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But the money could go right to his father. He paused for a moment, running the idea through his mind, trying to picture himself with a clean slate.
No picture came; only a clean slate remained.
He’d make the money some other way. He could do it. Would do it.
“Sorry, I’ve gotten out of the business. I’m doing something else now.” It wasn’t a lie. He was teaching Tae Kwon Do classes, taking over the care of his brother and remodeling Yolanda’s Victorian.
None of which would bring him the money he needed to help his father. Maybe he should take a lesson from Yolanda. At least once a day she sat down with her spreadsheet and made sure that she was sticking to her budget, following the business plan she’d created. If Adam were lucky, he’d break even this month and manage to put gas in his van and food in his belly.
He was right back where he started: just getting by. Proving his father right. But his lack of career had also made him available when his father needed him.
Getting back that career would help his father even more.
“Tell you what,” Huckabee said, “I’m not in a hurry. I’ll give you a few weeks. You change your mind, give me a call. Better yet, come on out. We’re fairly new, and the locals haven’t really taken to stopping by. I’ll show you around. Bring the family.”
Definitely not an outing that would fit into his brother Andy’s routine. Adam had taken him to BAA, but he hadn’t been able to handle all the noise and chaos.
“Okay, I appreciate that.” After a quick goodbye, not giving Huckabee a chance to say any more, Adam rolled out of bed.
Good thing Huckabee had called. Adam had to teach a class this morning. After a decent breakfast, doughnuts and milk from the grocery store in town, Adam made it to Snapp’s Studio where his first step was to head down to the dressing room and change into his uniform. He had a ten-thirty class with ten students, all at various levels. One was actually better than he was. Two were beginning their second week. There was even a mom.
An hour later Adam applauded his class for being the best they could be and went through his list of reminders: their next lesson was on Thursday, there was a competition in Mesa this coming Saturday and they still had time to sign up and that a School Special started in just over a week. For the month of September, anyone who brought in a spelling test with a perfect grade got a ten dollar coupon for a Snapp’s Studio T-shirt.
His dad believed that Tae Kwon Do had to include the whole student, not just the student who showed up for lessons a few hours a week. Adam’s dad monitored the school kids’ homework and attitude.
Nobody dared mention Adam’s own past grades or bad attitude.
Changing back into his regular clothes, Adam tossed his uniform into the laundry bag and headed for the front lobby. There would be another lesson at four, but it would be taught by Mr. Chee.
Adam’s dad and brother were in Phoenix volunteering at a food donation center. They’d been going every Tuesday morning for a decade. Andy was a natural at sorting, and sorting was just what the donation center needed.
Adam had gone with them a time or two. But the repetition, standing still, had made him want to scream. His dad, however, never even blinked at the challenge.
Adam’s mother was up front. The beginning of the school year meant his parents put out a rash of advertising. She had stacks of brochures ready to go, all crisscrossed with sticky notes marking their destination.
“Want me to deliver these, Mom?”
She looked up at him, a half smile on her face, but tears were shimmering in her eyes.
“Mom, you all right?”
“No. Yes. There’s just such a lot going on. And I appreciate you staying with Andy while...” She didn’t finish. Instead, she came around the desk and reached up to hug him. He realized just how small she was, and yet she always carried so much: his dad, his brother, him.
He was more like her than he was his father. She was the decorator, and he’d gotten his love of color from her. When he was six, he’d helped her paint the living room as well as put tile down.
After a while she let go and stepped away.
“I’ll do whatever you need me to do, Mom.”
“Your delivering these fliers would really help.”
Ten minutes later, he stood in front of Snapp’s Studio, staring at the sign, at the advertisements posted on the windows and at his mom still working at her desk inside.
It was in little more than a strip mall.
His dad had traded the highlife for such a venture. His dad had had a good reason, though. He’d not given up on his old life; he had instead given his all to what mattered.
Adam wasn’t sure he could say the same. But he was determined to change that.
* * *
YOLANDA HADN’T SLEPT all night. Every noise she’d heard had had her grabbing a flashlight and heading downstairs. Plus, when she’d showed the book to Rosi, her grandmother hadn’t remembered owning such a book and refused to even look at it, muttering that she didn’t want to remember the Ventimiglias.
Odd.
Yolanda had then spent an hour going through the books she still had to shelve. None were on the history of Scorpion Ridge. Later that evening Gramma Rosi begged off Yolanda’s offer to take her out to dinner because her favorite television show was on. Gramma Rosi never put television before family.
So she’d taken the mysterious book to bed. Now on Yolanda’s nightstand was a book that didn’t belong to her, but possibly did belong to a woman who’d not only disturbed Yolanda but had also disturbed her grandmother.
