“You’ll make it,” Kathleen said with confidence, returning to her muffin batter. “You always do.”
Natalie watched Kathleen fold lemon zest into the mixture. “Have you found more information about Florence Buckley and what she was doing?”
Kathleen paused in her stirring. She’d given Natalie only the basic details when she’d called to share the discovery, not wanting to worry her while she was so focused on her paintings. “Percy thinks Florence helped at least forty women over nearly two decades. She documented everything from medical care during pregnancy to the new identities she created for them afterward.”
“New identities?”
“Florence created false documents that made them widows instead of unmarried mothers,” Kathleen told her. “It meant they could find work, rent rooms, support themselves and their children without the social stigma that would have destroyed their lives.”
Natalie was quiet for a moment. “Does Chloe think the documents are authentic?”
Kathleen spooned muffin batter into paper-lined tins. “She’s looked at everything, and she’s confident they are. The team she worked with at the Smithsonian is analyzing one of the documents to see if it matches the paper and ink that was used in the late 1800s.”
Natalie swirled the coffee in her mug, watching the liquid create tiny whirlpools. “What does that mean for you and for the house?”
“For me, not much. But for the house, it means we have to be very careful with the renovations,” Kathleen replied. “Chloe suggested asking a team of specialists to preserve and catalog everything properly. The Smithsonian has a digital archive of historical collections. She thinks what we found would fit with the other items they’ve recorded.”
Kathleen slid the muffin pans into the oven, then started mixing cookie dough. “Percy’s worried about word getting out before we’re ready to share everything with the rest of the world. If people learn about what we’ve found, we could have treasure hunters and curiosity seekers descending on the house.”
“That’s the last thing you need while you’re trying to finish the foundation work.”
“Exactly.” Kathleen measured vanilla extract into the bowl. “Patrick’s construction crew is happy to adjust their timeline to accommodate the preservation work. They understand how important this discovery is.” She caught the subtle change in Natalie’s expression. Her daughter had been matchmaking from a distance, gently encouraging the friendship that had been growing between Kathleen and the contractor from Manhattan.
“How is Patrick?” Natalie asked with studied casualness.
“He’s fine,” Kathleen replied, then caught herself frowning. “I just wish he was still here.”
Natalie frowned. “When is he coming back?”
“Soon, I hope. But he warned me it could take months to sort out the issues at Noah’s business.”
Natalie gave her a knowing look. “You miss him more than you thought you would, don’t you?”
Kathleen nodded. “But we’re still only friends, Natalie. Good friends.”
“Who happen to be spending a lot of time together working on your house, sharing incredible discoveries, and clearly enjoying each other’s company.”
Before Kathleen could respond, the chime above the door announced another early arrival. She looked up to see Chloe walking inside, her laptop bag slung over her shoulder and an excited expression on her face.
“I had to come into work early,” Chloe said, slightly breathless. “I have some exciting news.”
“What’s happened?” Kathleen asked, setting down her mixing spoon.
“My friend at the Smithsonian called me.” Chloe’s eyes were bright with excitement. “The preliminary analysis of the document I sent them is complete and everything checks out! The paper, the ink, and the handwriting are consistent with the time period. We’re looking at genuine documents from the 1880s and 1890s.”
Natalie straightened on her stool. “That’s wonderful.”
“It gets better,” Chloe continued. “I’ve been in touch with colleagues at universities across the country. What Florence was doing was almost unprecedented. When pregnant women were helped in other areas of the country, it was informal and undocumented. But Florence kept meticulous records.”
Kathleen felt goosebumps rise on her arms. “What does that mean?”
“It means your house may have been part of one of the first organized underground networks to help women in the American West. Look at this.”
Chloe pulled her laptop out of her bag and angled the screen so Kathleen and Natalie could see it. The image showed the document Chloe had sent to the Smithsonian, now professionally photographed and much easier to read. “My friend did a little research on some of the women mentioned in this document. This woman”—she pointed to a name on the list—“started her own dressmaking business, and this one became a teacher. Florence gave them the tools they needed to build meaningful futures.”
The timer beeped, announcing that a batch of muffins was ready. Kathleen moved to the oven, grateful for the distraction while she processed what Chloe had shared. It must have been difficult to start a new life, especially if the women were worried someone would recognize them from their previous lives.
After the golden-brown muffins were sitting on the counter, Kathleen refilled Chloe and Natalie’s coffee cups. “What will happen with the documents after they’ve been digitally catalogued?”
