Laura did not know whether or not she wanted to be settled down.

-By the Shores of Silver Lake

“I’ve been thinking,” she said. “I don’t want to marry a farmer. I have always said I never would.”

… Manly asked, “Why don’t you want to marry a farmer?” And Laura replied, “Because a farm is such a hard place for a woman.” -The First Four Years

Fifteen

Chloe groaned when the alarm clock shrilled at seven the next morning. She’d been awake until almost four, thrashing about, too hot, too cold, too upset to sleep. She’d dreamed about wooden claim shanties and brick farmhouses and pretty quilts bursting into flames.

It took four swipes to silence the buzzer. When she shoved hair out of her eyes and blearily raised her head, she saw Kari’s bed empty and neatly made. There was no sign of Kari.

“Lovely,” Chloe muttered. Then she staggered to the shower and tried to face the day.

She caught up with her sister forty minutes later in the church hall, helping Alta and Hazel set out a continental breakfast. “You were up early,” Chloe murmured, trying really hard to sound conversational. They’d barely spoken the night before.

Kari began pouring orange juice into paper cups. “I’m a dairy farmer.”

You don’t look like a dairy farmer, Chloe thought. Kari looked as haggard as Chloe felt.

“I’ve got doughnuts!” Hazel chirped, emerging from the kitchen with a platter. She looked wide-awake and happy in her knit pants and favorite I Love Laura sweatshirt and calico bonnet.

Chloe poured herself a cup of coffee and grabbed a chocolate frosted before retreating to the registration table and her de facto role as greeter. She was feeling only marginally better by the time Alta launched Day Two of the symposium.

A woman from Arizona spoke about The First Four Years. “Laura evidently intended this for an adult audience,” the speaker explained. “However, it wasn’t published until long after her death. She wrote in a letter to Rose that she’d put the project aside because those first years of marriage were just too painful.”

Lovely, Chloe thought.

“After all,” the speaker continued, “the original Little House books led readers toward the expected happy ending—Laura and Almanzo falling in love and together creating the home that Laura had been seeking all her life. But in real life Laura did not want to live on a farm. Almanzo talked her into trying it for a few years.”

He talked her into it? Chloe thought. Great.

The speaker turned a page of her notes. “During those first years the couple experienced drought, crop failures, debt, diphtheria, and a stroke that crippled Almanzo.”

This is not the talk I wanted to hear today, Chloe thought. She needed her Laura, the Laura of Wisconsin’s Big Woods, to have found a happy ending.

“The birth of daughter Rose was followed by the death of their infant son.”

Chloe wished this informative lady had stayed in Arizona.

“Eleven days later, a fire destroyed their home.”

Chloe slipped from her seat, quietly got another cup of coffee, and retreated to the registration table. She’d brought her quilting supplies, and she began pinning squares together.

The extra caffeine, a completed quilt block, and a more cheerful presentation about period games left Chloe feeling capable of coherent conversation.

Haruka Minari sat next to her at lunch, which was quite pleasant. Haruka lived in Connecticut and had recently toured Mystic Seaport, a site on Chloe’s want-to-see list; and when Chloe described Old World Wisconsin, Haruka said she must visit. The caterer had brought cheddar cheese sandwiches and mint-chip brownies, both excellent. After all that, Chloe felt lively enough to give Jayne-with-a-Y a sunny smile and chipper “How’s it going?” Just to mess with her.

But she kept an eye on her sister, who remained subdued and distant. Kari had been moody since leaving home, but she’d been able to rally and enjoy the site visits and programs. Had their argument yesterday pushed things over the edge? I really need to smooth that out, Chloe thought. She had enough to worry about without bickering with Kari.

As people finished eating, Alta called for attention. “I have a sorry announcement to make,” she began, and chatter faded. “The historical quilt expert who planned to speak this afternoon died a few days ago at the Pepin historical site.”

Shock and concern rippled through the crowd. Haruka put down her little milk carton and stared at Chloe. “That man who died was on his way here?”

“I’m afraid so. He had an allergic reaction to some ground peanuts in his salad.” Chloe leaned closer. “Haruka … I know you talked with the police, but did you happen to notice anything unusual before Mr. Dexheimer fell ill?”

Haruka shook her head helplessly. “I was reading in a lawn chair nearby, so I really saw very little. I did notice her speaking with him at one point.”

Chloe followed Haruka’s gaze and saw none other than Jayne. “Really? Did you hear what they were talking about?”

“No, but it seemed pleasant enough. I glanced up because I heard them laughing.”

“Laughing? Are you sure it was Jayne?”

“I noticed in particular because Jayne was so dressed up. Even holding an embroidered handkerchief.”

Probably monogrammed, Chloe thought, resisting the urge to roll her eyes.

“I did mention seeing them together to the police, so I’m sure they talked with Ms. Rifenberg.” Haruka frowned. “Is there some problem?”

“No,” Chloe said, although she wasn’t at all sure. Had Jayne actually known Kimball Dexheimer? Had she recognized him as a quilt expert on the way to Looking For Laura? Or was it merely coincidence that their paths had crossed?

Jayne was sitting alone, and for a nanosecond Chloe considered going over and asking her. Then sanity prevailed. It was extremely unlikely that Jayne would tell her diddly about squat.

“Alta?” Leonard Devich suddenly waved his hand like an eager third grader. “You’re short one speaker, and I have a talk prepared—”

“Thank you, Leonard,” Alta said firmly, “but I’ve had requests for some downtime. In a few minutes we’ll leave for our tour of the Ingalls House on 3rd Street. After that, you’ll be free until five, when we’re gathering at the Ingalls homestead claim. The Memorial Society owns an acre of land that includes the cottonwood trees Pa planted for Caroline and the girls.”

