uncomfortable since sinuses didn’t drain properly. On the plus side, reduced sinus drainage meant fewer sore throats for the young ones.
Winn and Jenny’s daughter wanted to be held and rocked, but Jenny had a meeting in Descartes in the morning, so Winn had drawn sick child duty. He stood in the middle of the nursery and held the squirming toddler, rocking back and forth and murmuring softly. Jenny was the singer of the two, and knew every nursery rhyme and song imaginable, even a few from languages other than English, thanks to her mixed-nationality colleagues. Winn didn’t sing, but he did love to read aloud. Grace would snuggle up close and lay her head on his chest as he spoke.
Tonight she wanted—no, needed—to keep rocking; it would help clear her head. Thus, it was difficult for Winn to read. Instead, he spoke softly, his voice rumbling quietly as he told her of his dreams.
“It’s old, sweetie. Older than you or me or Mommy, or even Grampa and Grandma. They were brave men and women who made it possible, and even braver ones who made the trip. We have to tell people about it. We can’t forget, and we can’t let anyone else forget. People need to be reminded not to give up on their dreams. It’s important, Gracie. We must believe and remember for them.”
* * *
—
“Mayor Harriman, please. It’s an important piece of our history.” Winn sat on the edge of his seat in the plain but relaxing office. Armstrong’s mayors had never gone in for luxurious appointments and displays of excess, but the office was appropriately furnished for both the current elected occupant and guests. The chairs were comfortable, but the comfort was lost on Winn at the moment. “All we need is the heat and light allotment; I’ll take care of the rest. I can afford it.”
“Son, I appreciate all you’ve done. Goodness knows Wright Fabrication has brought jobs back to Armstrong, and Jenny’s reputation has certainly caught on. If Melliere makes her a full partner, they’ll probably move half of their research staff here.” Harriman’s tone was neither condescending nor dismissive, but it was clear he still had concerns. “It’s just that we had tourists and they stopped coming. I don’t see it happening again.”
It was not the first time Winn had heard, or made, these arguments. In fact, he heard them every year. He had a standing appointment for July 20 every year.
“Don’t think we don’t appreciate everything you’ve done,” the mayor continued. “Your family is the single biggest driver in our economy, thanks to the companies that have relocated here for access to you and Jenny. Think of it, son, you’ve given us hope and growth again!”
“But hope is not enough, sir! We need to know our own history—we need to share that history as well.” Winn had made this argument each year, but today he added a new tactic. “Don’t you want your granddaughters to grow up knowing the importance of this town?”
“That’s a low blow, son, especially knowing as I do that you’ll teach them anyway. Am I right?” Harriman tried to glare at his son-in-law, but couldn’t help but laugh at Winn’s triumphant look. “Besides, a museum needs a curator.” He held his hand up to forestall the protest. “A professional. I know you can handle the displays, but a proper museum requires professional management.”
Winn looked down for a moment, and to all intents looked as if he were resigned to the same ending of the old argument. After a moment, however, he reached into the old-fashioned document case and pulled out several sheets of plastic-wrapped parchment and laid them on the desk in front of his father-in-law. The mayor’s shocked expression was almost worth it.
“Dr. Edwin Aldrin Wright?” Harriman carefully lifted the documents one at a time. “One . . . two . . . three degrees? PhD in archaeology? Master’s in forensic restoration and library science?” He looked up in shock. “But I . . . Jenny never said . . . I never knew.”
“No one did. Well, except Jenny, but she’s very good at helping me keep secrets.”
“But . . . how?” Harriman still held the topmost document gingerly, as if afraid to touch it but