“Not a one, child. All the quilts burned when the house was destroyed. That was right after my sister died. All my papers and records were burned too. Everything I owned.”
Mr. Hooper sighed as he poured Veve’s cherries into a sorting bin.
“If everything hadn’t burned,” he hinted, “I might not find myself where I am now. I’d show that upstart, Carl Wingate, a thing or two! As it is, he holds the whip hand.”
Veve could not guess what the old man meant.
“Didn’t you save anything from the fire?” she asked. “Not a single thing?”
Pa Hooper waved his gnarled hand toward a far corner of the shed.
“Only that old trunk and bureau,” he said, pointing to two dusty, carpet-covered objects. “Neither of them contained anything of value.”
“Have you looked carefully, Mr. Hooper?”
“Most carefully, Miss Veve. I’d give a lot if I could find one of Ella’s old letters—in fact, anything bearing her signature.”