Page 6 of My Heart Will Find You

“What’s at six?” Etta asked. “And who is Sophie?”

Henry started to answer but shook his head. “You’ll see later. Right now I have something to show you.”

She followed him down the hall to the room with the closed doors. When he opened them, she gasped. It was a library. A real, honest-to-heavenlibrary. Three of the walls were covered with custom-made bookcases, honey colored from age and use. A brass bar ran across them so a ladder could roll around the shelves. They were packed with books and labeled files.

The center of the room had a huge green leather Chesterfield sofa, the kind with deep buttons in the back and big rolled arms. A leather armchair was to the side. A red-and-blue antique rug was on the floor. Scattered about were tables with lamps and more books.

On the fourth wall was a huge bay window that matched the one in the room across the hall.

The sides were draped with heavy green curtains. Facing the windows, its back to them, was a gigantic oak desk. It looked like it had come out of an Old West movie about some rancher who owned half of Texas.

Etta turned full circle as she looked around. “Now I see where Ben got his taste.” When Henry looked puzzled, she said, “His room upstairs. I love the roof deck. Mind if I stay in there?”

“He would be honored.” Turning, Henry nodded to the tall bookcase to the left of the double doors. “Those are mine.”

“What do you mean?” she asked as she went to them. Every book in that section, some elegantly bound, some with beautifully illustrated covers, and all the file boxes, had the name H. F. Logan on them. “You?”

Henry smiled modestly. “TheFis for Fredericks. There’s a house in Mason that my ancestor built. It was restored a few years ago, and it’s nice.”

Etta went closer and began to pull out books. They were about history in the Midwest: Kansas, Missouri, Nebraska, Oklahoma. Drawings and paintings of cowboys, buffalo, Native Americans, and outlaws were all through the books. “My father would love these. He’s an accountant with a passion for the Old West. I have to tell him.”

She took her phone out of her pocket and texted her father.

I’m staying with a writer. H. F. Logan. Ever heard of him?

“It’ll take him a while to answer. He—” Her phone dinged. “That was fast.” Laughing, she held it up to show Henry. The return message was all emojis: exploding head, laughing to tears, thumbs-up, fireworks.

Autographed copy, please, came a second text.

Henry’s face was pink with embarrassment but pleasure. “Tell him of course I’ll send him a package of them as soon as possible. After this quarantine, that is.”

“Or we’ll let Freddy take it. She can flirt with the postmaster.”

“Good idea.” Henry waved his hand about the room. “So you like my study? It was my father’s and his father’s. I told Caroline she could redesign it so it’s more modern.”

“And she wisely said she wouldn’t touch perfection.”

“More or less. She did say she liked it. It’s comfortable.”

Etta nodded toward his giant desk. The back of it was carved with a cowboy on a horse lassoing a calf. “Where’d you get that?”

“Ben and I found it at an auction in Mason. He was hardly more than a toddler. I lifted him up and he stretched out on it. It fit him perfectly. We had to buy it.” For a moment he was smiling in fond memory, then he looked up. “I bet you’re hungry and besides, it’s almost time. We need to cook. Mind eating outside?”

“I would love that.” When they got back to the kitchen, she looked at the box Freddy had left. “Are you a vegetarian?”

Henry opened a tall cabinet door that she’d assumed was a pantry. It held a freezer full of labeled packages and boxes. Beef, pork, chicken, seafood. “What would you like?”

“This is great. Um... I have a confession to make.”

“You don’t actually know how to cook.” He sounded deflated.

“Not cook like other people. I learned from Lester. In a food truck.”

Henry looked blank.

“Little space, hungry people waiting in the sun?”

Henry still didn’t understand.

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