“Sorry,” he said, untying his apron and hanging it on a hook on the wall. “Do you want to talk about it?”
I shook my head, letting my eyes wander the pastry case in front of me. “What I really want is to stuff my face with one of those raspberry scones.”
Dominic smiled conspiratorially. “Then let’s get you one.” He reached for the tongs on the counter and walked back around the bar to extract an enormous scone from the case. “Eat up,” he said, handing me the plate.
I took a bite, letting the crumbs fall from my mouth, unashamed. It felt good to eat, to sink my teeth into the thick, buttery scone. “So, what is this thing you found?”
Dominic nodded. “Come with me.”
We walked into the back room, and he indicated a file cabinet against the wall. “I was going through some paperwork last night, and I found this.” He produced an envelope, yellowed and wrinkled, with a torn edge.
I popped another piece of scone in my mouth and set the plate down. “What is it?”
He leaned against the wall. “Why don’t you see for yourself?”
I carefully lifted the edge of the flap and peered inside, pulling out a folded scrap of paper and a black-and-white photograph. I set the brittle paper aside and held the photo up to the light. Worn, its scalloped edges tattered, it depicted a woman and a man lost in a romantic embrace. The woman, beautiful in a shy sort of way, with cropped hair that curled at the edges and a simple dress belted at the waist, stared lovingly up at the man in his smart suit. He smiled back at her with adoration. Clearly, they were in love, this couple. Anyone could see that. Could this be Vera and her husband? Daniel’s father? I turned the photograph over to find a caption on the reverse. “Vera and Charles, March, 1929, Seattle Dance Marathon.”
I grinned. “Dance marathon?” The words sounded foreign on my tongue. “Do you have any idea what that is?”
Dominic scratched his head. “Wait a sec, do you remember that scene from It’s a Wonderful Life? The one when they’re dancing and—”
I instantly appreciated that he knew the movie, one of my favorites. “Yes!” I said. “They fall into the pool underneath the dance floor.”
“Yeah,” he said. “I think that’s a dance marathon. I read about one in a novel. People would try to dance until they were too exhausted to keep going. They’d dance for prizes—cash, free stuff, whatever. Sometimes they’d go on for days.”
“Days?”
“Yeah, I remember the character in the book I read had bloody feet at the end.”
I looked at the photo of the young couple again and wondered what had happened on the night of the dance marathon. It had been taken before Daniel’s birth. Was Vera happy then? And who was this man, this Charles? How was the photo left here?
I ran my finger along its scalloped edges and remembered the box of family photos I’d rescued from my grandmother’s home before she moved to the retirement center. Aunt Beth had left them by the garbage can. “Just old black-and-whites,” she had said, flicking her wrist in the way one might dismiss a pile of junk mail. “Relatives nobody remembers.”
“No,” I said, running to the box. “Don’t throw them out. I’ll keep them.” I may not have known the names of the majority of the ancestors pictured inside, but it felt like a betrayal to send their memories to the landfill. I couldn’t bear the thought.
I tucked the photo safely inside the envelope and picked up the yellowed paper once again, unfolding it carefully so as not to tear it.
“Look,” I said to Dominic. “It’s a drawing.” The stick figure on the page was the work of a child—that was certain. I squinted to make out the faded pen-and-ink scene. “It’s a drawing of”—I held it closer—“two children, and a woman, I think. See, look at the hat. The women all wore big, beautiful hats back then. I think those are feathers, or maybe it’s a bow. I can’t tell.”
“You’re good,” Dominic said.
I smiled to myself. “I have a three-year-old niece who sends me new drawings in the mail every few weeks. I’m a bit of a pro at this.”
Dominic moved nearer, studying the page in my hands. “So do you think the little boy drew it? Could it be his?” His