Adding to Yolanda’s anxiety, the book’s letters were small and handwritten, the words running close together—forget paragraphs. There were no indentations. Her head started hurting after reading two pages. So at midnight, when she realized sleep was a goal not to be realized, she settled on reading the pages devoted to a Ventimiglia: Richard. Chester wasn’t mentioned at all.
What she did like about the book were the drawings. Hundreds of thumbnails all about Scorpion Ridge. Some were faded and impossible to make out. Others, though, were still crisp and clear, almost jumping off the page in bold strokes.
Bold strokes? Now that was an Adam Snapp term.
The pictures were of homes and people—mostly faces. Most of the places were long gone; most of the people had passed away. She recognized her own house, looking much the same only with a stable. The other house she recognized was downtown and housed the Scorpion Ridge Historical Society Museum. The drawing showed the building with a door in the middle and two windows flanking it on each side. It looked the same today, except the front door had been moved, and there was now a swamp cooler on top. Yolanda had been there many times and remembered that the hardwood floor creaked and the ceilings were low. The back porch was big enough to sleep on. It was an old adobe dwelling with a plaster coating, same as in the picture.
Next came a drawing of an old mission that looked a lot like San Xavier Mission in Tucson. Under the drawing was a name, but Yolanda couldn’t make it out. The last structure she recognized was the old Scorpion Ridge courthouse. She remembered hearing about it in school. The old building had burned down in nineteen hundred and forty-six and had been replaced with an ugly cement structure.
But Adam had mentioned there was a plaque on the wall that mentioned Chester Ventimiglia. Here was something Yolanda could actually investigate! She finally fell asleep knowing how she’d spend her morning.
Her alarm sounded and she rolled out of bed at the first ring. Today she’d strive for good mood and peace of mind.
Not always easy. Yolanda had always been a worrier. Gramma Rosi blamed Yolanda’s mother for passing on such an unnecessary pastime. Yolanda knew that worry was a choice, and one she needed to make differently. She got up, got dressed and made an easy breakfast: cereal. Then she checked her to-do list before spending the next few hours stocking the last empty shelves in the children’s area.
Tired of bending, dusty from the books and needing to get outside, Yolanda locked the front door behind her and walked downtown. It took her three blocks and ten minutes. It would have only taken her eight minutes, but there were plenty of people to say good morning to. All asked about her grandmother. Two asked about the opening of her bookstore and promised to bring her some gently used books. And one offered a marriage proposal.
“No, thanks, Otis. I’m too busy to get married.”
Otis Wilson gazed past Yolanda at her Victorian. “I used to love a girl who lived there, you know.”
Yolanda wasn’t surprised. According to legend, her Gramma Rosi had been quite a looker. Of course, Gramma Rosi liked to weave her own legends. Whether they were true or not...
Yolanda arrived at Scorpion Ridge’s courthouse at the same time as the mayor, who’d been her third grade teacher. Janice Kolby had handed Yolanda her first Ramona book. “I hear the bookstore’s coming along,” Mayor Kolby said.
“Every room is stocked.”
“Make sure you take advantage of all the tax breaks given to female business owners.” With that, Mayor Kolby hurried through the front door. According to Gramma, the mayor was just as good at fiscal responsibility as she was averaging classroom grades. Which meant Gramma was pleased because Scorpion Ridge was debt-free.
Yolanda hoped her bookstore was a success and she could continue to be debt-free. If the business failed and she lost all her mother’s money...? Maybe she should have taken a “real” job. One that had benefits and where she didn’t need to prove herself.
Or maybe she should have bought the Corner Diner. She’d been offered that business, one already established and making a profit. Lucille Salazar, the owner, had been wooing Yolanda for years.
“You’re the best cook in town” had been her first compliment. “Come work for me.”
That had been a mere five years ago, and Yolanda had been attending college and working as a housekeeper for Ruth Dunbar, who used to be a Moore, owner of one of the other still-standing houses in Yolanda’s book.
Not Yolanda’s book—it was Chester’s.
Then Lucille had tried, “A little restaurant is easier to manage than a mansion. Come work for me.”
Yolanda’s hours had been flexible when she’d worked for Ruth. The pay had been good. And Ruth had treated Yolanda like a daughter who happened to help around the house.
Ruth had paid for most of Yolanda’s schooling because no one—not Yolanda, Gramma or Ruth—had known that Trina was a miser.
Eventually, Lucille said, “I’m wanting to retire. I’ll give you a good price.” But Yolanda didn’t want to own a restaurant. She loved books. They opened windows to adventure and took readers to new worlds. So if she was going to take a risk, she wanted it to be for something she loved.
