“Not as much as I’d like to be,” she replied honestly.
Soon, they sat down to bowls of the fresh ice cream, withstrawberries on top. For a few minutes, there was only the sound of spoons against glass, the radio, the ticking of the clock.
Then Alice looked at Krista over her spoon and her gaze sharpened.
“Do you still have that photograph?” she asked.
Krista’s spoon froze. “The one from the attic box?”
Alice nodded. “The one of my mother.”
Krista set her bowl down carefully. “Yeah. I have it. I showed it to Joe last night. He used to be an investigative journalist.”
“Is that so?” Alice’s fingers tightened around her spoon. “I keep thinking about it.” She swallowed. “About that month. I can’t help but wonder what happened. She never talked about it,” Alice said, and her voice went quieter. “Mom was private. Especially about that. And I always wondered why.”
Krista leaned forward. “Gram…”
Alice lifted a hand, a small stop. “Listen. It’s not…it’s not just curiosity.” She looked at Krista then, eyes clear in a way that they rarely were now. “My memory’s slipping. Some days I reach for things and there’s nothing there. Everything is just blank.”
Krista’s eyes stung, and she could feel Joe’s gaze on her, seeing everything. She bit the inside of her lip and straightened her shoulders.
“And then that photo shows up,” Alice continued, a faint tremor in her voice. “Like it surfaced at the exact moment it needed to. Like maybe…maybe this is my last chance to know what happened to my mother. What she didn’t tell me.”
Krista swallowed hard. “You want me to find out.”
“I do,” Alice said simply. Then, softer, like admitting it cost her something. “I always felt like she was holding something back. Like there was a piece of her life she kept locked away.” Her mouth tightened. “And I don’t want to lose the chance to understand her before…before I can’t remember to ask.”
Krista reached for her grandmother’s hand, gripping it firmly, hyper aware that Joe was witnessing this deeply private moment. “Okay,” she whispered. “Okay. I’ll find out.”
Alice’s brow furrowed, as if looking through fog. “I found some old photos in a box in the attic. They’re still up there. Might be something there you’d want to see?”
“Now?” Krista asked softly.
Alice nodded. “Go up through the garage. There’s an old trunk up there. It has a blue ribbon tied around the handle.”
“Thanks, Gram. We’ll look.”
Alice smiled, her gaze growing distant again. “Some stories wait for the right hands to uncover them. I wonder…You two are learning from each other on this swap of yours. But perhaps your grandma Isabel has something to teach you, as well.”
The room settled into silence except for the hum of the old radio. Still holding Alice’s hand, Krista glanced at Joe, and he met her gaze with a slow, easy smile.
How strange that this man, a stranger until just yesterday, already seemed at home here, in her world, her grandmother’s kitchen. Krista had been guarding herself, trying to hide her emotions, yet those eyes…they seemed to see everything without judgment, only understanding and respect. A slow unclenching began in her chest.
It certainly felt like the start of a story—not just Isabel’s, tucked away in a dusty attic, but theirs too. Krista didn’t know where it would lead. Would it be beautiful? Messy? Thrilling? Probably all of the above. She knew their time together would be short, and reason said to guard the softest parts of her heart. Yet she wanted to savor every moment of the journey.
Right now, she sensed they were about to uncover more than old photographs, alone together in the attic. Joe’s gaze dipped to her mouth and back up again, deliberate and slow, sending a low pulse of heat through her. And the tightening of his jaw told her he felt it too.
EIGHT
JOE
Wednesday, Two Days Before the Summer Swap
The attic smelled of cedar and time. Dust floated in the slanting sunlight from the small window overlooking the garage, glittering in the air. The floorboards creaked under their steps, the quiet pressing in as if the room itself were holding its breath.
Joe paused near the window, letting the stillness settle around him. He felt strangely adrift in this attic full of trunks, quilts, furniture—an entire lifetime of things. It amazed him how much a person could gather by simply staying in one place. He thought of his own life condensed to a single storage unit somewhere in Illinois, and the backpack that held everything he needed. Somehow, standing here made that feel smaller than ever.
“Wow,” he murmured, crouching beside a stack of hatboxes. “Your grandparents must’ve kept everything.”
