twenty-eight, Lawrence had been eighteen months old in August 1898.
Cameron didn't need help with the rest of the passage either. Henry Bell had not just provided a clue with his reference to Needle Peak. He had provided a road map.
If the mountain, a towering block of basalt, was not the front door to the mystery cave, it was the back. In one passage, the diarist had confirmed Professor Bell's story, validated Marjorie's memory, and given a time traveler enough information to start his mission, if not complete it.
Yet Cameron had no desire to pack his bags and hop a train to California. To search for the cave now would be to search in the last week of March. He had no interest in looking for a cave or anything else in twenty feet of snow.
He also had no interest in looking for priceless jewels when he had another treasure in his sights. If he did nothing else in Evansville, Indiana, he would get to know Candice Bell, win her mind if not her heart, and let his conscience dictate his actions.
Cameron checked his watch, noted the vertical hands, and decided to find some supper – or what the modern world called dinner. He closed the diary, got out of his chair, and walked to the closet, where he retrieved a jacket the dry cleaners had not ruined.
Cameron threw on the jacket and started for the door, but he did not take more than a few steps before he stopped, changed direction, and returned to the desk. He sat down, opened the diary, and this time flipped to a page near the back.
He quickly found a passage that gave him as much comfort as any Bible verse. Poignant, poetic, and sweet, it revealed a forty-year-old man's limitless affection for his newborn daughter.
"February 14, 1900: M delivered an angel this morning. Born at six on this day of love, she is quite possibly the most beautiful thing I have ever seen. I held her all morning and well into the afternoon, sang her songs my mother sang to me, and told her how much I love her. She is the answer to so many prayers, a bundle of joy I shall treasure for many years."
Cameron sighed as he read the passage. Though he liked both the prose and the sentiment, he was moved more by when they had been put on paper.
Henry Bell did not treasure his daughter for many years. He treasured her for another day. He died before Candice Bell even had a name. His lovely entry was his last.
CHAPTER 17: CANDICE
Friday, March 27, 1925
Candice sipped her morning coffee, lowered her cup to its saucer, and ran her hands along a walnut dining table crafted in 1850. She had always wanted the ornate piece and had asked for it at age eighteen, but she did not get it. Like so many other heirlooms in the Bell family, the table went to the child who had married, settled down, and purchased a home.
Candice looked at that child, her older brother, and smiled sadly. She envied a lot of things about her only sibling but nothing more than his ability to take charge in a crisis.
Lawrence had done just that in the past week. He had provided his mother and his sister with a permanent home, taken charge of their financial affairs, and even provided them with the use of a car to replace the one Candice had lost to the Tri-State Tornado.
"Thanks," Candice said.
"Thanks for what?" Lawrence asked.
Candice took a breath.
"Thanks for being a brother."
Lawrence Bell, businessman, husband, father, and all-around good guy, lowered the newspaper in his hands. He stared at his sister like she had just thanked him for being human.
"You're getting dramatic again," Lawrence said. "You really should develop that side of yourself. I hear the theater company is holding auditions for The Gold Diggers ."
"Do you think I'm a 'gold digger,' Lawrence?"
"No. I do not. I think you're just the opposite. You, dear sister, will marry for love. You will find a vagabond someday, buy a shoddy house in the slums, and be as happy as a clam."
Candice laughed softly.
"You're probably right," she said.
Cameron didn't need help with the rest of the passage either. Henry Bell had not just provided a clue with his reference to Needle Peak. He had provided a road map.
If the mountain, a towering block of basalt, was not the front door to the mystery cave, it was the back. In one passage, the diarist had confirmed Professor Bell's story, validated Marjorie's memory, and given a time traveler enough information to start his mission, if not complete it.
Yet Cameron had no desire to pack his bags and hop a train to California. To search for the cave now would be to search in the last week of March. He had no interest in looking for a cave or anything else in twenty feet of snow.
He also had no interest in looking for priceless jewels when he had another treasure in his sights. If he did nothing else in Evansville, Indiana, he would get to know Candice Bell, win her mind if not her heart, and let his conscience dictate his actions.
Cameron checked his watch, noted the vertical hands, and decided to find some supper – or what the modern world called dinner. He closed the diary, got out of his chair, and walked to the closet, where he retrieved a jacket the dry cleaners had not ruined.
Cameron threw on the jacket and started for the door, but he did not take more than a few steps before he stopped, changed direction, and returned to the desk. He sat down, opened the diary, and this time flipped to a page near the back.
He quickly found a passage that gave him as much comfort as any Bible verse. Poignant, poetic, and sweet, it revealed a forty-year-old man's limitless affection for his newborn daughter.
"February 14, 1900: M delivered an angel this morning. Born at six on this day of love, she is quite possibly the most beautiful thing I have ever seen. I held her all morning and well into the afternoon, sang her songs my mother sang to me, and told her how much I love her. She is the answer to so many prayers, a bundle of joy I shall treasure for many years."
Cameron sighed as he read the passage. Though he liked both the prose and the sentiment, he was moved more by when they had been put on paper.
Henry Bell did not treasure his daughter for many years. He treasured her for another day. He died before Candice Bell even had a name. His lovely entry was his last.
CHAPTER 17: CANDICE
Friday, March 27, 1925
Candice sipped her morning coffee, lowered her cup to its saucer, and ran her hands along a walnut dining table crafted in 1850. She had always wanted the ornate piece and had asked for it at age eighteen, but she did not get it. Like so many other heirlooms in the Bell family, the table went to the child who had married, settled down, and purchased a home.
Candice looked at that child, her older brother, and smiled sadly. She envied a lot of things about her only sibling but nothing more than his ability to take charge in a crisis.
Lawrence had done just that in the past week. He had provided his mother and his sister with a permanent home, taken charge of their financial affairs, and even provided them with the use of a car to replace the one Candice had lost to the Tri-State Tornado.
"Thanks," Candice said.
"Thanks for what?" Lawrence asked.
Candice took a breath.
"Thanks for being a brother."
Lawrence Bell, businessman, husband, father, and all-around good guy, lowered the newspaper in his hands. He stared at his sister like she had just thanked him for being human.
"You're getting dramatic again," Lawrence said. "You really should develop that side of yourself. I hear the theater company is holding auditions for The Gold Diggers ."
"Do you think I'm a 'gold digger,' Lawrence?"
"No. I do not. I think you're just the opposite. You, dear sister, will marry for love. You will find a vagabond someday, buy a shoddy house in the slums, and be as happy as a clam."
Candice laughed softly.
"You're probably right," she said.