by Rickie Blair
One thing was clear—there was no point in obsessing over such a meaningless message. After tucking the postcard under the pile of other letters, I headed to the basement to retrieve the stepladder.
At the base of the worn wooden steps, I flicked on the ceiling’s bare bulb. My aunt’s rickety aluminum stepladder was propped against the wall in the far corner. On my way past the silent Control console, I paused to run a hand over its keyboard, coating my fingertips with dust. There was no reaction. No blinking lights. No cheery, “Hello, Verity!” Amazingly, I missed Control’s presence. During the search for my aunt, its electronic voice had been annoying—and occasionally terrifying. But without its insights, I would have given up.
“Mrack.”
General Chang twined around my legs. He missed Control, too—if only because the holographic wall that formerly camouflaged the console had been his favorite hiding place.
“Why don’t you find a mouse?” I asked. The tomcat ignored my suggestion, sauntering away with a dignified flick of his tail. Just as well. If the General did stumble across a rodent, he’d probably show it where I kept the cheese. And the crackers.
After heaving the ladder upstairs, I opened it inside the hall closet. With my hands on the side rails, I placed a foot on the first step. Tilting my head, I studied the two-foot-square wooden hatch in the ceiling above. After returning to Rose Cottage as an adult, I’d only once opened that hatch—to check for possible surveillance cameras. Staring at that hatch now, I recalled how difficult it had been to pry open.
When he heard about my brief foray aloft, Carson had warned me to be careful in the attic. If I didn’t watch my step, he said, it would be easy to plunge through the ceiling. After that, I stayed downstairs.
With a decisive breath, I started up the steps.
At the top, I shoved on the hatch cover. It was stuck tight. I stepped up one more rung, until my shoulders were hunched against the ceiling, and shoved again, harder. The ladder rocked under my feet, but the cover didn’t move.
I climbed down to get a hammer and flashlight from the toolbox under the kitchen sink. Boomer poked his nose in, no doubt hoping the box contained biscuits. The tools belonged to Jeff, who liked puttering around the house—so much so that when Carson returned in the spring, I feared the cottage’s restoration might hit a snag. I pictured the two men sitting on Carson’s folding camp chairs, beers in hand, debating construction details while my pet rooster Reuben—currently also wintering in Key West—pecked for caterpillars at their feet. The thought sparked a smile.
Hammer in hand, I climbed the stepladder again to whack at the hatch. My blows echoed in the tiny space. With each thump, the stepladder rocked under my feet.
From below, Boomer whimpered his disapproval.
Eventually, the hatch creaked open. When I flipped it, the wood landed with a thud on the attic beams, releasing a cloud of dust. Coughing, I evaluated the narrow opening, wondering how to wriggle through it while perched on the ladder.
Maybe I should wait for help. If the ladder toppled over, leaving me marooned up there, Jeff would never let me forget it. I bit my lip, reconsidering.
Then my aunt’s probable advice ran through my head. For heaven’s sake, Verity. Get on with it. You’re not climbing Everest.
So—after jamming a splinter into my thumb, scraping my knee, and uttering a couple of oaths—I made it into the attic.
I shone the flashlight’s beam around the space. The roof was high enough in the middle that I could stand, although anyone taller than my five-ten would have to stoop. The room was empty.
Stepping carefully from one beam to another, I headed for the tiny window at the front. Caked dust was thick on its panes, which admitted only the barest gleam of light.
Three postcards were pinned to the window’s unpainted trim. The cards were old and faded, their corners curled and shiny finish cracked. Pinholes showed where other postcards had been removed. I bent to detach one of the three left. Greetings from the Empire State Building. Flipping it over, I shone my light on the faded handwriting. The closely written message was difficult to make out in the attic’s gloom, but the address—Claire Hawkes, Lilac Lane—was familiar, as was the signature.
xox, adeline
I tucked all three postcards under the waistband of my yoga pants.
