With a sigh, I turned my attention to the stacks of boxes and plastic tubs that lined the walls and filled some of the rooms. Walking from room to room, I could see it was a work in progress, but TD and his crew were obviously talented. I loved the colors they had chosen. One of the bedrooms, the one closest to the left side of the stairs, was painted a vivid blue. The massive windows were surrounded with intricate wood molding, obviously new and painted a rich cream color. The floors were a dark walnut wood, and a chandelier sparkling with crystals hung from the ceiling. Of course, electrical lights instead of candles crowned the fixture. Except for allowances for modern building standards, it was as authentic as it could be.

I pulled on my cotton gloves and rifled through a few boxes. I unwrapped a fine porcelain piece, a perky bird resting on a branch. “This will look lovely on a mantelpiece,” I said to myself. Wrapping it back up carefully, I put the lid back on the storage box. I rummaged around like a child at Christmas, careful not to undo the cautious work someone had done packing these precious artifacts. Each one had a story, a reason for being included in the collection. I continued my wandering until I came to a small box in a corner of a small bedroom. I had to prop the door open; it was heavy and wanted to swing closed. This was one room that had intact shutters, and there wasn’t much natural light. I pulled my flashlight from my pocket and tossed the beam on the box. It was dusty and cardboard, and it didn’t seem to belong with the neat plastic tubs and crates.

I pulled back the flaps and saw a box of papers. Digging through the box, I found letters from the late Mrs. Stuart to the Tennessee State Museum, inquiring after several items. I set the letters to the side and kept digging. At the bottom of the box were several leather-bound journals. I lifted one and rubbed my gloved hand across the cover. The engraving was worn away, so I couldn’t read it in the low light. Suddenly, a shadow passed across the doorway.

“Hello? Hey, I’m in here!” I called out. I assumed it was Chip or maybe even Matthews. It was impossible to hear a car approach up here. I placed the book back in the box and stepped into the hallway. As I crossed the doorway, the door to another bedroom down the hall slammed shut. Surprised, I called again, “Hello?”

I took the gloves off and clutched the flashlight, then tried to walk quietly (and bravely) to the closed door. The creaking floorboards gave me away. I stopped at a loud creak and said a little more quietly, “Chip? Mr. Matthews?” Nobody answered, but I could hear the shifting of furniture and the soft jangling of music from behind the closed door. I took a deep breath and walked quickly to the door, turning the knob with force. It wouldn’t budge. “Chip? TD?” I asked as I fought with the knob and tapped on the door. The music stopped, and suddenly the knob turned easily.