Treasure Me by Christine Nolfi Page B

trepidation.
    “You’re sure your last name is Kaminsky? You wouldn’t be lying, would you?”
    “Of course I’m sure, Br—” Birdie caught herself before Broccoli spilled out. Who knew if the Saturday night special was loaded? “Do you want to see my driver’s license?”
    “I do.”
    “I was joking.” When Theodora glared, Birdie hitched up her skirt and wiggled her wallet from its hiding place on her hip.
    “Funny place to keep your wallet. Come to think of it, why are you dressed like a painted lady? This is a farming community, not the big city.”
    “I’ll let you know when I figure it out.” She flipped open her wallet and withdrew her driver’s license. “There. See? My last name is Kaminsky.”
    “Not Greyhart.” Dragging her nose to the counter, Theodora studied the license with ill-concealed disappointment.
    “Why would you think my name is Greyhart?”
    Shrugging off the question, the old woman planted her pipe between her weathered lips.
    Birdie returned the wallet to her hip. “You can’t smoke in here. It’s against the law.”
    “And I’ll bet you follow the law to the letter, now, don’t you?” The crone struck a match that seemed dull compared to the pugnacity sparking in her gaze. “You can’t stop me from smoking. Whenever and wherever I please.”
    “I guess not. At least not while you’re armed.”
    “Now you’re talking.” On a cackle, she blew a puff of smoke. Then she nodded toward the picture of Justice. “I noticed you taking an interest in one of this town’s founding mothers. You like the portrait?”
    “It’s beautiful. She’s beautiful.”
    “I do agree. You know, the portrait was lost in the storeroom. That fool, Ethel Lynn, packed it away the same year John Travolta wore those crazy white pants. Didn’t matter how much I threatened to skin her hide; she couldn’t recall where she’d put it. Finney dug out the portrait last summer.”
    It was no wonder that Birdie’s mother hadn’t found the portrait—and the slip of parchment hidden inside. She’d visited nearly every town named Liberty in the United States. She probably checked this town, too, but came up empty because a dotty old bag packed the portrait away and promptly forget exactly where.
    “Her name was Justice Postell,” Theodora said, drawing her from her thoughts. “Quite a lady, if I don’t mind saying. She opened this restaurant right as The Civil War was coming to an end. First black, man or woman, to own a business in northern Ohio. When she retired, her son took over this establishment.”
    Justice did have a child . This tidbit of information was enough to replace the worry in Birdie’s veins with heady anticipation. She was still leery of Theodora—the old bag was armed—but the desire to learn more about the freedwoman won out.
    “I heard someone in here talking about Justice,” she lied. Theodora arched a brow and she quickly added, “They said Justice was pregnant when she moved here. She was an unwed mother. Right?”
    “Not exactly. Justice got hitched to the colored preacher’s son after she arrived in Liberty.”
    Her heart sank. Maybe the story wasn’t true. If Justice didn’t have a child with Lucas, Birdie wasn’t related to the freedwoman’s descendants after all.
    But her spirits immediately rose when Theodora added, “It was a kind of mercy, their marriage. Justice came to Ohio in a bad way. Nearly seven months pregnant. She left the baby’s father down in the Carolinas.”
    In South Carolina . A feverish excitement stole through her. It was foolish to think she’d earned a reward by learning she might be related to Justice. She wanted to be. She needed to know someone in her family hadn’t done time in the state pen or died in a barroom brawl. She yearned for a legacy that didn’t involve duping some mark out of his hard-earned cash.
    Her excitement must have been palpable because Theodora smiled. Leaning forward, she said, “Child, I don’t