There was one other object—a small, oblong metal box sitting on the windowsill. I picked it up with one hand, rubbing a thumb across the dusty surface to reveal a painted picture underneath. My heart fluttered as I recognized a girl with red pigtails, in a white pinafore and straw hat. Anne of Green Gables. This pencil case had been mine as a girl. I hadn’t seen it in years, and assumed I’d lost it.
But I couldn’t have left it in the attic, because I’d never been up here as a child.
Something rattled in the box as I shook it. It didn’t sound like pencils. I tried to flick open the lid. It was stuck fast. Rusted, probably.
I tucked the box under one arm and returned to the ladder, wondering why my childhood memento had been hidden in the attic. Adeline might know, but I wasn’t going to ask her. I told myself the pencil case was unimportant, and there was no point bothering her with it. But that wasn’t why I wanted to keep it to myself. I simply wanted a memory of my mother that wasn’t shared with her sister.
Adeline was twelve years older than Claire, and my mother always looked up to her. Even as adults, they possessed that special bond known only to sisters. I remembered, as a child, climbing out of bed to watch longingly from my window while they sat together in the darkened garden, laughing, clinking glasses, and counting fireflies.
But whatever the reason, I intended to learn my mother’s secret before deciding if I would tell my aunt about it.
Back in the kitchen, I dug a flat-edged screwdriver out of the toolbox. After placing the pencil case on the table, I slid the screwdriver’s tip under the rolled metal edge. One twist and it was off.
Inside were four objects, which I thought were pebbles with chipped edges at first. When I placed them one by one on the table, I realized they were arrowheads. That was odd. I didn’t remember my mother collecting arrowheads.
Underneath lay two folded photographs, badly creased. I unfolded the first, taking it to the window for more light. It was a picture of my mother, taken years before her death. There was no date on the back, but she appeared to be in her mid-twenties. She was crouched in a dirt pit, a kerchief tied over her head, staring at something on her outstretched palm. A crease obliterated the object. Even with my aunt’s magnifying glass, I couldn’t make it out.
The second photo was also of Mom, but in this one she stood next to an unidentified man. He was older, possibly middle-aged, and had one arm around her shoulders. Mom was laughing, leaning into him. I couldn’t tell whether they were simply close friends or something more, even—
I dropped the photo on the table as if I’d been burned.
Where had that thought come from?
Staring at the photo, I had to admit it wasn’t the first time I’d wondered about my parents’ commitment. They married young—too young, according to Adeline. It was part of the reason she disliked Frank so much. She believed he ruined my mother’s academic career. When I was younger, I believed it, too. But when I was older, I realized there was a good reason for their hasty union.
And that reason was sitting right here in Rose Cottage, obsessing over a long-lost photo.
With a sigh, I refolded the pictures and returned them to the pencil case. There were no insights here. I dropped in the arrowheads before closing the lid. It wasn’t unusual to find arrowheads around Leafy Hollow. It also wasn’t surprising, really, that my mother would hang on to them. She was a professor of ancient languages, with an affinity for anything historic.
But why hide them? And why in a pencil box that belonged to her daughter? Was it simply a memory for me to uncover some day? A variation on our word games?
My need for answers overcame my desire f
or secrecy. Time to confront Adeline.
After hiding the pencil box at the back of a drawer, I headed for the door. “Let’s take a walk, Boomer.”
Although my aunt and her partner, Gideon Picard, lived next door, their cottage was three hundred feet away. A grove of massive cedars stood along its property line. From my windows, it looked as if I had no neighbors at all. When I first moved in, Gideon had mystified me with his sudden appearances and disappearances—until I realized he preferred plunging through the cedars to taking the easier route along Lilac Lane. Gideon never took the easy way out—which made him the ideal companion for my reckless aunt.
Standing on their front porch, my hand poised to knock, I reconsidered my decision to ask Adeline about the photos. Would I be breaking a trust by telling her about them? On the other hand, if my mother meant them as a message, I couldn’t figure it out without Adeline’s input. I rapped on the door.
