Family Stories

She held the photograph by one corner, peering at her ancestors’ faded expressions. G.G., her great-grandmother, was 93. That meant the picture was more than a hundred years old.

“How do you know who any of these people are?” Preston shuffled through his photographs, barely pausing at any of them.

“Because I listen to stories. Stop it, you’re gonna rip them.” She scooped the pictures out of his lap and carefully placed them back in their folders.

“I don’t want to look at old pictures. Hey—some of this stuff is probably worth a fortune now.” He crawled over the floor to a wooden trunk perched under the window.

“Fine. I don’t need your help, anyway.” She’d actually invited him because the attic made her nervous. The few times she’d managed to slip up unnoticed by her grandmother had been at night, with only the single lightbulb for illumination. With the afternoon sun shining through the small oval window, the room seemed less eerie. She could have left Preston downstairs.

Except that he might’ve gone looking for her, which would have alerted their grandmother to her absence. She sighed and opened another box.

Her great-grandmother hadn’t filled this one with neatly cataloged folders. Instead, Hannah stared at old albums stuffed with envelopes of pictures and loose bundles of photographs all tumbled together.

“Well, crap.”

“Umm.” Preston scooted back to her side. “Mom doesn’t like you to use that word.”

“Oh, shut up, Preston.” She squinted at the top picture. Not even a date from the developing. “Okay, this seems more recent than the others but who are these people?”

Preston peered over her shoulder. “Maybe Grandma and her sisters?”

Hannah glanced at him in surprise, then studied the black-and-white picture again. “I think you’re right.” Three girls, wearing frilly dresses, stood hand in hand. Behind them was the fuzzy outline of a house and a tall tree with a few leaves on it. “Easter, ” she said out loud. “The trees are budding.”

“Or maybe autumn, with the leaves falling off.”

She’d give him credit for guessing the identity of the three girls, but these leaves weren’t the dry leaves of fall. “We’ll go ask Grandma if she remembers this picture.”

Preston jumped to his feet. “But if you show her the pictures, she’ll know we were in the attic.”

Hannah shrugged and stood up. She thrust two boxes of pictures into his arms and gathered two for herself.

“You don’t care that she’ll know we were up here?” he continued. “Then what was that big deal about being quiet and everything?” His steps left footprints on the dusty floor.

Hannah carefully deposited her boxes near the attic entrance. “I wanted pictures. Now that I have them, I don’t need to worry about being caught.”

“You’re crazy.” He grabbed the sides of the ladder and made his way down the steps.

Hannah leaned over the edge and passed him a box of photos. When all the boxes were stacked in the hallway, she followed him down. She pushed the ladder back up.

“Come on, let’s show Grandma.” She didn’t wait to see if he was behind her, knowing he’d be curious to find out whether she got into trouble.

Their grandmother sat at the kitchen table, her two younger sisters on either side. She stopped talking when Hannah and Preston entered the kitchen. “You’ve been in the attic. Hannah, you’re not supposed to go up there without telling me.”

“And then you say it’s too dangerous and I shouldn’t go up at all.” She placed the boxes on the table. “Grandma, I’m sixteen. I know how to be careful. I’m not going to fall through the ceiling.”

“Your father did and he was a grown man.”

Preston giggled. “Dad fell through the ceiling?”

His grandmother nodded. “It wasn’t funny. He could’ve been hurt.” But a corner of her mouth lifted in a lopsided grin. “He was here for Christmas and said he’d get the tree out of the attic for us. We were sitting in the living room and suddenly, a leg came right through the ceiling. Your great-grandparents still lived here. G.G. screamed and Grandpa Frank couldn’t finish his TV show. He had to help your dad.”

She tapped the box in front of her. “So, tell me what you found.”

Hannah settled on the chair between her grandmother and great-aunt Alice. This was the part of the visit she always enjoyed most. Hearing the stories. “Pictures. Lots and lots of pictures. We can use some for the party.”

“Mom and Dad don’t want a party, ” Aunt Alice said.

“It doesn’t have to be a big party.” Hannah wrapped her own hands around her grandmother’s worn ones. “Grandpa Frank and G.G. have been married for almost seventy-five years! Doesn’t that deserve a celebration? I mean, people hardly stay married for a decade anymore, let alone seven of them!”

Aunt Margaret chuckled. “You can be pretty persuasive, Miss Hannah. But I don’t think even you can convince Mom and Dad.” Her expression sobered. “Mom got very upset when we mentioned a family dinner at the retirement home for their anniversary.”

“The party for their sixtieth anniversary was the last time we had any kind of celebration for either of them.” Aunt Alice picked up the photograph Hannah and Preston had been studying earlier. “Oh, look! The dresses we wore for the wedding of some cousin. Mom spent all week sewing them.”

They lowered their heads over the picture. All three were mostly gray now, but strands of their natural hair colors still peeked through. A blonde, a brunette and a redhead, their appearances just as different as they were inside.

Another picture caught Hannah’s eye. A tall, dark-haired man stood at attention in his navy uniform, his eyes bright and his bearing rigid. One corner of his mouth curved up as if he were having a hard time staying serious for the photographer.

Grandpa Frank. Her great-grandfather. The father of the three women sitting at the table. The love of G.G.’s life.

She reverently touched a finger to the picture, her mind racing across the years and past the generations as she recalled the family stories she’d heard.

FRANK’S STORY

Chapter 1

Winston, Missouri

July 1929

Frank Robertson leaned against the railing of the neat frame house and studied the door. The setting sun slanted across it, reminding him that he hadn’t eaten yet and that he still had to find a place to sleep that night.

“Just one more, ” he promised himself. He was going to prove himself to the merchant whose wares he carried. When Frank had proposed going from town to town with a selection of items the man displayed in his general store, Mr. Samson had expressed nothing but skepticism. He’d finally agreed but only after requiring Frank to leave a security deposit, in addition to paying for each item he carried away from the dingy building.

Frank jingled the loose coins in his pocket and used his foot to shove the worn suitcase away from the doorway, scowling at the memory. His first reaction had been to deliver a pithy discourse on the man’s antecedents and then slam out of the store. But he had hesitated. He was hungry, he was miles away from the next town and none of the other shopkeepers had listened to even the beginning of Frank’s practiced spiel.

Taking a deep breath, he’d acquiesced to the old man’s terms. Now he stood in front of the last house in the small village he’d trudged through during the long day. His sales had been successful, even better than he’d anticipated, but he was tired and ready for his dinner. The women he met were eager to invite him into their houses and browse through the things he pulled out of his case but they weren’t prone to buying on impulse.

Of course, maybe they just wanted to visit with a handsome young man, he thought with a grin and a jaunty toss of his head.

While he knew that his technique was good, he wasn’t foolish enough to think he’d sell a thing if he didn’t present a polished appearance that appealed to the women who answered the door. After years on the road, he’d learned to cultivate his dashing good looks. The other salesmen he met teased him about the amount of time his grooming took but he didn’t care. His sales record spoke for itself.

He smoothed down the gray suit that comprised his wardrobe and brushed his hands over his dark hair. Satisfied, he rapped on the door with his knuckles and let his lips curl upward in a slight smile as he waited.

When the door opened, his prepared greeting spilled out of his mind and landed in a heap at the feet of the young woman standing there. The late-afternoon sun glinted on hair as shiny as the sun itself. He stared at the sparkling curls escaping from the loose bun and dancing across her soft cheeks.

She tilted her head to one side and watched him, drying her hands on the apron tied around her narrow waist. Her arms were tanned and a dimple showed in each elbow. “May I help you?”

Frank cleared his throat. “I—I—I…”