“Thanks. We’re doing a little exploring today.”

“Excellent! This is the place to start.”

He leads us around the museum, giving a spiel he has to have given a hundred, if not a thousand, times before, but still takes immense pride in. He shows us maps and artifacts from when it was a trading outpost in the wild frontier of Maine. Then there are photos from when it was a lumber mill. I’m eating this up, but I can tell that Caitlyn is bored. Mr. Howard then comes to a display that showcases photos from when Kingsbrook became a summer getaway for the wealthy.

“I think you’ll recognize this,” he says with a knowing wink.

There are grainy black-and-white photos of the town square with a parade marching through it. A description off to the side reads, “Fourth of July, 1900”. There’s photo after photo of the grand houses of the town, decked out in streamers and bunting, with parties on the lawns.

“People would open up their homes and show off a bit for the annual Fourth of July Celebration. They would have fireworks and picnics,” he says, and points to the bottom of the display. “And the Nightingale House was no exception.”

I crouch down to get a better look. “Huh. Check it out, Caitlyn.”

Suddenly, she’s very interested.

There it is—the Nightingale House.

It’s more than a picnic. Splendidly dressed people sit at the tables that cover the lawn. The men wear top hats and tails. The women wear white, except for a brunette who is wearing some darker color that I can’t discern, due to the photo being in black and white. Everyone else is looking at the camera, while she’s looking at something else. There are streaks and blurs around the edges where children are playing. It’s hard to believe that the regal house in the background is the same one Caitlyn and I woke up in this morning.

Mr. Howard taps the glass. “The couple sitting at the table front and center—that’s Thomas Carrington and his wife, Abigail. They were the owners of the Nightingale House.”

Thomas Carrington’s expression is hidden behind a jet-black beard and mustache. Even seated, you can tell that he was tall with piercing eyes. Abigail is a beauty. She has flowing blonde hair, and although she’s smiling, her face is careworn.

Caitlyn is staring at the photo with a grim expression.

“What do you think, Caitlyn?” I ask.

“Neat,” she says, but her expression doesn’t change.

Mr. Howard doesn’t see her face, but he’s thrilled that Caitlyn has described it as ‘neat’. It’s probably something he doesn’t hear very often.

We make our way through the last few displays, but nothing sparks our fascination like the photo of the Nightingale House in all its glory.