“My aunt ran it before me,” Shelley says, with the tiniest eye roll. “I could’ve sold this building for, like, half a million, but the town historical society conned her into letting them take over the lease right before she died.”
Yikes. “A tad unpleasant” may have been a serious underestimation of Shelley.
“I think it’s cool,” I say stubbornly. “I love museums.”
Shelley gives me a slightly incredulous look and then goes right back to scrolling on Facebook.
I escape back to my desk and sit down again, feeling a bit perturbed. Fortunately, I don’t have much time to sulk before a young couple peers uncertainly into the door.
“Come in!” I say eagerly, beckoning them inside.
They’re in their midtwenties, I’d say, and they tell me they’re visiting from Japan. When I ask what brought them to PEI, the girl says, “Anne of Green Gables.”
“Ooh, IloveAnne of Green Gables!” I say earnestly. How cool that someone traveled here from so far away because of a lovely old children’s book.
The two of them clearly know how to appreciate a museum properly, and after paying for tickets, they spend nearly an hour walking around. They’re in the back room when I hear them speaking in English to someone with a deep, male voice. I twist around, confused. Did someone else sneak into the museum while I was talking to Shelley?
I wander back there and find the barrel-maker from yesterday back at his post, carving off thin ribbons of wood from a log with a two-handled blade. He’s probably about fifty years old, with tanned white skin, muscly shoulders, and an impressively bushy beard. If he had old-fashioned clothes on, he could be in a photo titled “Ye Olde Barrel Maker.”
The Japanese couple and I watch quietly as he works. He’s got a really natural way about him, explaining what he’s doing in a deep, calm voice. It’s strangely soothing to watch him, and it’s clear he cares deeply about his craft. I feel a pang of longing inthe center of my chest. I want to find something I care about that much.
After about fifteen minutes, he comes to a natural stopping point in his work and says it’s time for a coffee break, then tells us all to enjoy the rest of the museum.
I hurry after him, eager to introduce myself.
“That was great,” I say, following him into the tiny break room near Shelley’s office.
“Er—thanks,” he says, looking surprised to see me behind him. “Are you visiting Waldon?”
“No, I’m volunteering here. This is my first day.” I stick out a hand. “Emily Evans.”
He shakes my hand. “Trey Fisher.”
“Nice to meet you. I wasn’t sure if you were here every day. I’m so glad that couple got to see you!”
“I usually come down a few times a day,” Trey says, grabbing the empty coffeepot. “My shop’s just up the street.”
“What do you sell?”
He gives me a funny look. “Barrels.”
“Oh!” I laugh at my own stupidity. “Duh. I didn’t realize people still made barrels by hand.”
“What did you think whiskey was made in?” Trey asks. “Or wine?”
I grin sheepishly. “I guess I’ve never really thought about it. Or I guess I thought they’d have, like... barrel-making machines, or something.”
“They do, but they don’t make them as good as a cooper does.”
“Ah.” I nod sagely. “And a cooper is...”
Trey laughs. “Are you sure you should be working at this museum? A cooper is someone who makes barrels and casks.”
“Oh, sure. I definitely knew that,” I say. “Just like Idefinitelyknow the difference between a barrel and a cask.”
“All barrels are casks, but not all casks are barrels,” Trey says.
“Thanks,” I say dryly. “It’s totally clear to me now.”
