“1998. Green dress. Got it.”
The attic is fairly organized with neat rows of boxes, most of which are labeled. Granted, many just sayphotographsordecorations, but it’s better than nothing.
“Holler if you need anything,” Lolly says.
“I will.”
“And if you happen to come across a small cedar chest—it would fit in your hands—bring that down, too, please.”
My hands go to my hips. “Anything else?”
“No. That’s it. Good luck.”
I scan the room again.I have my work cut out for me.
The floor creaks as I walk across it, and I find the pull cord for the large light in the center of the room. The bulb flickers beforefully turning on. It doesn’t give the best light, but it’s better than the single light by the entrance.
I peek over the rows of boxes, looking for the right year.
My body aches as I move, and my knees are a mess. Despite the shower I took before I left for Lolly’s, I can still smell Hartley on my skin.Sweat. Soap. A dab of cedarwood.Just thinking of the sultry combination makes me shiver.
“Whatever makes you happy.”
His words from this afternoon filter through my mind. I know he means them. In whatever situation I apply them to, that’s his answer.
And that makes me smile.
He makes me happy—ridiculously, wildly happy. Most days, I wake up and can’t believe that this is my life. It almost feels too easy. Unearned. It’s illogical to believe that life just hands you someone so wonderful and you live happily ever after.
That’swhat scares me.
“Any luck?” Lolly asks
I roll my eyes. “I just got up here, and there are a ton of boxes.”
“Well, you’ll just have to dig.”
“Wonderful,” I whisper, surveying the scene.
Nothing written on the outside of the boxes guides me toward the photos, so I pick a box and remove the lid. It’s filled with a menagerie of items—Halloween costumes, an old church directory, and a baby doll that looks slightly possessed.
“Oh, great,” I grumble, closing it up.
I make my way through a slew of holiday decorations, most of which I haven’t seen since I lived here as a teenager. Why doesn’t she put these out anymore? She used to love holiday yard decor.
I reach for another box when something catches my attention. It’s a clear plastic tub—newer than a lot of this stuff—with the names Margot and Tim scrawled on a piece of tape stuck to the front of it.
My throat tightens.My parents.
The blue lid pops off with ease, and I sit on a footstool beside it. My hand shakes as I pull out picture after picture—memory after memory.Most of them are Lolly’s memories, because they were before my time.
My parents on their wedding day. Mom pregnant with a hand on her belly, posing for the camera. Dad holding Markie by a Christmas tree with the worst silver tinsel.
It’s holidays and birthdays, summer vacations and afternoons by the pool. Ordinary moments that suddenly feel like huge, precious ones to me.
I spot an old-fashioned videotape withMira, age 2written on the outside. The handwriting is unmistakable.Mom.
My heart pounds as I hold the tape in my hand, wondering what’s on it. It could be anything, as Dad always had a video camera close by. I start to put it away, but find a number printed on the back in marker.
