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“Why not?” I laugh, making mental notes. Ivy, smiling over breakfast with a view of the Eiffel Tower …
Sounds like a plan to me.
We arrive in Charlotte midmorning,and take a slow drive by the address to see if whatever building was there back in the 1920s is still standing.
It is.
“It’s been designated a historic home,” Ivy reports excitedly. The home sits on a double lot in a quaint area, huge and gracious with a wraparound porch and gabled windows. “That means it could have been preserved pretty much as it was back when Earl and Madeline were alive.”
We exchange an excited look. “Preservation equals more of a chance that whatever clue might have been hidden there is still around.”
“Maybe,” Ivy agrees. “I checked the old property records, and it was owned by the family of one of Madeline’s fancy society friends.”
“She could have been helping Maddie and Earl, letting them use the place for secret meetings,” I offer, already imagining the star-crossed story.
“It’s kind of a long way to come,” Ivy frowns, “Especially back then.”
“There’s no distance too far for love,” I tease her, and she grins.
“Easy, Nicholas Sparks.”
I laugh. “So, what’s our story?” I ask, as we approach the front steps.
“Story?”
“You know, fake names, background,” I explain. “How about we’re an engaged couple, scoping for a location for the wedding? You could go all Bridezilla, distract the guy while I snoop around.”
And we would have to kiss, to sell the story. Just a little ...
But before I can get carried away with my fake-dating plot-line, Ivy fixes me with a look. “What did I tell you?”
“Oh. Yeah. Not one of my movies,” I remember.
“I’ll handle this,” she says firmly, as I open the door for her. “We historians have an understanding.”
Inside, there’s a dim foyer and grand old staircase, with massive rooms leading off in each direction, all still decorated in the historic style. The place is set up like every other historic home I’ve been dragged to on school trips: framed photos on the wall, creaky old furniture cordoned off behind velvet ropes, and a tall, snooty-looking man in a three-piece suit, looking about as dusty as the rest of the décor on display.
“I’m sorry, the house is closed to visitors today,” he says in clipped, precise tones.
Ivy flashes him a smile. “What a shame. I’m actually from the Bergen County History Museum, out in Milford Falls, and I’d love a chance to look around. We've heard wonderful things about your preservation work here …”
“Cummings Braithwaite the Third,” the man supplies.
I try not to laugh.
“Mister Braithwaite, I’m Ivy Fortune. It’s lovely to meet you,” Ivy swiftly elbows me in the ribs, and reaches to shake his hand.
“Indeed,” the man says, sizing the two of us up. “But as I said, the house is closed today.”
“And you can’t make an exception, for a fellow historian?” Ivy asks hopefully, “We won’t be long, I promise.” She flashes him another smile, the kind that would make me move heaven and earth to satisfy her.
Cummings is unmoved. “No visitors allowed,” he repeats sternly.
“Well, that’s just it,” I speak up, thinking fast. “We’re not really visitors.”
“You’re visiting, aren’t you?” He looks at us with narrowed eyes. “Which would make you—"
“Descendants!” I announce. “This house actually belonged to my great-uncle. It would mean so much to take a look around.”
