“Mom?”

Kate looked up from the dusty pile of boxes at the excitement in Laura’s voice.

“What is it, hon?” She pushed back her hair, sneezed, and careful of the low rafters, she stood and made her way across the attic to the corner where her daughter was working.

“This trunk. Look at all this stuff! Why did Aunt Emma want to keep this blanket and all these bits of material?”

Attention sharpening, Kate inspected the contents of the steamer trunk. The trunk itself was old old old — Victorian, Kate guessed. It must have been a hand-me-down from a generation much older than Aunt Emma’s. The divided wooden tray which fitted into the top opening, containing books and papers, had been placed on the floor, and Laura was looking into the body of the trunk. It was filled with boxes, a dozen or more, and on top of them…

“That’s not a blanket,” Kate said. “It’s a handmade quilt, and it looks like it’s never been used.” She lifted it out carefully. “Look at those tiny stitches!”

“You used to make quilts, didn’t you, Mom?”

“Well… I’ve made quilts, yes. It’s been a long time, and I never made any big enough to go on a bed like this one.” Kate smoothed out a large section of the quilt. “Look — it’s the Road to California pattern. I know Aunt Emma went out to California when she was young. I wonder if she made this to remember the trip.”

“Here’s a scrapbook or something. Look! A letter from someone called Grandma Rose. Who was that?”

“Rose was Aunt Emma’s grandmother, my great-grandmother and your great-great-grandmother,” Kate said. She chuckled. “Her family name was Thorne and her parents had a really odd sense of humor. They thought it would be funny to have a girl named Rose Thorne — and what’s worse, they used the mother’s maiden name of Sharpe for their son’s first name.”

“Sharpe Thorne? No, they didn’t!”

“They did! Grandma Rose told my mother once that it was a good thing she was a girl — she could at least run away from home and get married to change her name, but her poor brother couldn’t do that. I think when he grew up he started using his other name of Richard.”

“I’d have changed my name to Aloysius Thackery Makepeace III if I had to,” Laura said indignantly. “Sharpe Thorne! What possessed them!” She snorted. “Now tell me something. I’m not sure I understand how we are related to Grandma Rose or where Aunt Emma fits into it. I know she was your aunt, but… ”

From her back pocket, Kate pulled out the little notebook and pen she was using to take inventory. On a blank sheet, she quickly sketched out an abbreviated genealogy.

“See, here we are. Rose (my great-grandmother) married Harry Cavanaugh and they had seven children: Michael, Richard, Helen, Della, Harold, John, and Dorothy. Helen (my grandmother) married Patrick Carmichael and had two children: Emma and Sarah (my mother). So Emma was my aunt. Then Sarah married Daniel Peterson (my dad) and they had me. Then I married your dad and had you. There you go — Reader’s Digest version of the Cavanaugh family history.”

Laura leaned over the little scrap of paper. “Ah, I see. That makes more sense now. And look, she mentions ‘Uncle Harold’ in this letter. I guess that would be her son Harold? He’d be Emma’s uncle?”

“Yes, that’s right.”

“She went to California to get married? I never knew that,” Kate said. “Isn’t it funny what we learn about people… I wish she were still with us. I’d love to hear her tell the story.”

“There are lots more letters and stuff in here,” Laura said, still exploring the trunk’s content. She looked up at her mother. “Maybe, in a way, Aunt Emma can still tell us the story.”

“William sounds pretty stuffy,” Laura remarked. “If I were going to marry someone and he signed himself ‘Your affectionate fiance’ and didn’t even say ‘I love you,” I’d kind of wonder how devoted he really was.”

“He was a banker,” Kate answered absently, still intent on the trunk. “But you’re right, he sounds like something out of a Victorian novel.

“Hey… look at this! She kept a diary too.”

“Too much fun!,” Laura said. “She sounds so excited. Now – about that family tradition,” she added mischievously. “Did you make those thirteen ‘fine new quilts’ before you married Dad?”

“No, I think the tradition died out a couple of generations ago. My grandmother seems to have made her quilts but I know my mother never did. And now we know Aunt Emma needed help to get started. Here we go… Grandma Rose sent her the pattern and everything. She seems to have been a very thoughtful person.”

“Oh. My. Gosh.”

“What is it, baby?” Kate asked quickly. Laura had opened one of the boxes in the trunk and was staring, stunned, at its contents. Without a word, she handed her mother the letter that lay on top.

“They’re here, Mom. All of them. Every one of the quilt pieces Rose sent, here in these twelve boxes. Aunt Emma never made any of them.”

“Well!” Kate said. She and Laura looked at each other. “We’re about sixty years late to the party, but… are you ready for a treasure hunt?”

To be continued…

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