Page 62 of Royal Agenda

Twenty-Three

The computer lab, normally a palace of genealogical discovery and delight where her students exclaimed over their triumphs, seemed rather drab today. The normally bright lights soured her skin, turning it pale and drab, while the hum of computers brought on a headache she’d battle the rest of the day.

This morning was the fourth session for beginners. Most of them had some computer knowledge, but learning new software was always a struggle. Each genealogy website had its own design and interface which was why she’d decided to start with Ancestry.com and keep the other sites for the intermediate classes.

This was an enthusiastic bunch. Samantha had them on a waitlist for several months and, as Jerom said, “We ain’t gettin’ any younger,” so they dove in head first. Not ten seconds went by between someone calling her name.

Last week, she needed a nap after class. A wonderful, sweet nap with her head resting on Ryker’s chest as they swung softly in a hammock he’d hung up between two palm trees. So sweet.

“Grace! Dear, I’m lost over here.” Mrs. Thompson waved her arm in the air.

Grace sighed internally and moved to sit by Mrs. Thompson. Ever since talking with Ryker, where nothing was revealed nor figured out, she felt drained and wanted to curl up in bed and sleep for days. Grandma would have none of it and insisted that the best strategy was to continue on as if Ryker hadn’t meant the world to her.

Except he had. He did. He does.

Her world, with Ryker in it, was bright and new and full of laughter and tickles and teasing and yummy desserts and wonderfulness.

Take all those out and what did she have?

“Absolutely nothing,” Mrs. Thompson exclaimed.

Grace checked herself to see if she’d spoken out loud. “Excuse me?”

“I got nothin’.” Mrs. Thompson shoved her glasses up her face. “It’s like my family spontaneously germinated in California.” She had faded red hair, and her lenses were so thick they could stop a bullet. “I just can’t seem to find my people,” she bemoaned as Grace pulled a rolling chair up to sit down. “I think all our records were lost in the fire.”

“What fire?” Grace asked, doing her best to focus on the problem at hand and not Ryker. He’d asked her to forgive him but didn’t offer any hope that things would change. How was she supposed to take that? What was she supposed to do, pretend that he’d spontaneously germinated in Diamond Cove?

“The great fire,” Mrs. Thompson continued. “In 1906.”

Dates, history, and her comment about California clicked together, and it was suddenly much easier to concentrate on the screen. “You mean the San Francisco fire?” She typed in a search, and black and white images filled the screen of the city in ruins.

Mrs. Thompson nodded.

“Well,” she paused as she took in the horrible news. “How do you know that’s where your family comes from? Starting with what you know and how you know it was the best way to find a hot lead.” She’d helped dozens of people skip a record that had been destroyed or gone missing and keep finding their ancestors.

They chatted for a few more minutes. Grace pulled up a blank document. “I want you to write out everything you remember and who told you that your family came from San Francisco. Okay? I’ll review it tonight and see if I can come up with a plan.”

“Those spit tests will help too, won’t they?” she asked, her gray eyes full of hope.

Grace hurried to assure her. She’d had the class do DNA tests the first week. The results could take up to six weeks to come in though. For now, the computers were their best tool. “They are part of the puzzle. Once we know your DNA, we can search those countries for your family names. And, if you want, it can help you find living relatives who are interested in connecting. They may have information you don’t.”

“It’s all so interesting,” Mrs. Thompson said to herself as she began to type. “And mysterious.”

“What is?” asked Mrs. Goodman, sitting on her right.

“I might hold the key to unlocking my entire family,” Mrs. Thompson tapped her cheek. “Right here, and I didn’t even know it.”

Grace hid her smile and added a flair for the dramatic to her mental profile of the Thompson family. Perhaps that’s what took them to San Francisco. The town was considered a rowdy group who embraced live theater long before it came into fashion for the rest of the country.

She managed to stay in the moment for the next ten minutes as she helped others sort through records and figure out which ones were relevant to their family lines.

“But it’s spelled wrong,” insisted Mrs. Hampforshire as she slapped her hand on the table. Grace had found the birth record for a child in the 1700s, but the last name was spelled Humpforshire. There were half a dozen reasons it was spelled like that, but based on the other information provided, she was certain this was the six-times-great-grandfather of Mrs. Hampforshire’s husband.

“How do you know you’re not the one who’s spelling it wrong?” Grace challenged.

Mrs. Hampfordshire pressed her lips together and narrowed her eyes. “That would be something the Hampfordshires would do.”

Grace chuckled lightly. “It’s possible that the scribe recorded it wrong at the birth or the transcriber switched the ‘a’ to an ‘u’ when inputting the information into the computer. Why don’t you put him in your chart and then see if he has any brothers or sisters.” She just couldn’t help but nudge people to put families together.

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