Small-Town Secrets. Pamela Tracy

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СКАЧАТЬ only one side of his mouth going up in a lazy, devil-may-care expression. “Didn’t mean to scare you. I was delivering a stack of advertisements—” he held up a flier with Snapp’s Studio pictured across the top and a twenty percent discount coupon on the bottom “—to the woman in charge of parks and recreation.”

      Must be an easy job, Yolanda thought. Scorpion Ridge had one park and very little recreation. Maybe that was why it was debt-free.

      “I didn’t hear you come up, and no, I’ve never noticed this before.”

      “One of my art teachers brought us here when I was in fourth grade,” Adam said. “We used butcher paper and charcoal to make a rubbing. I still remember how what we re-created was clearer than what we could actually see.” He reached out a finger and traced what looked like bumps and grooves. “These are actually two angels holding a banner.”

      “What does the banner say?”

      “Impossible to tell. The teacher guessed that it was something about God. I never thought that, though. None of the letters resembled a G to me. And what we decipher of the letters didn’t form any biblical saying I could think of.”

      “Oh,” she joked, “and in fourth grade you knew quite a few biblical sayings.”

      “You’d be surprised.”

      “I’m surprised that I’ve never heard of Chester, only Richard. And I can’t find any information about Chester. I searched last night, both online and among some of my grandmother’s books.” Yolanda peered at the plaque, now noticing the top. “You know, this could easily be restored.”

      “At a cost, and no one really cares,” Adam pointed out.

      “It’s part of our history.”

      “Forgotten history. Maybe if there were some Ventimiglias still around...”

      “That woman yesterday said she was visiting relatives of the Ventimiglias.” Yolanda truly wished Adam had spoken to the old woman, too. No one seemed to believe her. “Never mind. What do you think it means that this refers to Chester’s hard work and money but not Richard’s?”

      “Huh?”

      Yolanda read the plaque aloud to him, emphasizing the pronoun. “It sounds like Chester not only paid for but also helped build the courthouse.”

      “Richard was a judge,” Adam remembered. “He’d have had money.”

      “Yes, that’s in here.” Yolanda hoisted her backpack around to the front of her body and pulled out the dark blue book. She flipped to a page and read, “Richard Ventimiglia was born in Wisconsin, a graduate of West Point, class of nineteen hundred and one. He then went into the army as a second lieutenant before going back to school. This time he attended National University Law School, before coming to Arizona—which wasn’t a state yet—and settling here and becoming the town’s first judge.”

      “Busy man.”

      “There’s no mention of parents or siblings. That’s unusual. Almost all biographies have a family tree.”

      Adam held out his hand for the book. Reluctantly, Yolanda turned it over. For some reason she felt protective of it. Adam started to skim through the pages, but almost immediately slowed his pace, studying page after page, his brow furrowing.

      He was thinner now than when he’d left five years ago. Taller, too. He didn’t joke as much, either, but maybe that had to do with his dad’s illness and having to make a living instead of living to make art. His hair was the same, though—brown and windblown even when there was no wind. She’d always enjoyed looking up at him even when she hadn’t been able to make sense of him. He existed in a world she didn’t understand. He’d always done exactly what he wanted to do, taken risks and seemed to love life.

      Maybe because he’d never wanted for anything.

      “Where did you get this book?” he asked.

      “I found it on a shelf in the children’s section. It wasn’t there earlier.”

      “What do you mean?”

      “I mean it’s not a book I cataloged. Until I picked it up from the shelf, I had never seen it before. I think the old woman left it.”

      “I thought she was looking for a history book.”

      “She was. At least that’s what she said. Now I believe she must have brought this one in with her and then accidentally left it behind.”

      Adam flipped to the front cover. “No name and no publisher. This is a manuscript more than a book. But someone wrote it and did the drawings so precisely that at first glance, it looks published.”

      “It’s amazing.”

      “You’ve read it already?”

      “No, just a few pages about Richard Ventimiglia. I had a hard enough time getting through that,” she admitted. “The print’s small and runs together. Made me wonder if I should get stronger glasses.”

      “The drawings are well-done and quite detailed, especially for being so small.” He closed the book, studying the cover, back and spine. Then he added, “You think there’s something in here about Chester.”

      “I hope.”

      “I didn’t see his name anywhere.”

      “Really, you skimmed that thoroughly?” Not a chance. Books were her world. She was a master reader and skimmer.

      “No.” Adam closed the book tightly. “Though I did notice you’ve got some pages missing.”

      Yolanda’s mouth opened. “You’re kidding.”

      “No. It’s actually a common practice. Somebody probably wanted a drawing or two or three.” He grinned. “I’m certainly tempted to snatch this book from you and take a few pages. The pictures are not only vintage but also inspiring. Some of the facial expressions are hilarious.”

      He sobered. For just a few moments he’d gotten excited—more like the old Adam, the one she knew so well—but then remembered something sad.

      “Anyway,” he continued, “if you go into any library and look at the art books, you’ll invariably find many with pages missing. People find a drawing they like and rip it out. Usually nobody notices. I once went looking for an old book that had a picture of Johannes Vermeer’s Girl with a Lute. I went all the way to Gesippi because the librarian there was willing to hunt down and order the book I wanted. When it arrived, Vermeer’s painting was listed in the index but missing from the book.”

      “It’s so odd that you like Vermeer,” Yolanda said. What really surprised her was his willingness to track down the book. It showed gumption and dedication.

      “Because his paintings are so realistic?” Adam guessed.

      “Yes.”

      “Well, I like all artists who weren’t appreciated in their own time. As you don’t appreciate me.” His words were joking, but his eyes said something СКАЧАТЬ