Mary stared up at him, her lush lips parting on a sigh.
Rational thought escaped him as his mouth covered hers, the taste of salty tears fueling the fire in him. He crushed her to his chest, his fingers sliding over her arms to circle behind her back, drawing her closer. The kiss deepened, their tongues entwined, tasting and thrusting in a primal rhythm.
Mary’s fingers combed through Nick’s hair, holding him close. Her body fit snugly against his, heat building with each passing moment.
When the kiss ended, they both sat back, breathing hard.
What was he thinking? Nick’s brain reengaged as cool air came between them. “I shouldn’t have?—”
A slim, pale finger touched his lips. “Don’t.”
She had enough to deal with at the moment, without hearing Nick express regret for a beautiful kiss.
Mary climbed to her feet and fished in her pocket for the key her father had left beneath her pillow. “Just help me find my dad, will you?”
She left the tiny room by ducking through a door too short for an adult, but just right for a child. A chuckle bubbled up in her chest when Nick practically duck-walked out of her secret room.
They entered another basement, closing the cubby door behind them. The door was cleverly hidden by a large, framed picture of George Washington. Unless someone knew the door was there, he’d never think to look behind old George. That had been her father’s idea.
Smaller than the first one, this basement lay beneath the house she’d grown up in and was as familiar to her as her old room upstairs. With snow covering the ground sometimes six months out of the year, Alaskans made full use of all inside space. Especially curious kids with active imaginations. The house and the store had been Mary’s castle, complete with hidden passages and secret rooms with its trove of fabulous treasures hidden beneath the earth.
Swallowing a lump of nostalgia, Mary worked her way through the room, stopping at old trunks and boxes with locks on them. One by one she fitted the key into locks only to be disappointed when the locks didn’t open.
When she came upon a pale lilac trunk she paused. It didn’t have a lock, but she couldn’t resist opening it anyway. “This trunk belonged to my mother.” She lifted the lid, a wave of longing washing over her as she stared down at the things her mother had cherished. Things neither she nor her father could part with.
Mary lifted the bottle of perfume her father had bought for her mother’s last birthday. Knowing she was a fool for doing it, she sprayed some on her wrist, the scent surrounding her, reminding her of happier times. Pain squeezed hard in her chest, making it hard for her to breathe.
“She must have been a remarkable woman,” Nick said.
“I miss her so much.” Mary set the bottle back in the trunk and closed the lid. “But we’re here to help Dad.” She wove her way through boxes and discarded furniture, old tools and car parts until she came to a row of shelves. A wooden footlocker, painted Army green, perched on the top shelf. A footlocker with a shiny new lock securing the latch on the front. A knot of excitement filled her belly, and she rose up on her tiptoes to reach for it.
“Let me.”
Mary stood back while Nick, standing flat-footed, hefted the box from the shelf and softly laid it on the floor.
Without a doubt, she was certain she had the right trunk. A new silver padlock secured the rusty latch. When Mary inserted the key, it turned effortlessly, popping the hasp free. Within seconds the lid was opened and they both stared down into the footlocker.
Mary lifted an old Army dress uniform draped in an envelope of sheer dry-cleaning plastic. She laid it on the open lid of the footlocker and placed her penlight on top of it, shining down into the interior space. Inside was a collection of medals, hats, and various souvenirs from foreign countries. In the right corner was a stack of documents with Charles Mercer’s name written on each. An Army Commendation Medal, a Meritorious Service Medal, a Bronze Star for bravery in battle and a Purple Heart for an injury in Bosnia.
Intermixed among the documents were a stack of old letters and photographs of a man in his late teens wearing a crisp new uniform, probably fresh out of Basic Combat Training. Another picture was of the same youth with more lines on his face than a man in his early twenties should have. He wore the full combat gear of a soldier serving in war torn country, right down to the leaves and branches tucked into the strap of his helmet—camouflaged to protect him from enemy view. He held a rifle and hand grenades were strapped to his web belt—a young soldier prepared to die for his country; in a war no one believed in back home.
“These are my dad,” Mary said, her voice catching. She leaned closer, studying the print on his name tag. “Charles Mercer. He never told me his real name. I wonder why?” She flipped through the photographs, one at a time. There was a shot of her father in a jeep, a shot of him standing in front of a large Army tent and one of him with the men of his platoon. They all looked brave, young and happy, despite the deplorable conditions of their camp. Their uniforms consisted of dirty uniforms, helmets, rifles and a webbed harnesses with grenades and ammo pouches stuck through loops.
Mary could make out bits of the camp in the background and a Bosnian woman standing behind the men, her face barely visible to the camera.
“Let me see that one.” Nick took the group shot from her hands. “If I’m not mistaken, that’s Frank Richards.” He pointed at a man in the second row. “I have a copy of an old photo on my computer of Frank Richards in his uniform during the Bosnia peacekeeping mission with NATO. Let’s take this back to the room. Do you mind if I have a look through this stuff?”
“No, go ahead.” Mary moved back, clutching the other photographs.
Nick picked through the contents of the trunk, setting things to the side on the lid until the trunk was empty. Then he felt along the base of the trunk.
“What are you doing?”
“Seeing if there are any hidden compartments.” He shook his head. “None here that I can tell.” He placed all the war memorabilia back in the trunk and ran his fingers over the lid. “No. Nothing.” He pulled a large plastic bag from his back pocket and slid the documents and the group photo inside. “Want me to carry those as well?”
Mary stared down at the photos, taking one more look before handing them over. “Thanks.”
Somewhere above them, a door closed.
