And yeah, that was a bad example.
“It’s likely some paperwork on the firehouse,” I say, lifting the top the rest of the way.
I peer inside. I’m holding my breath now, like an intrepid explorer in a treasure hunt flick when he steps into a cave and discovers more than dust. My pulse spikes as I reach inside, wrapping my hand carefully around a stack of paper that’s not paperwork at all.
“Mabel, I think there are letters in here.”
She clasps her hand over her mouth, gasping, then whispering so quietly I can barely hear her. “Are you sure?”
Sure, this stack could be someone’s handwritten poetry or a novel. But I’m staring at a stack of letters, postcards, and maybe greeting cards, tied with a ribbon. “I think so.”
The proof is in the looking though, so I take out the stack. They smell like old paper and time, with maybe a hint of something floral. I close the distance between us and offer her the bundle, tied with a shiny ribbon around the middle.
She swallows again and looks at the ribbon, then up at me. “It’s lilac. The ribbon color.”
Since that’s her favorite color, this discovery has to be from someone who knew her. Someone who loved her. “Is it from your grandmother?”
She runs a finger along the bow, then slips it aside, revealing a Post-it note. “Oh my god, Corbin! It’s my grandma’s handwriting. The same writing that was on the Post-it on the deed. Holy shit, holy shit, holy shit.”
With shaking fingers, she peels off the note and holds it out to me. “Read it. I need to know I’m not hallucinating.”
I push my own longing aside. This moment belongs to her. I take the Post-it note and draw a steadying breath so I can give this moment the weight it deserves.
Then I read out loud the message left in curvy handwriting.
Dear Mabel,
I always said you came from a long line of women who follow their hearts. I thought you would enjoy knowing more about one of them. These letters are for you, just like this firehouse is for you. You’ll know what to do with them. Oh, but be a dear and remember my number one rule: letters are like cookies—don’t eat them all at once!
Love,
Your biggest fan
Mabel stands with her hand over her mouth, tears streaking down her pretty face. She rolls her lips together as if sealing in all her emotions. I know that holding-back feeling too well.
I step closer and swipe a finger across her cheek, wiping away one of her tears. “Mabel, your grandmother orchestrated this entire thing. The firehouse, the letters, the timing…This is incredible. Way more than a ten out of ten.”
She smiles through her tears. “It’s a hundred.”
She sinks to the floor, the weight of the discovery seeming to hit her all at once. I kneel next to her, unsure what to do. I just kissed her senseless, offered her my leg to ride, and then we found a treasure.
Where’s the guidebook for what to do next?
Out of the blue, Mabel throws her arms around me, holding me tight. I didn’t expect that, or her next words: “Do you want to read one with me?”
Whatever jealousy nipped at me before vanishes. Because suddenly, I want that more than just about anything.
19
FOUND RECIPE
MABEL
I’m really not a crier. Scratch that. I try not to be a public crier. But in the last few weeks, I’ve rained down tears in front of Jonas the snowboarder-slash-banker and now my sexy hockey-playing business partner, whose leg I also just humped.
No wonder my mother is always trying to give me life advice.
Clearly, I need it.
