Freshly made this morning. Enjoy.Below that was the shape of a heart and a signature: ~E.
Maddie sighed. She wasn’t used to this much attention. If she were back in Green Hills with her cast and crutches, her father would have gladly gone to the bakery and picked up muffins for their breakfast. They would not, however, have been warmed by the morning sun, and they would not have the aroma of fresh-picked wild berries.
She limited herself to half a delicious muffin, wrapped the rest for later, and put one in the freezer to save for Rafe. If he could get there.
Then she knew she had to get back to business. Surprisingly, she’d organized the contents of all the boxes in her grandmother’s bedroom. Today she’d tackle the mess of magazines and papers in the corners of the living room. Again, she’d set aside anything of interest to the tribe.
She blew through the first pile in mere minutes—all, indeed, were women’s magazines (some from years ago) that she tossed into a bag for recycling. But another steel box had been buried at the bottom of the stack. It had a lock, but it was open.
Instead of being crammed with things, this container had well-organized manila file folders—each had a tab marked with a name. They were in alphabetical order: Aitkens, Ashbury, Barton, and so on. She grabbed at a handful and pulled out the A’s, the B’s, the C’s.
The files were filled with photos: some black-and-white, some color; some old, some more recent. Most were close-up, portrait-style images of people. Maddie now recognized the Wampanoag facial features—high cheekbones, eyes set widely apart, smooth skin—she knew she had the same ones. On the back of each photo, someone—Grandma Nancy?—had penned a name and date. Most were from the 1950s and 1960s, some as late as the 1990s.
Then she came to a thick file labeled “Cranberry.” First there was a series of color photos of all ages of people who were gathering what looked like cranberries and placing them in cloth bags. Behind those were more photos—also in color. These showed Wampanoags in Native American dress, dancing and drumming. Maddie turned one over:Cranberry Day, 1989. The tradition resumes.
Then she remembered the tradition: on Cranberry Day, in the fall, Wampanoag children didn’t have to go to school; they spent hours picking cranberries with the adults—some used wooden cranberry scoops handed down for generations. After the picking, everyone gathered for a wonderful feast and celebration.
She looked back at the photos. How on earth had she remembered that? Had she seen these pictures long ago? Had Grandma Nancy told her the story? Then a small chill rippled up Maddie’s spine.I have been there, her memory told her.I have picked the berries with Grandma.
She was certain that her intuitive brain had triggered the connection.
“I have a feeling that you’ll be very appreciated by the tribe,” she told the photos, as she carefully replaced them in the files and the files in the container. Which was when she heard ating-tingof metal fall to the bottom.
She stared at the box, wondering if she should investigate or . . . not. After a few seconds, her inquiring mind prevailed: she pulled out all the files to see if something else was there.
Something was.
Another damn key.
A piece of paper was folded like an origami and threaded through a hole on top of the silver thing. Maddie unbound the paper. On it a note read:
Whoever finds this (I hope it’s my granddaughter), this is not the key to the padlock of the big shed. That one I threw out by mistake. But it doesn’t matter. I locked it by habit after I emptied everything that was in there and moved it to my storage unit at the airport with other things.
Maddie laughed.
This one fits a large fireproof cabinet in my storage unit, which is #373. My security passcode into the unit is 5-1-3-5-4. Inside the cabinet are my most valued possessions (not counting the painting, the bowl, and the quahog shell on the mantel). Also in the unit, you’ll find some of my baskets—I sold the rest to pay my heating bill.
—Nancy Clieg
P.S. If this is not my granddaughter, please see that everything in the storage unit is shipped to her in Green Hills, Mass. I think her surname is still Clarke.
Maddie reread the note. Then she put the files in the metal box again, closed the lid, reached for her phone, and called Brandon. She might not know if she could trust any of her new friends, but Brandon was her attorney. And attorneys weren’t allowed to lie. Were they?
* * *
“Please thank your mother for the wonderful muffins,” she said when he answered. “They were a nice surprise.”
He started to say something, but Maddie interrupted. What she had to ask couldn’t wait.
“Could you and Jeremy take me to the airport today?”
“Going somewhere?”
“Not exactly.” Then she told him about the note. And the key. “There must be something there that my grandmother really wanted me to see. I’d like to go today because my son won’t be here until Tuesday or Wednesday, and I don’t want to wait—”
“Absolutely,” Brandon interrupted. “Besides, this might save my life and Jeremy’s, too, because he wants to try windsurfing today.”
“Wow. I never dreamed I’d save two lives with a single phone call.”
