Page 20
Sleep evades me. I've been staring at the ceiling for what feels like hours, listening to the occasional distant rumble of thunder and the steady patter of rain on the roof. The power is still out, my phone says it's 1:17 AM, and my mind refuses to quiet.
I keep thinking about Riley, just down the hall. About the pain in his voice when he spoke of his brother. The way he tensed during the thunder, momentarily transported back to a war zone. The surprise in his eyes when I didn't flinch away.
And that photograph.
Our families, standing together at the beginning of Cedar Falls. Carters and Mitchells. Side by side in a faded black and white image, launching a venture that would become the foundation of this town.
With a sigh, I throw back the covers and reach for the candle on my bedside table. Sleep clearly isn't coming, and I might as well use the time productively. Maybe examining that photograph more closely will provide some clue about my father's "unfinished business."
The hallway is darker than I expected, my single candle creating more shadows than light. I pad quietly to the wall where the historical photos hang, careful not to wake Riley. The house is silent except for the rain and the occasional creak of settling wood.
I find the photograph easily enough—four stern-faced men in formal attire standing before a newly constructed building. Their expressions give little away; the serious demeanor typical of 19th-century photography disguises any hint of their personalities or relationships.
I lean closer, studying Elias Mitchell's face for any resemblance to my father or myself. He has a full beard that obscures much of his features, but there's something familiar in the set of his eyes, the angle of his brow.
Next to him stands Harold Carter, taller than the others, with a rigid posture that reminds me instantly of Riley. Same broad shoulders, same stance. Even across generations, the resemblance is striking.
"Couldn't sleep either?"
The voice behind me makes me jump, nearly dropping my candle. I turn to find Riley standing a few feet away, a blanket wrapped around his shoulders, his hair mussed from restless tossing.
"Sorry," he says, his voice low. "Didn't mean to scare you. Heard footsteps."
"It's okay," I whisper back, heart still racing, though whether from the surprise or his presence, I'm not sure. "I was just looking more closely at the photograph."
He moves to stand beside me, close enough that I can feel the warmth radiating from his body in the chilly hallway. "Find anything interesting?"
"Just noticing the family resemblance," I say, gesturing to Harold Carter. "You have the same build. Same way of standing."
Riley studies the image, his profile illuminated by our candles' glow. "My grandfather used to say I got my height from the Carter side. Said we've always been tall enough to 'see trouble coming.'"
"Was he right? About seeing trouble?"
A ghost of a smile touches Riley's lips. "Didn't see my father coming. Or Afghanistan. So maybe not."
I can't help but smile at his dry humor. "Fair enough. I don't think my family's foresight is any better. We seem to stumble into trouble rather than anticipate it. But, well, I wonder what happened between them," I say, gesturing to our ancestors in the photograph. "They're standing together here, but something must have gone wrong later."
"From the little I know, the partnership dissolved in 1889," Riley says. "Abernathy bought out both families' interests in the mill."
"You know a lot about town history," I observe.
"Comes with growing up here. Cedar Falls likes to celebrate its past. It's practically a religion."
"Except the parts that aren't so flattering," I guess. "Like whatever drove our families apart."
Riley nods, his eyes still on the photograph. "Small towns are good at keeping certain stories alive and burying others."
We stand in silence for a moment, both contemplating the mysteries held in the faded image before us. I'm aware of Riley beside me—the scent of him, pine and motor oil and something manly and musky.
"Why can't you sleep?" he asks suddenly, turning those amber eyes on me.
The direct question catches me off guard.
"Too many thoughts," I admit. "New place. The storm. Everything that's happened since I arrived."
"Regrets?" His voice is careful, neutral.
"No," I say firmly. "No regrets. Just... processing. It's been an eventful second day in Cedar Falls."
I keep thinking about Riley, just down the hall. About the pain in his voice when he spoke of his brother. The way he tensed during the thunder, momentarily transported back to a war zone. The surprise in his eyes when I didn't flinch away.
And that photograph.
Our families, standing together at the beginning of Cedar Falls. Carters and Mitchells. Side by side in a faded black and white image, launching a venture that would become the foundation of this town.
With a sigh, I throw back the covers and reach for the candle on my bedside table. Sleep clearly isn't coming, and I might as well use the time productively. Maybe examining that photograph more closely will provide some clue about my father's "unfinished business."
The hallway is darker than I expected, my single candle creating more shadows than light. I pad quietly to the wall where the historical photos hang, careful not to wake Riley. The house is silent except for the rain and the occasional creak of settling wood.
I find the photograph easily enough—four stern-faced men in formal attire standing before a newly constructed building. Their expressions give little away; the serious demeanor typical of 19th-century photography disguises any hint of their personalities or relationships.
I lean closer, studying Elias Mitchell's face for any resemblance to my father or myself. He has a full beard that obscures much of his features, but there's something familiar in the set of his eyes, the angle of his brow.
Next to him stands Harold Carter, taller than the others, with a rigid posture that reminds me instantly of Riley. Same broad shoulders, same stance. Even across generations, the resemblance is striking.
"Couldn't sleep either?"
The voice behind me makes me jump, nearly dropping my candle. I turn to find Riley standing a few feet away, a blanket wrapped around his shoulders, his hair mussed from restless tossing.
"Sorry," he says, his voice low. "Didn't mean to scare you. Heard footsteps."
"It's okay," I whisper back, heart still racing, though whether from the surprise or his presence, I'm not sure. "I was just looking more closely at the photograph."
He moves to stand beside me, close enough that I can feel the warmth radiating from his body in the chilly hallway. "Find anything interesting?"
"Just noticing the family resemblance," I say, gesturing to Harold Carter. "You have the same build. Same way of standing."
Riley studies the image, his profile illuminated by our candles' glow. "My grandfather used to say I got my height from the Carter side. Said we've always been tall enough to 'see trouble coming.'"
"Was he right? About seeing trouble?"
A ghost of a smile touches Riley's lips. "Didn't see my father coming. Or Afghanistan. So maybe not."
I can't help but smile at his dry humor. "Fair enough. I don't think my family's foresight is any better. We seem to stumble into trouble rather than anticipate it. But, well, I wonder what happened between them," I say, gesturing to our ancestors in the photograph. "They're standing together here, but something must have gone wrong later."
"From the little I know, the partnership dissolved in 1889," Riley says. "Abernathy bought out both families' interests in the mill."
"You know a lot about town history," I observe.
"Comes with growing up here. Cedar Falls likes to celebrate its past. It's practically a religion."
"Except the parts that aren't so flattering," I guess. "Like whatever drove our families apart."
Riley nods, his eyes still on the photograph. "Small towns are good at keeping certain stories alive and burying others."
We stand in silence for a moment, both contemplating the mysteries held in the faded image before us. I'm aware of Riley beside me—the scent of him, pine and motor oil and something manly and musky.
"Why can't you sleep?" he asks suddenly, turning those amber eyes on me.
The direct question catches me off guard.
"Too many thoughts," I admit. "New place. The storm. Everything that's happened since I arrived."
"Regrets?" His voice is careful, neutral.
"No," I say firmly. "No regrets. Just... processing. It's been an eventful second day in Cedar Falls."