“A box.” Aunt Emeline glanced at the inkwell in Isabelle’s hands before pointing toward another drawer. “Try the third one.”
There were gloves and other sundries inside, but she didn’t see a box.
“Keep pulling.”
Isabelle tugged harder, and the drawer slid out of the desk. It was much shorter in length than the drawer above it.
“Feel the back,” Aunt Emeline instructed.
There was a clasp against the wood at the end, and when Isabelle turned it, the panel folded out toward her. Reaching inside, she pulled out a small chest.
Her aunt sighed, sinking back into her pillows. “I knew it was there.”
Isabelle returned to the bed and examined the box. There was nothing exceptional about it—an olivewood trinket box with a lock, about a foot long and six inches wide. The top was inlaid with a painting of a red rose and a chapel on the edge of steep sea cliffs. A rendition of Aunt Emeline’s beloved Marseille.
“What’s inside?” Isabelle asked.
Aunt Emeline smiled again. “My greatest gift to you.”
But she didn’t want gold or jewels or whatever the chest contained. She wanted her aunt to stay with her.
Aunt Emeline placed her hand on the lid of it. “I made it for Rose.”
“Who’s Rose?”
But her aunt didn’t answer the question. “The key is in the top drawer. For years, I wore it around my neck.”
Isabelle remembered well that key. She’d worn the lockbox key on her necklace, just like Aunt Emeline. “Thank you.”
“One day, you’ll find a man who will love you for exactly who you are.” Aunt Emeline brushed her hand over the olivewood again. “Then you can be proud of this.”
“I will treasure whatever it is.”
“Sing me that song, Isabelle,” she said, her voice fading. “The one you used to sing when you couldn’t sleep at night.”
She’d been terrified all those years ago. Of the darkness and the light. Of being with someone else and being alone.
But she hadn’t sung in a long time.
“The one about going to Jesus,” Aunt Emeline prompted.
Isabelle took a deep breath, and for her aunt, she began to sing.
My Lord, He calls me, He calls me by the thunder
The trumpet sounds within my soul
I ain’t got long to stay here
“Such a beautiful song,” Aunt Emeline whispered, her eyes closed. “He’s waiting, isn’t He?”
Isabelle’s eyes flooded with tears. “Yes, He is.”
“Keep singing,” her aunt said, clutching her hand.
Steal away, steal away, steal away to Jesus
Steal away, steal away home
