#OriginalFiction – November 24, 25, 26

Saturday afternoons at the diner tended to be quiet, just the regulars in, those who almost never cooked for themselves. Today was no exception, except that the diner was not actually quiet. Everyone who was there was still talking about the land sale, about what the influx of construction workers and then tourists would mean for the local economy.

Just about everyone asked her what she thought about it. After all, the family diner certainly stood to benefit, and her family lived right near the property. There was plenty of speculation about whether or not the developer would want to buy her family home, too. And also plenty of advice, that as a pretty, young girl, she should stay away from the construction workers once they came.

She smiled through most of it, said what was expected of her. “It would be nice to see the diner really busy,” and “I love our house, but if someone made Mom a really good offer, it would only make sense of her to sell.” These were considered the reasonable and right things to say, and most of the customers smiled back at her.

Mr. Timms sat at that counter, nursing his coffee. He did not talk about the land sale. He did watch and listen though, and once the lunch crowd had left, and it was just him and her, he said “Bullshit.”

She was just a few seats down from him, on the other side of the counter, refilling salt and pepper containers. She jumped, spilling some salt, when he spoke. “Excuse me, Mr. Timms?”

“I said, bullshit. You aren’t excited to see that land sold. You would throw a fit that would put the most troublesome three year old to shame if your mother tried to sell the house. You love that land, love it more than any of the Barnows ever have.”

Mr. Timms was in his 80s. He had fought in the Second World War- tanks, North African Campaign. He had been part of the group of soldiers who had lost to the Desert Fox himself in Tunisia.  Because of his age, and preference to talk about the past, it was easy to forget that the man was still sharp. He noticed everything.

She shrugged. “You may be right, Mr. Timms, but there’s nothing I can do about the sale of the river land. And nothing I could do about it if Mom sold our house either, so not much point in arguing with folks here.” She continued filling the salt shakers.

Mr. Timms grunted and sat quietly with his coffee. A few minutes later, he gently banged his cup on the counter, signaling he wanted a refill. “You about ready to switch to unleaded?”

“Coffee tastes terrible. Only reason to drink it is the caffeine.”

She smiled and got the correct carafe. As she was pouring, her brother’s comment about the letters not being the key came back to her. Mr. Timms was not old enough to have been alive when the letters were written, but he was old enough to have known who they belonged to.

“If the Barnows have never loved that land, who has?”

Mr. Timms gave her an odd look. “What makes you think anyone ever did?”

She carefully considered her answer. “As far as I know, no one has used that fishing shack since before you went off to the war, but it still stands. Even the roof is still in decent shape. That means someone put a lot of care into building it, and maybe even that someone continued caring for it after it stopped being used. To me, that would seem to indicate that someone loved that piece of land.”

Mr. Timms took a drink of his coffee and nodded his head. “I like smart girls.” He seemed to think about his answer.  “Your Grandpa bought the land your house is on from Abe Milner, knocked down Abe’s old house and built your place. Abe loved that land. He had permission from the Barnow’s to use the fishing shack. Took good care of it. Course, he spent more time there then he did at home, once his wife died.”

She did a quick run through of all the town citizens in her mind. None of them were named Milner. “Why did he sell to Grandpa? Why not leave the house to his kids?” The question was harmless enough. In this town, most families who had land kept the land, generation to generation.

Mr. Timms twisted his coffee mug in his hands. “Old Abe only had one kid, daughter, by the name of Marion.” He smiled at her. “Most beautiful girl in the county. She married Addison Farnum.” He chuckled. “Didn’t exactly need her Daddy’s land now, did she?”

Addison Farnum. AF. But that could not be right. Abe would have been the right age to have received the letters. His daughter could not have been the one to write them. But the Farnums had owned the half of the town that had not been owned by the Simon family, at least up until 40 years ago.

The excitement welled up in her, but she fought to keep it down. She replaced the carafe and started to make more coffee, just to keep her hands busy. “I never knew any of the Farnums. Why did they sell everything off?”

“Never knew any of the Farnums?” Mr. Timms seemed almost angry with her. “Has nobody at the high school been teaching you kids local history? You all know a Farnum, not that that’s her last name anymore. Mrs. Maggie Rickert, she’s a Farnum.”

She blinked, surprised. Ms. Maggie, as all the kids knew her, was the kindergarten teacher. She had been for the last 40 plus years. “But if Ms. Maggie is a Farnum, why did she sell everything off?”

Mr. Timms banged his cup on the counter again, and she filled it with the last of the current carafe. “She didn’t. Her no good brother did. He hated this town. Could not wait to leave. Since he was the oldest son, he inherited everything except the small house Maggie lives in now. He was never one to work. Loved to gamble. As far as I know, all the property, even the family business, got sold off to pay his gambling debts.”