girl that he really needed to get serious about his music . She smothered a giggle.
“Bob?” she asked, holding her laughter under her tongue.
“The minister. I thought you knew him?” The man looked at her curiously.
“Oh, no,” she said. “I don’t, no. I’m a graduate student. Starting research on my dissertation.”
“Yeah?” said the young man, leading Connie down the side aisle toward a stairwell. “Where? I went to BU for my master’s. Preservation studies.”
Connie was surprised, and just as quickly ashamed of herself. She had taken him for a handyman. “Harvard,” she said, sheepish. “I do American colonial history. My name’s Connie.”
“I knew some people in that program. Few years ago, now. But if you’re a colonialist, then you are in the right place.” He smiled. If he had sensed her error, he did not let on.
The young man ushered Connie toward a doorway hidden under the staircase that led, Connie presumed, to a choir loft, and pulled a large ring of keys off of his tool belt. He located a small, ornate one and fit it into the door, pushed the door open, and gestured for her to enter. Connie felt his eyes on her as she edged past him through the doorway, close enough that her T-shirt brushed against his coveralls.
The room was windowless, illuminated by a single overhead fluorescent light that hissed and snapped as it was turned on. On each wall towered row upon row of almost identical leather-bound reference books, ranging in appearance from tattered to almost new. To the immediate right,tucked under the curve of the stairwell, stood wooden card catalogue files, and in the center of the tiny room rested a plain card table flanked by folding chairs.
“Christenings,” said the man, pointing to each of the bookcases in turn, “Marriages, Deaths, and—my favorite—Annals of Membership. That’s where you will find who was permitted to officially join the church.” He paused. “And who was required to leave it.”
“This is incredible,” Connie exclaimed, surveying the room. “I’m amazed that you all have so much material. And intact!” She placed her hand atop the card catalogue. “Indexed, even!”
“Mostly, yes. A few gaps here and there.” The man folded his arms, smiling. “It’s not ‘me all,’ however. I’m just working on the restoration of the cupola. Should be done by July, August sometime. Then I’ll do the steeple, and then it’s off to another job up in Topsfield.” He produced a business card from a pocket in his coverall and handed it to Connie. SAMUEL HARTLEY , it read. STEEPLEJACK. “I’m Sam,” he clarified.
Connie broke out in laughter before she could check herself. “ Steeplejack? Are you serious?”
The man—Sam—looked at her with mock wounded pride. “But of course!” he replied. “I’ll admit there aren’t that many of us around. After grad school I worked for a while at the Society for the Advancement of New England Antiquarianism.”
“They have an awesome preservation program,” Connie interjected, recognizing the name. “Some of those properties would just be knocked down if it weren’t for them.”
“That’s true,” Sam agreed. “They do great things. But I hated sitting at a desk all day. I mean, I went into preservation so that I could touch cool old stuff that no one else is allowed to. So”—he gestured to his tool belt—“I moved into restoration work. New England is just about the only place with enough antique steeples to go around.”
Connie grinned at him. “Plus you get to wear your rappelling gear,” she said.
“That, too,” said Sam, smiling back at her. “So. What are we researching?”
Connie was tempted to show him the key. She found his warmth and enthusiasm infectious—so different from the detached chill of the career academic. She tried to picture Manning Chilton radiating fervor for his obscure histories of alchemy, but the image fell flat. Even her thesis student, Thomas,
“Bob?” she asked, holding her laughter under her tongue.
“The minister. I thought you knew him?” The man looked at her curiously.
“Oh, no,” she said. “I don’t, no. I’m a graduate student. Starting research on my dissertation.”
“Yeah?” said the young man, leading Connie down the side aisle toward a stairwell. “Where? I went to BU for my master’s. Preservation studies.”
Connie was surprised, and just as quickly ashamed of herself. She had taken him for a handyman. “Harvard,” she said, sheepish. “I do American colonial history. My name’s Connie.”
“I knew some people in that program. Few years ago, now. But if you’re a colonialist, then you are in the right place.” He smiled. If he had sensed her error, he did not let on.
The young man ushered Connie toward a doorway hidden under the staircase that led, Connie presumed, to a choir loft, and pulled a large ring of keys off of his tool belt. He located a small, ornate one and fit it into the door, pushed the door open, and gestured for her to enter. Connie felt his eyes on her as she edged past him through the doorway, close enough that her T-shirt brushed against his coveralls.
The room was windowless, illuminated by a single overhead fluorescent light that hissed and snapped as it was turned on. On each wall towered row upon row of almost identical leather-bound reference books, ranging in appearance from tattered to almost new. To the immediate right,tucked under the curve of the stairwell, stood wooden card catalogue files, and in the center of the tiny room rested a plain card table flanked by folding chairs.
“Christenings,” said the man, pointing to each of the bookcases in turn, “Marriages, Deaths, and—my favorite—Annals of Membership. That’s where you will find who was permitted to officially join the church.” He paused. “And who was required to leave it.”
“This is incredible,” Connie exclaimed, surveying the room. “I’m amazed that you all have so much material. And intact!” She placed her hand atop the card catalogue. “Indexed, even!”
“Mostly, yes. A few gaps here and there.” The man folded his arms, smiling. “It’s not ‘me all,’ however. I’m just working on the restoration of the cupola. Should be done by July, August sometime. Then I’ll do the steeple, and then it’s off to another job up in Topsfield.” He produced a business card from a pocket in his coverall and handed it to Connie. SAMUEL HARTLEY , it read. STEEPLEJACK. “I’m Sam,” he clarified.
Connie broke out in laughter before she could check herself. “ Steeplejack? Are you serious?”
The man—Sam—looked at her with mock wounded pride. “But of course!” he replied. “I’ll admit there aren’t that many of us around. After grad school I worked for a while at the Society for the Advancement of New England Antiquarianism.”
“They have an awesome preservation program,” Connie interjected, recognizing the name. “Some of those properties would just be knocked down if it weren’t for them.”
“That’s true,” Sam agreed. “They do great things. But I hated sitting at a desk all day. I mean, I went into preservation so that I could touch cool old stuff that no one else is allowed to. So”—he gestured to his tool belt—“I moved into restoration work. New England is just about the only place with enough antique steeples to go around.”
Connie grinned at him. “Plus you get to wear your rappelling gear,” she said.
“That, too,” said Sam, smiling back at her. “So. What are we researching?”
Connie was tempted to show him the key. She found his warmth and enthusiasm infectious—so different from the detached chill of the career academic. She tried to picture Manning Chilton radiating fervor for his obscure histories of alchemy, but the image fell flat. Even her thesis student, Thomas,
Similar Books
