When I Meet You (Tree of Life #3) - Olivia Newport Page 0,2
pursue.”
“But you don’t know for sure.”
“Not until we see what he has.”
They weren’t far from Denver now. In a few minutes, Nolan exited the highway and began a series of turns along surface streets taking them through downtown.
“What’s this place called?” Jillian asked.
“Owens House Museum.”
“Never heard of it.”
“Me neither, until I met Rich. From what I understand, it’s just a turn-of-the-century house.”
“Denver has a lot of those.”
“That we do.”
Nolan pulled up in front of a house and put the truck in PARK. Jillian considered the structure as they got out.
“Considering what this neighborhood was like a hundred years ago,” she said, “this house is fairly modest.”
“I agree,” Nolan said. “No wonder I couldn’t place it. It must have been an ordinary family’s home, not the mansion of a silver mine millionaire.”
“I wonder how it came to be a museum then.”
“I’m sure Rich will tell you if you want to ask.”
Jillian pivoted in a circle. “And how did it survive all the demolition and modernizing in the immediate neighborhood?”
“You have an inquisitive mind,” Nolan said. “Now let’s go see a man about a trunk.”
Side by side, they proceeded past the sign that welcomed visitors to the Owens House Museum and up the wide walk at a pace that allowed them to absorb the details. The sandstone house, built in the Queen Anne style popular in the last two decades of the nineteenth century, was a simple two-story home in contrast to some of the three- and four-story homes of the era popular among Denver’s most wealthy. With a downtown location, it likely never had much of a lawn, but the carriage house set back from the street suggested that it supported at least one pair of horses with space for a full-size carriage, a service cart, and living quarters for liverymen above. The house itself boasted the requisite rounded tower, steeply pitched roof, twin chimneys, and generous windows of Queen Anne architecture.
“This house could be in Canyon Mines,” Jillian said.
“It’s certainly the right era.” They went up the front steps, and Nolan pushed the door open. A young man at a welcome desk looked up expectantly, and Nolan asked for the curator.
“They’ve done an amazing job with the restoration,” Jillian said while they waited. “The woodwork is gorgeous. Nia and Leo would love to see this. Even Veronica and Luke.” The Dunstons had undertaken an ambitious renovation of a sprawling Victorian home and opened a bed-and-breakfast in Canyon Mines, and the O’Reillys ran the Victorium Emporium because Veronica was enthralled with all things Victorian.
“I’m sure they have some brochures you could take home,” Nolan said. “Here’s Rich now.”
“Thank you for coming.” Rich offered a handshake.
“This is my daughter, Jillian Parisi-Duffy.”
“I’m glad to meet you,” Jillian said. “Your museum is very inviting.”
“We have the standard drawing room, music room, dining room, and kitchen on the ground floor,” Rich said, “and offices in the back. Bedrooms and attic upstairs. And of course the basement, which is what has brought you here today.”
“Are we going downstairs?” Nolan asked.
Rich shook his head. “I have the piece in my office. We’ve taken the liberty of cleaning it up a little bit.”
Nolan rubbed his palms together. “Then let’s have a look at it.”
They followed Rich through the house, bypassing a tour in progress and slipping past a red-lettered No ENTRANCE sign to an area behind the kitchen that originally might have been a back porch, enclosed at a later stage. Rich opened the door to his unassuming office. Centered in the space between the door and his desk stood a steamer trunk. Its sonorous presence beckoned to the most profound calling of Jillian’s work. Her breath stopped, and the pulse at her temples audibly magnified.
“Can I touch it?” she blurted out.
Nolan smiled.
Rich nodded. “The gloves are on the desk.”
“Of course.” Jillian donned the pair of white gloves that would keep her oils off the antique piece and ran her hands around the upright form of the wardrobe-style steamer. “Did my dad tell you what I do for a living?”
“Genealogist. I can imagine you have special appreciation for what you’re looking at and the story it might tell in the hands of the family.”
“I don’t usually get to look at the past quite so directly,” Jillian said. “It’s stunning.”
The stenciled blue beryl and muted gold canvas was far more captivating than the brown or green metal trunk Jillian had mentally prepared for. This was sheer enchantment, artistry created and selected with care. And monogrammed. Someone’s story.