Inside, footsteps approached. The door opened on my aunt’s smiling face. Laugh lines crinkled around her gray eyes.
“Verity. Come in.” She hesitated. “And that dog too, of course.”
Despite the lukewarm invitation, Boomer surged into the hall, claws scrabbling on the tiles until I unsnapped his leash.
My aunt’s mouth trembled, a clear sign she was suppressing a smile.
Boomer leapt into a swivel leather chair next to Gideon, whose gray topknot bobbed as he bent over the terrier. I heard Gideon murmur, then saw a rapidly wagging tail—no doubt Boomer had snared an undeserved biscuit. Hopefully, he wouldn’t stand on the instrument panel in his excitement and trip the red-alert button—
Whirr-whirr-whirr…
Too late. The familiar Star Trek siren echoed through the room.
“Sorry about that,” I said to Adeline, wincing until it stopped.
“I wouldn’t worry. With the way Gideon dotes on him, that dog is like a member of the crew. We should get him a little red ensign uniform.”
“Didn’t all the redshirts die on the show?”
She tilted her head, eyes twinkling. “Not always. Come into the kitchen, Verity. I want to talk to you.”
Uh-oh. This did not sound promising.
“Coffee?” She pulled two mugs from the cupboard.
“Thanks. But first, I have something to ask you.”
“Oh?” She poured coffee from a carafe, added a dollop of cream, and handed me a mug. “Sugar’s on the table.” Then she poured another mug, black, for herself. Sipping her coffee, she leaned against the counter and watched me over the edge of her mug. “Shoot.”
“Well…” Sitting, I dragged over the moose-shaped sugar bowl—part of a tea set that had graced the kitchen of Rose Cottage until my aunt reclaimed it. I’d been scheming ever since for a way to get it back. After adding two teaspoons to my mug, I stirred my coffee more than necessary before putting down the spoon and taking a sip. With Adeline, the direct approach was usually the best. I waded right in.
“Frank found a photo album behind the bookcase in the dining nook. Did you know it was there?”
“Frank was at Rose Cottage?” She slammed her mug down on the counter, pulled out a chair, and sat with her hands planted firmly on her knees, intently watching my face. “When?”
My own mug was halfway to my mouth. Slowly, I lowered it to the table. “This morning. I sent him packing.”
“What did he want?”
“The same as before—he says Mom left him something. He wants it. And it’s in Rose Cottage.”
“Did you lock up when you left?”
“I bolted all the doors, including those two ridiculous locks on the front door that have a mind of their own. By the way, when are those coming off? I thought we agreed—”
“What photo album?”
“Excuse me?”
“What photo album did he find?”
“A family album. Pictures of… us.” I repeated my question. “Did you know it was there?”
Settling back in the chair, Adeline twisted to retrieve her mug from the counter behind her, looking worried.
“He’s not dangerous, is he?” I asked.
“Frank was never violent. You’re not in any danger from your father. But I can’t say the same for his associates.”
“You don’t know his associates.”
“I know his talent for getting into trouble. And attracting the worst kind of people.” Her tone was bitter.
“Why do you hate him so much?”
Her tone conveyed genuine surprise. “I don’t hate him.” She set her mug down.
“Really? Because—”
“Verity,” she broke in. “I promised Claire to look after you. She believed it was best that you have no contact with your father. That’s what she wanted, and I tried to keep him at bay. I know that Frank and I haven’t seen eye to eye over the years.” Contritely, she placed a hand on my arm. “I’m sorry if that upset you.”
She had an uncanny gift for making me feel guilty. Of reminding me—without ever mentioning it—of the years I refused to speak to her, or even take her calls. It had been wrong of me, and we both knew it.
“I’m not upset. It’s just that—hang on.” My eyes widened. “What do you mean, keep him at bay? Did he try to contact me? Beyond those ridiculous birthday cards, I mean?”
Adeline dropped her eyes down at the table for a long moment while my question hung unanswered in the air. Finally, she said, “Yes.”
