my shoulder.”
I fingered the pages’ straight-edged stubs. “We guessed right. Someone used a ruler to tear these off. Look at the neatly sliced borders.
“December twenty-fifth, eighteen-ninety-six. Today was our first Christmas in the new house. Cadence gave me this notebook for a diary, and Ben made me a cedar hope chest.
“January first, eighteen-ninety-seven. Today I met Mateo Ramirez. He doesn’t know it yet, but one day, I’ll marry him.”
I skimmed the entries, reading only phrases aloud in between bites of toast. “Spoke at the general store…met Mateo’s family…exchanged Christmas gifts…stole a kiss under the mistletoe…” Chuckling, I held up the page. “Notice the handwriting?”
“What about it?”
“See how flowery and ornate it looks compared to the first entries?”
He grinned. “Our Marianna’s growing up.”
I skimmed the entries as I turned the crumbling pages. “Ah, now we’re getting to her story.
“Sunday, March sixth, eighteen-ninety-eight. Our wedding day.
“March seventh. We moved into the cabin Mateo built on his family’s property. As a wedding gift, his parents deeded us the forty acres.”
“A deed?” Luke raised his brows. “Did she say what kind of deed?”
“Unh-uh.” My mouth full as I sampled the scrambled eggs, I shook my head. Then swallowing, I continued reading.
“May first. Mateo left today to enlist in the Rough Riders. I begged Ramon to join him. He didn’t want to enlist, but he agreed.
