Overhead a weak fluorescent light cast a sickly flickering glow across shadows of the past. The dusty boxes triggered a sneezing fit and she fumbled in the front pocket of her capris for a tissue.
Robin climbed over the dresser she’d gotten at a thrift store and refinished when Anna was a baby. Painting in the garage with the door open on a rainy spring day. Stenciling bunnies and chickens on the pale pink color after it dried. Later, she’d repainted it in Indian Ocean blue when Mike was born, boats and trains replacing the bunnies and chickens.
She spied the matching crib, collapsed and stacked against the wall. She should probably give the dresser and crib away but couldn’t bring herself to let them go. She’d offered the furniture to both Anna and Mike, but her son, the carpenter, had hand carved the baby furniture for Allie, Logan, and Faith.
There were plastic boxes labeled in Sharpie with the contents in Heathcliff’s precise handwriting—tax documents, “Xmas” lights, flower vases, electrical cords, knickknacks. She couldn’t go through all these things. It was too much. Too soon. Why had she come over here today?
Because Anna stood you up and you didn’t have anything else to do.
Yes, and then she was back, worrying about her oldest child.
Finally, she reached the old rolltop desk, wiped dust off the chair seat with a tissue, and sat down. She opened drawers and peered inside.
The narrow front drawer held pens and number two pencils, erasers, paper clips, rubber bands, tape rolls, and Post-it notes. There were school photos of the kids. Mike at five on a rocking horse, flashing a grin showing off his first missing tooth. Anna at thirteen, in the gangly throes of adolescence, when her face had elongated, but her body hadn’t yet caught up.
Robin pocketed the photos.
Mike had hit all his milestones right on time. Anna had been a late bloomer, not getting her period until she was fifteen. Robin had worried that something was wrong and took her to the doctor. The doctor assured her that nothing was wrong with Anna. It was just genetics.
At first, Robin didn’t understand. She’d gotten her own period at twelve and that was the usual age for the women in her family.
But then she figured Anna had gotten the late-onset puberty from Heathcliff’s side, the same place she’d gotten those chocolate-brown eyes and gorgeous red hair. Heathcliff’s great-aunt Matilda gave her the hair, though Heathcliff had never told Robin about Great-Aunt Matilda until after Anna was born.
Oddly, none of his cousins seemed to remember Matilda; then again, Heathcliff’s family hadn’t been known for their unity. His own parents had been killed in a house fire when he was a teenager—the pain of that loss never really left him—and their deaths were the reason he’d become a firefighter.
Not having close family ties was why he and Robin had bonded so solidly. They’d been in the same boat, both only children, both orphans when they’d met. When she was eighteen, her mother died from pancreatic cancer, and five years later, her father, in the throes of clinical depression, had taken his own life.
The depth of her loss sank sharp talons into Robin, and for a moment she was overwhelmed.
Salty tears filled her mouth, overflowed her eyes. Dropping her head, she let sorrow overtake her. Fell into it. Felt it turn into a thick dark cloud. But she didn’t cling to the emotions, just sat in them until the brunt wore off, and finally, the pain faded.
“Well,” she said. “Well, enough of that.”
Drying her eyes, she returned to her task. She dug through more drawers. Files. Owner manuals. Insurance documents. Bank statements. All a decade out of date. There were keys of various shapes and sizes, all unlabeled. She had no idea what they unlocked. A jar of coins, mostly pennies. She fished out the quarters and stuck them in her front pocket. Old birthday and holiday cards.
In the bottom drawer she found a small metal lockbox.
She leaned over to pick it up. She’d never seen it before. Had no idea what might be inside. Did she dare look?
Hauling in a long breath, she poked the latch with a trembling finger.
It didn’t open.
Locked.
What secrets did Heathcliff lock away inside this box? The bigger question? Why was she so certain it contained anything mysterious at all? She and Heathcliff had a loving, trusting relationship.
Well, for the most part. She tried to tell herself not to be silly. It was most likely filled with sentimental items that would carry no secrets. But then why was it locked? Why the sudden flutter of fear flapping inside her heart?
Did any of the keys in the top drawer open the lockbox?
Frantically, she tried key after key, and finally, the last one she tried fit the lock. Holding her breath, she twisted the key and the lid popped open.
The box was empty except for one thing.
Another key.
It was labeled with a white circular tag left over from when they’d had a big garage sale before Mike went to college. Flipping the label over, she saw written in Heathcliff’s hand: Winnie’s safe-deposit box, Moonglow Cove Central Bank. To be opened only in the event of her death.
“Mom?” Mike’s voice echoed down the corridor of the storage facility. “Are you in here?”
She swiveled in the chair, saw her son’s head poke around the open door of the unit, felt her eyes grow as wide as his.
“What are you doing?” He stepped inside. “How did you get way back over there?”
“I took the easiest route.” She waved him toward the path she’d taken to get to the desk surrounded by towers of boxes.
He picked his way around the stuff and sat down on the edge of the desk beside her chair. His butt rested right next to the metal lockbox that held the key.
Mike smelled of cedarwood shavings and the mild odor of shellac. He had been working, carving his handmade furniture he sold in his own storefront on Paradise Pier. He was one of the top independent furniture makers in the country, specializing in baby cribs, bassinets, and cradles.
Reaching over, she brushed sawdust from his hair.
He glanced down.
An urge to hide the metal box and key from him bulldozed her.
Stuff it down, put it away, ignore, ignore, ignore.
A bad habit she’d spent seventy years cultivating. She’d never been the sort to rock the boat. She was a take-life-as-it-came gal. She trusted people and believed in the basic goodness of mankind. Yet she couldn’t help wondering what was in Winnie’s safe-deposit box and why Heathcliff had the key.
“Mom?”
She blinked at her son.
“Are you all right?”
“Fine.” Robin forced a smile and closed the lid on the metal box.
“What’s that key open?”
Robin shrugged. “We better start loading things up.”
He looked as if he might push for an explanation, but Mike was an agreeable son. His personality was a lot like hers in many ways.
Instead he said, “Are you sure you’re ready to give away Dad’s things?”
“I am.”
He cocked his head, shot her a speculative glance.
“I need to get it done. It’s been over a year.”
“There’s no rush.”
“I feel like I can’t move on with these things weighing me down. Besides, I’m wasting money with these monthly storage payments and every dollar counts on a fixed income.”