“Interesting carvings,” Gran said. “They show the integrity of the carver.
There’s no concern for the marketplace.”
“Folk art is in,” Mom replied. “Hand-crafted. It should be worth quite a
lot.”
Frances ran her fingers lightly over the horses. They were wonderful. No
details, just the outline of horses running freely like unfettered spirits. The
numbers, 1873, were not, as they’d first thought, part of the lid, but each
number was fixed in place with a single brass bolt. The trunk had been
painted blue and the numbers red. Now most of the paint had faded away.
“We’ll have another look at it in the morning,” Mom finally said. “I need
to put myself together.”
Frances woke up while it was still dark. She looked at her bedside clock.
Four a.m. She lay in bed and listened to the waves on the beach. That
was one of the best things about the cottage. She loved going to sleep to
the sound of the waves and waking up to the sound of the waves.