Then he looks down. “Oh fuck.”
I follow his gaze to the trail of candy apple red footprints all across the drop cloth and the concrete floor. I guess I stepped in paint.
What a mess I’ve made. I tense, flashing back to the bakery crawl with his daughter, when she teased him about how much he hates messes. Will this piss him off?
No, that’s the wrong word. Corbin doesn’t get mad. He’s not an angry man. But he’s an observant one, an organized one, a man who likes things the way he likes things. And I thrive in chaos. “I’d better go find a rag to clean that up,” I say, mobilizing quickly for his sake.
He shoves a hand through his hair, holding the other up as a stop sign. “I will. You’ll leave more footprints.”
“Right, of course,” I say, feeling a little foolish for not realizing that.
He walks off in a cloud of determination, his footsteps echoing till he reaches the kitchen. The sound of running water filters through the space. I picture him washing his hands before he grabs the rags. So very Corbin. He’s neat and orderly. I should be the same.
I force myself to focus on cataloguing the work we need to do to finish the mural, clean up the paint, and put everything away when I register the sound of the cupboards opening, then something scraping against a shelf.
Corbin’s voice comes from the back of the station, loud and clear. “Mabel, did you know there’s a cookie jar in here?”
18
ONE A DAY
CORBIN
After I set the rags on the kitchen counter, I study the cookie jar as if it’s an ancient artifact. Maybe it is. It’s ceramic, a little chipped, and the shape of a strawberry, with a cap that looks like leaves. I don’t think the strip club owners left it behind. But then,wholeft this?
Gently, I shake it, and something moves inside, but the sound is muted. It’s not full of marbles, then, or petrified cookies. But it holdssomething.
My heart beats a little faster. Grabbing the towels and holding the jar tight, I return to the front of the bakery. “There’s something other than cookies in it,” I tell Mabel, brandishing the jar while handing Mabel the rags. “I don’t know what.”
She takes the ripped-up cloth but doesn’t move, just stares at the strawberry, curiosity lighting her eyes. “You foundthat?”
I figured that was obvious, but she sounds transfixed, maybe even freaked out, so I stick to the facts. “Yes. Do you want to clean up the paint first before you open it?”
She shakes her head—not a no, but like she’s shaking off cobwebs. She quickly swipes the paint off her feet, then the floor, saying, “I know you hate messes.”
Huh? That’s what she’s worried about now? “It’s fine. I swear it’s fine. I didn’t want the jar to get paint on it, or for us to slip in the mess and break it,” I explain, as she sets the rags on the drop cloth neatly, more neatly than I’d expected.
But her focus snaps back to the jar. She points at it, shifting away from the mess altogether. “You really foundthat?”
“I did,” I say, sensing she knows whatthisis. It’s something precious, judging from the look in Mabel’s eyes. They’re so wide her pupils look blown.
“My grandmother loved strawberries,” she whispers.
The meaning of those words echoes loudly, full of a dangerous hope. The kind you don’t really want to let yourself feel because it’s so easy to be let down. The kind of hope that believes in cures. That believes in a gift from the other side.
Could an old, chipped cookie jar really be so much more? No. No way. Everything rational and logical in me screams to make sure Mabel doesn’t get her hopes up. Even though I think they already are. “Mabel, this is probably nothing,” I say, calm and measured. “It could be receipts. Or flour. Or just?—”
“I don’t care. I want it,” she says, her voice desperate. She’s frozen as if she’s afraid to take another step toward it. A hush falls between us. A new tune plays—something sultry, moody—and I swear I can hear her heartbeat.
So much for tempering expectations. “Do you want me to open it?”
She swallows, nibbles on the corner of her lips, then nods several times. “Please.”
There’s a tremble in her voice. She’s already ten steps down this road. But I just can’t let myself believe this contains some kind of treasure. Someone needs to be the realist.
Still, I’m careful as I wiggle off the top, though what would I disturb? Junk maybe? Rubber bands? Piping nozzles? “It’s probably just…recipes.” But wouldn’t that be something?
“I love recipes,” Mabel says breathlessly.