Once sodas were gulped and trash discarded, symposium participants traipsed to a pretty frame house on 3rd Street. Edna Jo met them on the front step. “Welcome to Pa’s House!”

“I didn’t know anything about this,” Chloe admitted to Henrietta, who happened to be walking beside her.

“Laura never lived here, that’s why,” Henrietta said kindly. “She and Almanzo were already married and living on their own homestead when Pa built this house.”

Inside, the group bunched up in the parlor where Ma and Pa had spent their evenings. “After Mary graduated from the school for the blind in Iowa,” Edna Jo added, “she lived here as well.”

All interesting, Chloe thought. But there was no point in looking for Laura in this house.

“The night before Laura and Almanzo and Rose moved to Missouri, everyone gathered in this room,” Edna Jo continued. “After supper Laura asked Pa to get out his fiddle. He played almost until sunup. Laura didn’t know if she’d ever see her parents or sisters again. Pa told Laura that he wanted her to have his fiddle when he died.”

Chloe’s throat thickened. So much for not looking for Laura here.

“When the Wilders drove away in their wagon, Laura broke down and wept,” Edna Jo said softly. “She told Almanzo that she didn’t think the Ingalls family would have survived if it hadn’t been for Pa’s fiddle.”

Hazel dabbed at her eyes with a tissue. Edna Jo is darn good, Chloe thought. She remembered what the music professor had said about Pa’s fiddle. She thought about Roel­ke, unable to play music since his best friend had been killed.

Finally Alta broke the charged silence. “Docents are here to answer additional questions. We’re going to split the group in half. The first group can go upstairs, and the second can head to the kitchen, where you’ll see the original cupboards that Pa built for Ma … ”

When everyone else shuffled off, Chloe stayed put. Laura’s heart broke in this room, she thought. The sadness evoked by Edna Jo’s story lingered with her, a faint but palpable thrum. No, more than sadness. A sense of longing lingered here. She closed her eyes, tried to open herself …

“Chloe?”

Chloe’s eyes flew open. “What?” she snapped. Then, “Oh. Sorry, Hazel.”

Hazel anxiously twisted her fingers together. “You better come into the kitchen.”

“Why?”

“Something’s wrong with Kari.”

The first thing Chloe saw in the kitchen were Pa’s handmade cupboards, which were spectacular.

The second was a row of swinging exhibit boards mounted against one wall, allowing visitors to flip through. The boards were open to show a panel inoffensively titled Friends and Neighbors, with photos, newspaper clippings, and bits of explanatory text.

The third thing Chloe saw was her sister, sitting on the floor with legs drawn up, elbows on knees, face in her hands, weeping.

“What’s the matter with her?” someone asked.

“Could you give us a minute, please?” Chloe crouched in front of Kari. “What’s going on?”

“N-nothing.” Kari squeezed out the word between sobs.

“Is she sick?” someone asked.

Chloe scootched sideways to better shield Kari from the audience. “I’m pretty sure that something is wrong.”

“I just—I just … ”

“Maybe you and I should go outside,” Chloe suggested quietly.

No response.

“Did somebody say something mean to her?” someone asked.

Chloe put her hand on Kari’s arm. Kari shook it off.

“Maybe Chloe said something mean to her,” someone said.

Chloe ground her teeth. “Kari. For the love of God—”

Kari raised her face. Her eyes were running. Her nose was running. She looked bad. “Cap—Garland—died,” she hissed. A tear dribbled down one cheek.

“Well … yeah,” Chloe said helplessly. “Since Cap helped save the day during the Long Winter, which was a hundred and two years ago, I imagine that at some point he died.”

“Maybe Kari has mental problems,” someone whispered, as loudly as a human could possibly whisper.

Chloe got to her feet and faced the spectators. “Look, could you please give us a little space?”

“I think that story about Laura saying goodbye to her father set Kari off,” Leonard Devich said. “Research shows that Charles and Laura had a very unhealthy relationship.”

Jayne Rifenberg gave him a withering glance. “Exactly what research paradigm have you embraced? You—”

“Shut up!” Chloe cried. She stamped her foot, which was a first, but she’d had it. Miss Lila was dead, and her quilt was undocumented, and the man who might have been able to document it was dead, and Roel­ke was pressuring her, and her own longed-for moment in the parlor with Laura had been lost because Kari, perfect Kari, was evidently having a nervous breakdown.

“You”—Chloe turned on Devich with an accusatory finger—“are a nutjob. And you”—the finger swerved toward Jayne Rifenberg—“are a bitch. And you”—the finger swerved again and Chloe realized too late that the next person in line was Alta, who was staring owl-eyed at the Ellefson girls—“well, you’re a very nice person. But could you all please just give us a minute here?”

Footsteps began clomping down the staircase from the second floor—group A coming down to switch places with group B. Chloe grabbed Kari’s arm, pulled her to her feet, and used the momentary chaos to tow her out the door. She didn’t stop until they stood on the sidewalk. Kari’s breath still came in little shuddering heaves, but she made a visible effort to pull herself together.

“Kari, please tell me what’s going on. I’m sorry we squabbled yesterday. I just want to help.”

“You can’t help.”

“Is this really about Trygve?” Chloe persisted. “What did he do?”

“He … I … it’s just that a farm is a hard place for a woman.”

“But—”

“I don’t want to talk about it.” Kari swiped angrily at new tears. “I just want to be alone for a while.” She turned and hurried away.