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I circulate, helping them pack their works of art away. It may not be the exciting life of a sexy international super spy, and most people would think it was a major step backwards after the success ofFortune Huntingon TV, but I have to admit, I really love this job.
“Miss Ivy?” A little redhead named Maeve tugs on my sleeve. “Is it true your grandpa was a bank robber?”
I smile. “Great-great grandpa,” I correct her. “And yes, he was. Earl Turner Fortune, the lovestruck robber of Milford Falls.”
The other kids fall silent, wide-eyed. “What did he steal?” another asks.
“Gold,” I tell them, raising my voice for dramatic effect. I’ve told this story a hundred times, but it never gets old. “He robbed a bank, a couple of towns over, the spring of 1922.”
“That’s over a hundred years ago!”
“Yup.” I nod. “You see, Earl was in love, with my great-great grandmother, Madeline. But she was the daughter of the wealthy local mine owner, and her parents didn’t approve. Earl wanted money for a fresh start, so he and some partners hatched a plan to rob the bank. They cleared out the vault of solid gold bars and cash, and went on the run.”
There are gasps. “Did he get away with it?” Maeve asks hopefully. “And live happily-ever-after?”
I shake my head. “Nope. His partners double-crossed him, sold him out. They all died in a shootout with the US Marshalls by the mines, just across town. But the funny thing is…”
I drop my voice, and the kids all lean closer.
“… nobody ever found the gold,” I finish. “Some say Earl hid it, before he was caught.”
“It’s still out there?” Maeve asks breathlessly. “Here in Milford Falls?”
“Who knows?” I reply with a big shrug. “People still see his ghost sometimes, wandering the hills. Some think he’s looking for the treasure, but others say it’s a warning to stay away, that it’scursed!”
There are more gasps, and I smile, getting to my feet. “That’s all for today, folks! Remember, you can come back any time to learn more. History is fun!”
The group reluctantly clatters out, and I tidy up.
“Still spinning the yarn about great-grandpa Earl?” Dot asks, emerging from the back room with an amused smile.
“Of course, what’s not to love?” I reply. “Treasure, star-crossed lovers, an epic shoot-out…” I grin. “It’s a classic … even if there’s no treasure actually out there to be found.”
“You don’t know that for sure,” Dot tells me.
I laugh, wry. “It’s been a hundred years, and nobody’s found so much as a single gold coin. It’s safe to say, Earl’s fortune is already gone forever. It makes a great story, though,” I add, clearing construction paper away.
Growing up, I loved being related to a genuine local folklore hero. Everyone knows the legend of the lost Fortune treasure. People have been searching for it since long before I was born, and I imagine they’ll still be trying to find it long after I’m gone. When I was a kid, I was determined to find it myself. I spent hours reading over Earl and Madeline’s love letters, searching for clues. I figured that if he knew he might be captured, he would hide it somewhere that mattered to the both of them – so she would have a chance to find it, too, and provide for their unborn child – my great-grandmother. But for all my enthusiastic research, I never stumbled over any big breaks.
I like to think what I found was far more valuable: my passion for history. I loved piecing together fragments of the past, poring over photos and documents to fill out the details of their story. That’s what history is, after all: people’s stories, their lives, and loves; hopes and struggles. You can use those clues and stories to track down riches like we did onFortune Hunting, or you can use them to bring the past to life, like we do here at the museum: teaching people, inspiring them, and sharing the lessons of generations gone by, in hopes we can learn enough not to make the same mistakes again.
But I’ll admit, the treasure part can be a little more exciting sometimes.
Speaking of excitement … I pull out my phone to text Mary-Alice and fill her in on last night’s wild sexy adventures. I find she’s already called. Eight times.
I frown, and try calling her back, but it goes to voicemail. “Everything okay?” I leave a message. “Let me know if you’re still on the bathroom floor, and I’ll bring my magic chicken soup over, OK?”
I hang up.
“Feels like lunchtime,” Dot says, with a hopeful look.
I laugh. “Is that a hint?”
“Well, if you were planning to go pick something up …” she says meaningfully. “I could murder a nice beansprout wrap from Good Earth.”
I look around the museum. There’s nothing much requiring my attention here, and those muffins were an awfully long time ago …
“One beansprout wrap, coming right up!”
