Local author R.A. Coscia's series reveals hidden history through letters and artifacts.
Published
Annonse
Welcome back to “The Havenford Mysteries” series by local author R.A. Coscia. Main character Cora has moved on from the holidays and found a new mystery to deal with in "The Cookie Tin Letters." Enjoy installment three, "Sugar Cookies."Submitted
Welcome back to “The Havenford Mysteries” series by local author R.A. Coscia. Main character Cora has moved on from the holidays and found a new mystery to deal with in "The Cookie Tin Letters." Enjoy installment four, "The Flood."
Cora trudges from the coffee shop to the museum, a container
of last night’s sugar cookies and the tin of letters in the tote slung over her
shoulder. Her fingers are red and numb; she regrets not taking the gloves Aunt
Mae had offered before she left.
She walks around back to the employee entrance. Hannah and she
had decided to meet an hour before the museum opened, hoping for quiet and
privacy. Cora lifts her stiff, freezing fist to knock, but before she can, the
door swings open.
“Quick, come in,” Hannah beckons, “before you let in too
much cold.”
Cora steps inside, immediately enveloped by the warmth of
the heated building. “I brought cookies,” she announces.
“Oh good,” Hannah says, smiling. “But we can’t eat them
until after we look at the documents.”
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She ushers Cora down to the main basement room. Multiple
tables are spread throughout the space, each covered with artifacts, Hannah’s
workstations for future exhibits. She leads Cora over to the first table.
“How much of Havenford’s history do you know?” Hannah asks, positioning
herself between Cora and the display.
“Almost nothing,” Cora admits, “just a few stories Aunt Mae
has told me and what I learned about the Founder’s Light.”
Hannah smiles. “Our region of Appalachia is full of rich
history — stories of achievement, industry and success — but there are also
stories of loss, heartache and struggle.”
She steps aside, revealing the items
laid out before them. “One year in particular stands out as one of the darkest
times in Havenford’s past.”
“1937,” Cora whispers, already moving closer.
“Exactly. The year that Amelia Earhart is lost to the sea …
and our town was nearly lost to the river.”
The black-and-white photographs come into focus — an aerial
shot of a town, its streets transformed into canals, Havenford’s familiar brick
buildings submerged beneath muddy water, men rowing boats down Main Street, and a mother and two children stranded on the roof
of their home, their faces hollow with exhaustion and fear.
“In late December of 1936, a series of heavy rainstorms hit
the region,” Hannah explains. “By early January, the river started rising and
flood warnings were being issued. Then it rained for 10 straight days, reaching
record levels, almost biblical. In Cincinnati the river reached 80 feet. Louisville
saw 57. Towns all along the Ohio River were devastated.”
Cora sifts through the photographs as Hannah speaks, a visual
record of total disaster. She pauses at one image: the Catholic Church, perched
high on its hill, untouched by the floodwaters. A priest stands at the steps,
handing out food to people arriving by boat.
“Father Francis,” Cora says quietly.
“Yes,” Hannah replies. “Father Francis and the nuns spent
days cooking from their stores and distributing food to anyone who could reach
them by boat.” She tilts her head. “That’s an oddly specific detail for someone
who said she knew very little.”
“He’s mentioned by name in the letters,” Cora says.
Hannah’s eyes light up. “Right! That’s why we’re here. Did
you finish reading them all?”
“Yes,” Cora says, raising her voice slightly as she steps
back to retrieve the tin. “And they don’t end well. O, the woman, has to move
away unexpectedly, just as they’re preparing to tell their parents their plan
to marry. She writes about their walls being wet and the house smelling foul.
She says it’s uninhabitable.”
“That tracks,” Hannah says when Cora returns. “Federal and
state resources were stretched thin. The flood happened at the height of the
Great Depression and the Dust Bowl. Aid was limited. Many homes were never properly
repaired. People lived in damp, mold-ridden houses until they simply couldn’t
anymore … and they left.”
Hannah pauses to read O’s final letter. Cora’s chest tightens. She thinks of the
sheer scale of loss caused by the flood, and then for X and O, losing each
other on top of everything else — loss upon loss, grief layered upon grief.
“How terrible,” Cora murmurs.
“It truly was,” Hannah agrees. She places the letters back
into the tin. “I did as much research as I could. I even checked baptismal and First
Communion records in the church archives, but I found nothing to suggest X and
O were initials from their real names.” She hesitates. “I am sorry Cora, but
this might be the end of the story.”
“I appreciate you putting all this together for me,”
Cora says, standing up to leave.
“No problem,” Hannah replies. “Honestly, it’s inspired me to
create an exhibit this month. January and February are the right time of year.”
Cora glances at the other tables. “What else are you working
on?”
Hannah gestures around the room. “That display is for
Memorial Day, photos of community members who served in the military. That one
is for April and Easter; I’m hoping to add more photos of people in their
Easter best. And that one in the back is for Valentine’s Day, featuring wedding
photos I’ve been able to track down.”
“Maybe you could include these letters,” Cora says. “Something
for a love that was lost.”
“If you decide you’re willing to donate them, I’d love to,”
Hannah says.
“Give me a few more days,” Cora replies. “Maybe something
will come to me if I read them again.”
She isn’t sure why she still feels tethered to the letters,
but Hannah nods as she opens the door, ushering Cora back into the cold.
That evening, after closing the shop, Cora sits in front of
the fire with Beans, the calico shop cat, curled warmly in her lap. Her
thoughts drift through all the endings X and O might have had — happy ones,
tragic ones and unresolved ones. As she takes the last sip of her tea, her
phone chimes.
A text from Hannah.
"The cookies were delicious! I need to have the recipe."
Cora smiles, setting the phone down. A second text comes
through.
"Come over tomorrow first thing. I found something, and
you’re going to want to see it."
Cora stares at the screen, her heart quickening, knowing whatever Hannah has found will not let the past stay buried much longer.