Page 6 of The Inheritance At Bourton

"I think the library requires a complete and thorough inspection. I mean every book. Every box. There are boxes in my father’s closet. There’s the desk. I’ve been through it, but not enough.”

“I’ll help,” he said.

“He kept everything,” she said. “You mentioned that during our first week together. He saved ticket stubs, receipts, and concert programs. He even kept her clothes, Rowan. For forty years. Someone like that wouldn't leave the most important question of his life undocumented. Did he ever, even once, say he didn’t believe I was legitimate?”

“Not once.”

“What if…”

She thought back to what she knew, which wasn’t much. “What if he isn’t my biological father?” she whispered.

Chapter Three

She was up early the following morning. There was a determination fueling her. Defiance. For the first time in her life, she had something to fight for.

She put the kettle on and started a fire to take the chill out of the air.

Rowan knocked at half past eight and came in with a paper bag from the bakery and two coffees in a cardboard carrier. The smell of all of it hit her at once. The aroma of freshly baked goods and rich coffee filled the air.

"You didn't have to do that," she said.

"I did. We're going to need it." He set everything on the kitchen table and looked at her. "How did you sleep?"

"Better. You?"

"Good." He handed her a coffee. "Scones are still warm."

They ate standing up at the counter because neither of them wanted to waste the time sitting down. Then he carried the space heater into the library, set it in the middle of the room, and turned it on. It ticked to life while they both stood and surveyed the monumental task ahead of them.

"We need a system, or we'll lose our minds by lunch."

He waited.

"We start on this side, at the wall,” she said, pointing to the shelves left of the door. "Top to bottom, left to right. Take every book off, fan the pages, check the spine and covers, and look behind the row for anything hidden. Then put it in a pile."

“Let’s do it,” he said, clapping his hands together.

They started at the top shelf.

It took twenty minutes to establish a rhythm. He worked the high shelves because he could reach them without the stepladder. She worked the middle. They left the bottom for later. Every book came off. Every book got fanned. The dust was ridiculous, and they were both left sneezing and constantly sniffling.

The number of receipts and newspaper clippings they found was impressive. Articles from Reader's Digest were a theme.

“I think those were probably from your grandmother,” Rowan said.

“He inherited his filing system from his parents,” she smirked.

“Picture,” Rowan said.

He held out a photograph with names written on the back. “Planning committee,” Leah read aloud.

She turned it back over and spotted Madeline Hargrove second from the left. Even back then, Leah could see the woman’s pride and ego. And there, at the far edge, half-turned away from the camera as if he'd rather be anywhere else, was her father.

Her father was thinner in the photo than in the Vegas picture, and he wasn't smiling, but he was there. Young. Present. Standing three feet from the woman who would spend the next forty years trying to erase his family from the village.

"He looks miserable," she said.

"He hated having his picture taken."