She worked alongside him, then decided to change gears, abandon the trunk and work her way through an old chest of drawers.

It was amazing what people kept, she thought. Old table runners, faded pieces of embroidery or needlepoint, children's drawings on paper so dry she feared it would break and crumble in her hands. She found a collection of records she thought might be from the same era as the gorgeous coral dress. Amused, she uncovered a gramophone, wound it up, and set the record to play.

She grinned over at Eli as the scratchy, tinny music filled the room. She did some jazz hands, a quick shimmy, and had him grinning back.

"You ought to put the dress on."

She winked at him. "Maybe later."

She danced back to the chest of drawers, opened the next drawer.

She made piles. So much unused or partially used fabric, she noted, arranging them in neat piles. Someone had used the chest of drawers for sewing at one time, she thought, storing silks and brocades, fine wools and satins. Surely some lovely dresses had come from this, and others simply planned and never realized.

When she reached the bottom drawer, it stuck halfway open. After a couple of tugs, she lifted out sc.r.a.ps of fabric, and an envelope of pins, an old pincushion fashioned to resemble a ripe, red tomato, a tin box of various threads.

"Oh, patterns! From the thirties and forties." Carefully, she lifted them out. "Shirtwaists and evening gowns. Oh G.o.d, just look at this sundress!"

"You go ahead."

She barely spared him a glance. "They're wonderful. This whole project has made me wonder why I never tried vintage clothing before. I wonder if I can make this sundress."

"Make a dress?" He flicked her a glance. "I thought that's what stores were for."

"In that yellow silk with the little violets, maybe. I've never sewn a dress, but I'd love to try it."

"Be my guest."

"I could even try on that old sewing machine we found up here. Just to keep it all vintage." Imagining it, she stacked the patterns, turned back to the empty drawer.

"It's stuck," she muttered. "Maybe something's caught ..."

Angling herself, she reached in, searched the bottom of the drawer above for a blockage, then the sides, then the back. "I guess it's just jammed or warped or ..."

Then her fingers trailed over what felt like a curve of metal.

"Something's back here in the corner," she told Eli. "In both corners," she discovered.

"I'll look in a minute."

"I can't see why it's hanging up the drawer. It's just-"

Impatient, she pushed at the corners, and the drawer slid out, nearly into her lap.

Eli glanced up again at her surprised "Oh!"

"Are you okay?"

"Yes, just b.u.mped my knees a little. It's like a compartment, Eli. A secret compartment in the back of this drawer."

"Yeah, I've found a few of those in desks, and one in an old buffet."

"But did you find anything in them like this?"

She held up a wooden box, deeply carved with a stylized, looping L.

"Not so far." Intrigued now, he stopped his inventory when she brought the box to the table. "It's locked."

"Maybe the key's in the collection we've been compiling, more of which I found in the hidden drawer in the old buffet."

She glanced over at the jar they were using to store keys found during the third-floor rummage. Then just pulled a pin out of her hair.

"Let's try this first."

He had to laugh. "Seriously? You're going to pick the lock with a hairpin?"

"It's the cla.s.sic way, isn't it? And how complicated can it be?" She bent the pin, slid it in, turned, wiggled, turned. Since she seemed determined to open the box, Eli started to get up for the jar. Then heard the quiet click.

"You've done this before?"

"Not since I was thirteen and lost the key to my diary. But some skills stay with you."

She lifted the lid, found a cache of letters.

They'd come across letters before, most of them as long and winding as the distance between Whiskey Beach and Boston, or New York. Some from soldiers gone to war, she thought, or daughters married and settled far away.

She hoped for love letters as she'd yet to find any.

"The paper looks old," she said as she carefully took them out. "Written with a quill, I think, and- Yes, here's a date. June 5, 1821. Written to Edwin Landon."

"That would have been Violeta's brother." Eli pushed his own work aside, shifted to look. "He'd have been in his sixties. He died in ..." He scoured his mind for the family history he'd pored over. "I think 1830 something, early in that decade anyway. Who's it from?"

"James J. Fitzgerald, of Cambridge."

Eli noted it down. "Can you read it?"

"I think so. 'Sir, I regret the unfortunate circ.u.mstances and tenor of our meeting last winter. It was not my intention to intrude upon your privacy or your goodwill. While you made your opinions and decision most ... most abundantly clear at that time, I feel it imperative I write to you now on behalf'-no-'behest of my mother and your sister, Violeta Landon Fitzgerald.'"

Abra stopped, eyes huge as they met Eli's.

"Eli!"

"Keep reading." He rose to go study the letter over her shoulder. "There's no record in the family history of her marrying or having children. Keep reading," he repeated.

"'As I communicated to you in January, your sister is most grievously ill. Our situation continues to be difficult with the debts incurred at my father's death two years past. My employment as a clerk for Andrew Grandon, Esquire, brings me an honest wage, and with it I have well supported my wife and family. I am now, of course, seeing to my mother's needs in addition to attempting to reconcile the debts.

"'I do not and would not presume to approach you for financial aid on my own behalf, but must again do so in your sister's name. As her health continues grave, the doctors urge us to remove her from the city and to the sh.o.r.e, where they believe the sea air would be most beneficial. I fear she will not live to see another winter should the current situation continue.

"'It is your sister's most heartfelt wish to return to Whiskey Beach, to return to the home where she was born and which holds so many memories for her.