My Heart Remembers by Kim Vogel Sawyer Read Free Book Online Page A

F IVE
    Maelle
    Dunbar, Louisiana
    December, 1902
    Y ou there, boy!” Melle “Mike” Watts retained her casual pose—elbow propped on top of the camera case, right leg bent with the toe of her boot pressed into the dirt—and waited for the boy she’d called to pause in his scurrying journey toward the weighing shed. His dirty bare feet stirred dust as he stumbled to a stop. He turned, the full buckets in his hands swaying with his movements. Squinting, he sent her a puzzled look. He couldn’t be more than eight years old.
    “You talkin’ to me?”
    Maelle nodded in reply.
    “Gotta get these weighed.” An air of importance underscored his statement. The child attempted to heft the buckets, but his scrawny elbows splayed outward with no discernible lift to the galvanized steel.
    “Want to stand there long enough to get your picture taken?”
    Maelle had learned over the years that children, regardless of their station in life, couldn’t refuse the opportunity to pose in front of her camera.
    The boy licked his lips, his wary eyes darting toward the line of shucking sheds where a flurry of voices and clanking of buckets could be heard. “Will it take long?”
    Maelle quickly stepped behind the camera and wrapped her hand around the bulb. “As long as it takes to make a smile.”
    Immediately the boy curved his lips into more of a grimace than a smile. Maelle pressed the bulb, and the child jumped at the pop , but he held his pose until she said, “That’s it! Thanks.”
    He scuffled forward a few steps, his expression curious. “Do I get to see it?”
    Maelle grinned over the top of the wood case. “It’ll take me a day to process it. Will you be here tomorrow?”
    The boy nodded, his grimy hair bobbing. “Always work here. Ever’ day.”
    The blithe statement made Maelle’s heart ache. The child obviously had no idea tomorrow was Christmas. “I’ll bring your photograph by tomorrow, then.”
    “Thanks!” He turned to hurry off.
    “What’s your name?” Maelle called to his retreating back.
    He didn’t even pause. “Georgie!”
    “See you tomorrow, Georgie.”
    A bob of his shaggy head gave acknowledgment, and Maelle packed up her camera. She wanted to stick around the oyster shucking dock and take a few more pictures, but she’d learned over the years brief stops were best. She’d created many a photograph at mills and docks and factories, and she always feared the little workers would suffer the bosses’ wrath if she overstayed her welcome. So despite her desire to capture a few more barefooted, dirty children wielding knives too large for their hands or carrying buckets too heavy for their skinny shoulders, she carefully loaded her camera into the back of the wagon and headed toward town. She’d return tomorrow and give Georgie his photograph.
    Maelle stopped at the first hotel she encountered—a rather rundown two-story building facing the town. If it weren’t for Georgie’s photograph, she’d keep driving until she reached one of the larger cities and something more . . . welcoming. The only night she offered herself the luxury of a hotel was Christmas Eve, keeping with the tradition established by Richard, and she hated to waste her night of extravagance in a place like this one.
    But getting that photograph to Georgie—undoubtedly his only Christmas gift—would make it worthwhile.
    She tethered Samson and gave the horse a loving neck rub before picking up her carpetbag and camera box and entering the hotel. To her relief, the interior was cheerier than the outside, the floral wall coverings, thick carpets, and velvet-upholstered furniture providing a touch of elegance. Perhaps the humid weather had aged the wooden structure, she surmised. Behind a tall, paneled desk, a man in a black suit smiled and said, “Welcome to Hartling Hotel, sir.”
    “Thank you.” Maelle dropped the carpetbag but bent over to place the camera box with care on the floor beside the bag. Her long braid