The coffee I’d drunk so hastily churned through my stomach, and a sick feeling rose in my throat. “Why didn’t you tell me?”
“It was wrong. I should have let you make up your own mind. Instead—I told Frank you didn’t want to see him.”
“You never asked me?”
“I’m sorry, Verity. I know it must seem harsh, but it was what your mother wanted.” She paused. “Look—if Frank really wanted to contact you, he could have. You’re an adult now. He agreed to my wishes because it was the easy way out. I think it eased his conscience.”
The kitchen walls were closing in, and I raised a hand to my throat. All those years without knowing. But—
If Frank really wanted to contact you, he could have.
She was right. He hadn’t called me. He hadn’t sent flowers to Mom’s funeral—or that of my husband Matthew a few years later. Frank walked out on Mom and me when I was eight years old. Nothing could make up for that.
“Is that what you wanted to tell me?” I asked.
“Yes. I’ve been thinking it over, and I want to apologize. It was wrong. I’m sorry.” She tilted her head, watching my face. “Am I forgiven?”
Swallowing hard, I said, “I’ll think about it.”
With a nod, she picked up her mug. “Take your time. I’m not going anywhere.”
That would be a change, I thought with a flutter of resentment I immediately regretted. Tugging the three postcards from my waistband, I placed them on the table. “I found these in the attic. Did you send them to Mom?”
Adeline sipped her coffee while sifting through the postcards with one hand, nodding gently at each one. “I’m surprised she kept these. She must have forgotten about them.” She tapped the cards, smiling. “Your mother used to play up there when she was a kid.”
“In the attic?”
“She wasn’t supposed to. But Claire considered it her little secret and I promised not to tell.” She straightened the pile of postcards, flashing one of her enigmatic half-smiles. “I’m pretty sure your grandmother knew what she was up to.”
“I don’t remember my grandmother.”
“Of course not. Mom and Dad were gone long before you were born.”
I gnawed my lip, wondering how to proceed.
Noticing my expression, Adeline pushed away her mug and leaned in. “You found something else, didn’t you?”
I nodded. “Can I ask you something?”
“Go on.”
“Did Mom have any special friends in Leafy Hollow?”
Adeline tilted her
head, looking puzzled. “I don’t know what you mean. Claire was raised here. She had lots of friends. And when the two of you visited during summer holidays, she saw most of them.”
“Sorry. I meant—a male friend.”
Her eyes widened. “Where is this coming from?”
“Nowhere. It’s just… I don’t remember a lot about my early life, and I’d like to know more about my mother. You know, what she was like back then.”
“You know what she was like. You were an adult when she died.” She paused. “Nearly.”
“I meant her early life.”
“Verity—what is this about?”
“I found two old photos in the attic. Of Mom in her twenties. She was with an older man. They looked friendly. Really friendly.”
My aunt tapped a finger on the table. “Describe him.”
Immediately, I regretted leaving those photos behind in Rose Cottage. Closing my eyes, I tried to recall the man in the picture. “Tall, thin, slightly balding. Big smile. Dark eyes. Sleeves rolled up, wearing a straw hat. Like a Panama hat.” I opened my eyes.
Adeline frowned slightly. “A colleague from the university, probably. I wouldn’t know, I’m afraid. I never met most of them.”
“They were squinting into the sun. Did Mom socialize with university colleagues on her summer vacation?”
“Not usually. Except—” Adeline wrinkled her brow as if trying to remember. “There was one summer Claire went on a month-long dig. You stayed here with me. It was organized by the archaeology department. Something to do with a vanished indigenous tribe. I wonder if…” She rubbed her fingers across her forehead, appearing puzzled.
“That would explain the arrowheads,” I said.
“Arrowheads?” she asked, lowering her hand.
“I found four with the photo.”
She nodded. “Makes sense.”
“I didn’t know Mom was interested in archaeology.”
“It was a dream of hers to become an archaeologist. She hoped to excavate sites in the country where Homer was inspired to write his epics. Maybe even find something new.”