Today, however, Yolanda’s adventure was the Scorpion Ridge courthouse, and it was nothing to get excited about. When the original building depicted in the book had burned down, only the iron doors had been salvaged. Adam was right, though. A bronze plaque was on the front wall, down a bit from the doors, and now partially hidden by a giant bougainvillea bush. Yolanda had to step off the walkway in order to read the words. They were weathered, time-faded and neglected. She brushed away a bit of mud that obscured the first word. She traced the engraving, so worn away by time that it could barely be read.
Erected in nineteen hundred and fifty because of Richard Ventimiglia and by Chester Ventimiglia, by his hard work and money.
She’d once known a poet who’d said, “I’d rather write a book than a poem. Much easier to get everything said.”
This plaque boasted sixteen words, and Yolanda immediately realized their depth. His hands not their hands. His money not their money.
“So you never noticed this before?”
Yolanda jumped.
Adam grinned, only one side of his mouth going up in a lazy, devil-may-care expression. “Didn’t mean to scare you. I was delivering a stack of advertisements—” he held up a flier with Snapp’s Studio pictured across the top and a twenty percent discount coupon on the bottom “—to the woman in charge of parks and recreation.”
Must be an easy job, Yolanda thought. Scorpion Ridge had one park and very little recreation. Maybe that was why it was debt-free.
“I didn’t hear you come up, and no, I’ve never noticed this before.”
“One of my art teachers brought us here when I was in fourth grade,” Adam said. “We used butcher paper and charcoal to make a rubbing. I still remember how what we re-created was clearer than what we could actually see.” He reached out a finger and traced what looked like bumps and grooves. “These are actually two angels holding a banner.”
“What does the banner say?”
“Impossible to tell. The teacher guessed that it was something about God. I never thought that, though. None of the letters resembled a G to me. And what we decipher of the letters didn’t form any biblical saying I could think of.”
“Oh,” she joked, “and in fourth grade you knew quite a few biblical sayings.”
“You’d be surprised.”
“I’m surprised that I’ve never heard of Chester, only Richard. And I can’t find any information about Chester. I searched last night, both online and among some of my grandmother’s books.” Yolanda peered at the plaque, now noticing the top. “You know, this could easily be restored.”
“At a cost, and no one really cares,” Adam pointed out.
“It’s part of our history.”
“Forgotten history. Maybe if there were some Ventimiglias still around...”
“That woman yesterday said she was visiting relatives of the Ventimiglias.” Yolanda truly wished Adam had spoken to the old woman, too. No one seemed to believe her. “Never mind. What do you think it means that this refers to Chester’s hard work and money but not Richard’s?”
“Huh?”
Yolanda read the plaque aloud to him, emphasizing the pronoun. “It sounds like Chester not only paid for but also helped build the courthouse.”
“Richard was a judge,” Adam remembered. “He’d have had money.”
“Yes, that’s in here.” Yolanda hoisted her backpack around to the front of her body and pulled out the dark blue book. She flipped to a page and read, “Richard Ventimiglia was born in Wisconsin, a graduate of West Point, class of nineteen hundred and one. He then went into the army as a second lieutenant before going back to school. This time he attended National University Law School, before coming to Arizona—which wasn’t a state yet—and settling here and becoming the town’s first judge.”
“Busy man.”
“There’s no mention of parents or siblings. That’s unusual. Almost all biographies have a family tree.”
Adam held out his hand for the book. Reluctantly, Yolanda turned it over. For some reason she felt protective of it. Adam started to skim through the pages, but almost immediately slowed his pace, studying page after page, his brow furrowing.
He was thinner now than when he’d left five years ago. Taller, too. He didn’t joke as much, either, but maybe that had to do with his dad’s illness and having to make a living instead of living to make art. His hair was the same, though—brown and windblown even when there was no wind. She’d always enjoyed looking up at him even when she hadn’t been able to make sense of him. He existed in a world she didn’t understand. He’d always done exactly what he wanted to do, taken risks and seemed to love life.
Maybe because he’d never wanted for anything.
“Where did you get this book?” he asked.
“I found it on a shelf in the children’s section. It wasn’t there earlier.”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean it’s not a book I cataloged. Until I picked it up from the shelf, I had never seen it before. I think the old woman left it.”
“I thought she was looking for a history book.”
“She was. At least that’s what she said. Now I believe she must have brought this one in with her and then accidentally left it behind.”
Adam flipped to the front cover. “No name and no publisher. This is a manuscript more than a book. But someone wrote it and did the drawings so precisely that at first glance, it looks published.”
“It’s amazing.”
“You’ve read it already?”
“No, just a few pages about Richard Ventimiglia. I had a hard enough time getting through that,” she admitted. “The print’s small and runs together. Made me wonder if I should get stronger glasses.”
“The drawings are well-done and quite detailed, especially for being so small.” He closed the book, studying the cover, back and spine. Then he added, “You think there’s something in here about Chester.”
“I hope.”
“I didn’t see his name anywhere.”
