<br><br><center>*It was a mistake to think of houses, old houses, as being empty. They were filled with memories, with faded echoes of voices. Drops of tears, drops of blood, the ring of laughter, the edge of tempers that had ebbed and flowed between the walls, into the walls, over the years.
Wasn't it, after all, a kind of life?*
― Nora Roberts</center>



<br><br><center>![1930s-architectural-watercolor-of-second-empire-house-0763.png](https://cdn.steemitimages.com/DQmfL6rpPNPAtUmNdMPgJQQveSs2BATa6JVfMWAdCziPyFm/1930s-architectural-watercolor-of-second-empire-house-0763.png)</center>


<br><br>I made an architectural drawing of Poppy's house―not how it currently looks―haunted and melancholic, but how it will look when Poppy's spirit is released and she allows joy to transform its walls.

I think she and Greg belong together and should have kids. I pictured that as part of the house and filled with life―the kind of house that dreams... where the cat stretches, the dog’s wagging tail begins—and the house starts to sing the minute you walk in.

In short, I want Poppy to be free, to live in the house and make new memories.

<br><br> On the way to the land office on Monday I showed the drawing to Gail and she caught the spirit of it immediately.

She was excited for her friend but still had to wipe away a tear. "That's exactly how I want Poppy to be―the way I remembered her before this period of grief."

I nodded soberly.  "It's funny how houses have a way of reflecting their owners to the whole world."

"I hope things work out with her and Greg," she added. "Poppy deserves to be happy."

"I second that," I smiled, "we all need that."

She blushed slightly knowing exactly what I meant.

<br><br> By this point we were inside the land office and searching the property title to Poppy's lot.

Sure enough, back in 1805, the land was deeded by the County to a Lucas Morton, resident of Flamborough.

"Oh my God!" Gail exclaimed, "it can't be the same man, can it?"

"It can be if you believe in ghosts, but we can pursue this further by a trip to the local library. They have an extensive section on local history and old newspapers. We'll see what we can see."

<br><br>We drove out to Poppy's Victorian village and spent the rest of the afternoon poring over local records.

The librarian was a young man named Nathan Cohen who also fancied himself an antiquarian and his help proved invaluable.

We told him just enough to pique his interest and he seemed unusually open-minded and as intrigued as we were.

"I love mysteries," he chuckled, "and life constantly surprises me."

<br><br>It was drawing near to closing time when Nate dropped off the last batch of yellowed newspapers. 

"We have more on vertical file, but that'll necessitate another trip, I'm afraid."

Gail looked disappointed but we all agreed to pitch in and do a quick scan of the papers we had left, dividing them into three piles, Nate eager as us to search for anything about the man.

<br><br>It was two minutes to five when Nate finished his pile and got up to lock the doors. "You two continue your search―a few minutes more won't hurt. It'll take me that long to shut everything down and make sure the building's secure."

"I really appreciate your help, Nate," I called out, "not to mention your patience."

"It's all good," he smiled. "Not to worry, take your time."

<br><br>A few minutes later Gail suddenly gave a gasp. "I don't believe it―Laird, it's him―it's the same man!"

Nate overheard and hurried back to the stacks while I peered over Gail's shoulder at a newspaper photo in an obituary from 1880.

"Look at this," Nate marvelled. "He deeded back his twenty acres across the ravine to the county to be used as a Conservation Area."

"But with one caveat," Gail read sadly, "that the wooden cross be allowed to stand on the river bank as a memorial to the son he lost by drowning."

A deathly silence fell over all of us.

<br><br>Gail began to cry. "I'm sorry, it's just so sad. I never guessed the older man was the young man's father."

"It all makes sense now," I said solemnly.

Nate looked a bit perplexed. "I'm glad you got your answer but I'm sorry it turned out so tragically."

<br><br>I clapped him affectionately on the shoulder, "Thanks, Nate. You were a big help. It's dinner time and we've kept you late. Can we treat you to a meal at a local restaurant and we'll fill you in on the details?"

"That'd be great,": he smiled, "I don't know what I enjoy more, food or a mystery."

"Well tonight, you'll enjoy both," I laughed.

We both liked Nate and I had the feeling we were about to add to our team of house whisperers, but was surprised to find out he came with a backlog of experience.





 
<br><br> <center>To be continued…</center>

<br><center>© 2020, John J Geddes. All rights reserved</center>

<br><center>[Photo]( https://www.chairish.com/product/2614894/1930s-architectural-watercolor-of-second-empire-house )</center>

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