Page 105 of My Favorite Hero

I sat down, knocking over the first tote, and something fell out of the bottom. I picked it up, mystified. The package was wrapped in brown paper and tied with a simple ribbon. I opened it, lifting the lid of the box and peering inside. There were letters, a thin journal, and two boxes. One flat, one a small square.

My stomach grumbled, and I set the box aside and went to the kitchen, throwing together a sandwich. I made coffee, carried a cup back to the sofa, and sat down. After some indecision, I decided to read the journal first. I recognized Lou’s handwriting, so I knew it belonged to her. And she’d kept it, so it meant something. Somehow I liked to think she knew I would find it.

I settled in and started to read.

An hour later, I sat back, still shocked and amazed at the story Lou had written in her journal.

When she was a twenty-two-year-old woman, she had been discovered by a photographer named Gerard Doyle, eighteen years her senior. Gerard took the pictures in the photo album. They had a passionate affair and fell in love. She was ostracized by her family and friends for the relationship. No one spoke to her, except my mom, of whom she wrote fondly, saying her loyalty was something she would always remember. He had no family left, so it was only the two of them.

As Gerard’s reputation grew, she traveled with him, often appearing in his shoots. They were inseparable. They married quietly and lived a private life.

Until he died suddenly of a heart condition he never told her about.

I wept at the grief she described, losing her soul mate, the other half of her heart. She wrote of learning his estate included a house he owned in a small town that used to belong to his grandparents, and he had many fond memories of times he’d had with them and his parents. His final request was to have his ashes scattered in the woods behind that house, and that, one day, she would join him there.

His hometown—Covington. The house he owned—this one. It had once belonged to his grandparents, who’d lived there with their daughter—his mother.

My mother always assumed Lou had bought this house. But she inherited it from the love of her life. And she chose to live here alone, never remarrying, staying private about her life. Her loss.

Unable to resist, I opened the letters. There weren’t many of them since Lou and Gerard were together most of the time, but they were filled with passages of love and longing. He wrote her poetry, praising her beauty, missing her deeply. She drew him little pictures, always expressing her love in every note.

When my tears finally dried, I opened the boxes. A pretty set of pearls, creamy and rich, was in the one box, the note inside filled with the love of a groom for his bride on their wedding day. I stroked the smooth surfaces carefully, the circles cool under my touch.

The other box contained two rings. Simple bands nestled side by side, the gold dull from disuse. Lou never wore jewelry, and I fancied that she’d decided her ring should be with his rather than on her finger.

I stared at the treasure I had found. Her life. Her memories. I had no idea a love like that could exist in real life. One so deep and intense she never loved another. One so painful she never spoke of it. One so binding she chose to live where he rested simply to be close until she could join him.

I knew her ashes were in a small urn at the funeral home. Sims told me there were instructions for them, and they would be followed. Then he paused and said, “Lou hopes you figure it out. It would mean more.”

I didn’t understand him at the time.

And now I did.

I sat back, emotional and exhausted. I only ever knew Lou as the older, fun-loving “aunt.” Always smiling, laughing, eager to have an adventure and play with me. I wondered sadly if she had lived if we would have opened this box together and she would have told me her story. I had so many questions I would have loved to get answers for. In her journal, at the back, she had tucked a photo of them together. Her with her youthful beauty, and him, older, serious, but looking at her with so much love it hurt my chest. She looked so joyous. Complete. I wished there were more pictures, then remembered Jesse said he had a box that was labeled pictures he would bring over.

I sighed as I recalled him earlier. I was supposed to see him tomorrow at the station. How would he react to me? Would he be cold and removed? Friendly but distant?

I glanced at the photo album, picking it up and reading the little note Lou had written beside the picture of her in the blue polka-dot dress.

“Pure magic,” she wrote. “G couldn’t take his eyes off me.”

I knew who G was now. I looked at the dress lying on the chair, pursed my lips. An idea beckoned, but I shook my head.

It would never work.

My eyes returned to the note.

Pure magic.

Maybe that was what I needed.

Chapter Twenty-Four

JESSE

Iwiped down the last truck, grunting in satisfaction. It gleamed. Everything in the station did, ready for the open house in a few hours. We had all worked to make sure it was sparkling.

Beside me, Miller sat in the sun, his back to me. He wasn’t as happy being at the station this time. His cat friend wasn’t with him. I had told him in the truck to get used to it.