Poppy glanced back in the mirror. “Did he suspect anything?”
“No, and he still doesn’t understand why this is so important.”
Guilt pricked at her, but not enough to turn back. Bennett had agreed with her brother and taken his side over hers. Even when she brought it up again this afternoon, he’d told her to let Forrest check out the site and do his job.
He’d also seemed irritated, which wasn’t like him, and she wondered if the call he’d taken earlier had something to do with that.Just city business, he’d said.
Their weekend getaway couldn’t come at a better time. Maybe she wasn’t the only one with slightly frayed emotional edges.
Poppy turned to her. “This is exciting, but are you sure we’re doing the right thing, Aunt Ivy?”
“If Amelia buried something there, I want to know before bulldozers and backhoes turn the site into a construction zone and damage whatever might be underneath by accident. It would be too easy to forget and lose an important piece of history or Amelia’s story.”
This history mattered to her, as she felt a connection with the woman whose passion for art she shared. But it was more than that. During the war, Amelia Erickson had risked her life to give shelter to people and transport historical and cultural artifacts to safety.
What more might she have accomplished had Alzheimer’s not robbed her of her memory?
Only uncovered during the recent renovation, the plans for a library and art museum had revealed one of Amelia’s intentions for Summer Beach. Ivy was determined to see the project through now.
They drove to Shelly’s bungalow, where she emergedwearing a similar pair of dark jeans and a black hoodie like she’d dressed for a mission. Mitch stood in the doorway, holding Daisy on his hip. His spiky, sun-bleached hair shone under the porchlight.
“Back by ten, babe,” Shelly said, sliding into the backseat.
Instead of turning toward their friend’s cottage down the beach, Ivy drove the short distance to the vacant lot slated for the future library and art museum.
Streetlights flickered on, casting pools of amber light across empty sidewalks. The lot sat across from a row of boutiques, now closed.
No traffic. Minimal lighting. Perfect conditions for covert excavation.
Ivy parked on a side street across from the lot, and they hurried to get the shovels.
“This still feels a little wrong,” Poppy said, pulling a flashlight from a toolbox.
Ivy handed her a shovel. “It’s our project. We have every right to be here.”
Poppy hefted the tool. “Then why are we creeping around like we’re about to rob it?”
“Because men like to mansplain,” Shelly said, picking up another shovel. “Sometimes it’s easier to do a job yourself than try to convince another person of its importance.”
As she shut the trunk, she caught a glimpse of what looked like a young, slender man on the street in a dark faded hoodie and jeans. She didn’t recognize him, and he hurried away.
She waited until he was gone before crossing the street.
The lot smelled of dry grass with a whiff of eucalyptusfrom the trees lining the street. Somewhere nearby, a dog barked, then fell silent.
Poppy switched on the flashlight. The beam swept across the vacant lot, illuminating a sign that read, “Future Home of The Amelia Erickson Library and Art Museum.”
Beyond that lay the raised area near a volunteer palm tree where Ivy had hit something hard.
The trio walked across the lot to the spot she remembered.
“Here goes.” The earth resisted as Ivy’s shovel bit in.
“Keep the light low,” Shelly whispered to Poppy. “We don’t want it visible from the street.”
“Then how are we supposed to see?” Poppy angled the beam downward, creating a small circle of illumination.
“Carefully.” Ivy scooped out the soil she’d loosened during their ceremonial groundbreaking. She and Shelly worked their shovels against the rest of the hard-packed earth.
