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I headed into the museum business offices, grimacing at the punk rocker wannabe somehow still employed and sitting at the reception desk.
“Director DeVine,” I told him. “And yes, I have an appointment this time. Check your calendar.”
Not to call me a liar, but he did, then grunted and placed the call.
I hoped his mohawk hair extensions caught fire and thoroughly scalped him someday.
Hilly came barreling out of her back office and threw her arms around me in a hefty, rocking hug, before hooking her elbow with mine and escorting me to the café to order hot drinks.
“Sorry, I’m late. Am I late?”
“You’re not late,” I assured her.
She led us to the nearby bistro table, explaining “I was hung up with that pesky board member who ungenerously showed up last week with no notice whatsoever to go over the books or some such nonsense. Finally got rid of him an hour ago, thank the powers that be. When’s your flight?”
“I have a few hours, but I want to get to the airport early to relax a bit.”
“In an airport? Good luck with that,” she said, sipping her mint herbal tea. “God, I’m going to miss you, girl. We can’t stay away from each other this long next time. Promise me.”
“Promise” I said, licking the foam off the top of my latte. “You can always come my way, too, you know.”
“I will, I will, I promise. Hey, you know, the school term won’t start for another two months. You could stay here awhile longer, layup at my place, eat from my cupboard, clean my apartment.”
I chuckled. “Nice try, especially with that last generous offer. No, this vacation has lasted longer than I had anticipated, and I’m totally beat. Now I just want to go home and kick my feet up for the next couple of months.”
“Can’t blame you there. Okay, no more pushing. Tell me what you think about that gorgeous CEO at Newcastle you’ve been working with? Any heat between you two?”
“Logan? Please. He’s like a little brother to me. Actually, I think he and Maggie Thunders might...”
We spent the next half hour winding up gossip and future reunion plans. Hilarity was approached by her snarky assistant that some self-important curator at another museum needed to speak with her and no excuses, so I waved off her crying self-deprecation at not spending more time with me this morning, gave her a last rocking hug, then parted company.
As I headed for the glass entrance to the museum, I halted and decided to do one last thing, since I was saying my final goodbyes to all of my friends anyhow.
I headed to the rear of the building and into the Native American sector. Soft fluty music and drums bathed me in quiet peace as I stood in front of a red and black totem for a long moment. I closed my eyes and imagined myself back at the old Snoqualmie village where Dove-caller would be roasting the waterfowl for their evening meal while her girls darted back and forth in play until she yelled instructions at them to fetch more greens from the creek and corn from the fields.
Sighing, I opened them, then wandered from one exhibit to the other, reading the notecards that definitely needed some fact correction.
“Oh well, close enough,” I whispered, then walked to wall with the sepia photographs.
This was my final round of goodbyes. But I had to do it. It was the only way to move forward, and I had a much bigger responsibility to focus on now.
There they all were, startling me as if I had just seen these same people days ago. Although in truth, I had. All the posed stick figured people at the Snoqualmie village—Black Crow and his brothers with their bigger-than-life stoic presence, Dove-caller with two of the other women smiling as they weaved their incredibly artistic baskets, Yellow Leaves with her shy maiden smile at the young man snapping her photograph with his new prototype Eastman-Kodak box camera.
I smiled at the description card below. No names for the models, but the photographer got his just credits—H.G. Bautista.
“You’re stalling, McEwan,” I muttered to myself.
And I was. Because this last photograph was going to be the hardest of all to see and say goodbye to.
Blowing out a deep breath, I bravely stepped to the left and looked at the old black and white photo of Michael Bryant looking hellbent on...
Well, to be honest ready to knock my block off.
I smiled at the memory of that particular moment when he and I were furiously arguing about whether I was to go or stay and help him fight the Arcans. It just occurred to me that Henry must have snapped this without our knowledge only moments before I ran to find the boy himself who was then searching for his young love and her mother.
But I had done it. I had changed history, at least my small corner of it, what I felt Fate had purposely sent me to accomplish.
Just as Rose McEwan said I could.
