Free Windswept by Ann Macela Page B

what state the records were in. Then she could be more systematic.
    The gloating turned quickly to frustration, however, once she looked into several containers. As far as she could tell, the contents of each box were mostly coherent, with files in a rough chronological or alphabetical order--where there were folders at all. One held large envelopes with string ties, another held bundles of letters tied together with ribbons, some were filled with what looked like shoe boxes. To make the situation worse, the receptacles were stacked in totally random order and the labels were not helpful, or necessarily truthful. She couldn’t even find the boxes she had worked on over the past holidays.
    She stood back to consider her options. If she wanted to catalog the records in an coherent way and build her knowledge as she went along, instead of jumping from, say, 1880 to 1920 and back to 1845, she would need to do some sorting. “Looks like you’re going to get some exercise, Barrett,” she sighed.
    In the supply cabinet she found some felt-tip markers, tape and paper. She opened the first carton on the left, decided quickly how to describe the contents, wrote notes and its dates on the paper and taped it to the outside. She hauled the carton into the hall as a starting point, and went back for the second one. She had been working for about an hour, grouping cartons by date in the hall, when Gonzales appeared in the door.
    “Dr. Browning, what are you doing? You shouldn’t be doing heavy lifting.” He sounded horrified.
    “It’s all right, Mr. Gonzales.” She blew a curl out of her eye as she placed an 1880 carton with its companions. “This is the only way I can organize these boxes. I’m quite strong, really. I would love some more iced tea, though, if there’s any available.”
    “Right away, and I’ll bring Ricardo to help you.”
    “It really won’t be necessary. I prefer doing this by myself.”
    His expression was adamant. “Please, Dr. Browning. What would Mr. Jamison say if he saw you doing all this manual labor? He would blame me for not taking good care of you. His instructions were very strict. ‘She should want for nothing,’ he said.”
    Barrett gave in, not that it was much of a struggle. She didn’t want to get Mr. Gonzales in trouble, and she knew her back and legs were going to start protesting this unfamiliar exercise pretty quickly.
    Gonzales returned within minutes with a large pitcher of iced tea, glasses, and Ricardo, a burly young man with grass stains on his jeans. Barrett heard him give Ricardo instructions in Spanish not to let the maestra lift so much as one box.
    When Gonzales introduced Ricardo, Barrett shook hands with the young man and spoke to him in her own fluent Spanish, explaining her organizational method. Gonzales and Ricardo both blinked, Ricardo smiled shyly, and Gonzales left the room with the admonition to dial “3” on the house phone line if she needed anything else.
    By five o’clock, Barrett and Ricardo had made a sizable dent in the cartons, Barrett looking and writing, Ricardo lifting and carrying. She called a halt to their exertions just as Gonzales came in.
    “Is everything all right?” he asked.
    “Yes, we’ve accomplished quite a bit. Would it be possible for Ricardo to help tomorrow?”
    “You have his help as long as you need it, maestra ,” Gonzales replied.
    “I don’t want to take him away from his regular duties,” she explained.
    “Please do not worry,” Gonzales said. “Ricardo’s duties are what I decide they are. We are both happy to be of whatever use we can. Dinner will be ready at seven.”
    The lonely dining room displayed another aspect of its character in the evening light, Barrett thought later as she finished Eva’s delicious roast chicken with an apple-raisin-walnut stuffing, green beans with almonds, rice and freshly baked rolls. Over their tops, the chandelier’s light bulbs had small chrome hoods which focused all the