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Mr. Jameson cleared his throat. Mrs. Jameson snapped her head up to glare at him. “Sherry, you need to show them the closet,” Mr. Jameson told her.
“John, no!”
“Sherry,” he said in a stern, warning tone.
Mrs. Jameson sighed. “Come with me, girls.” She pulled me gently from my chair and led us toward the stairs. “John, stir those peas,” she called over her shoulder.
Mrs. Jameson led us upstairs, past an impeccably decorated master bedroom done in mauves and creams, into a smaller guest bedroom. Jane informed me that this had been her room until she left for college. Her mother had only removed Jane’s boy-band posters and unicorn figurines the year before when Jane got married.
“Now, Jane, I don’t want you to think I don’t appreciate the things that you give me,” her mother said, standing as a human shield between us and Jane’s old closet.
“Just open the door, Mama.”
Mrs. Jameson cringed as she turned the doorknob. The closet was packed floor to ceiling with various gift boxes. It was like that scene from Raiders of the Lost Ark, where the Ark of the Covenant was packed away with rows and rows of other priceless treasures. Jane was looking at the preserved remains of every gift-giving occasion since her elementary-school days.
And given the way her mouth was hanging open, I don’t think that made her very happy.
“We just have different tastes in décor,” Mrs. Jameson offered weakly.
Instead of throwing a box-pitching tantrum, as I expected, Jane burst out laughing. She bent at the waist and guffawed like a deranged hyena. “When I think of all the time I spent in Pier One!” she exclaimed. “You’re on a strict diet of gift cards from now on.”
Mrs. Jameson bit her lip and nodded. “I think that would be best.”
“Why not just sell them at a garage sale? Or give them away?” Jane demanded.
“Well, that would be rude!” Mrs. Jameson cried.
“Bet you don’t put Jenny’s gifts in a closet,” Jane muttered.
“Don’t start that,” her mother warned her.
“OK, so are these in chronological order?” Jane sighed. “If I dig deep enough, will I find the clay handprint I made for you in kindergarten?”
Since Jane seemed to find the situation funny, Mrs. Jameson had relaxed a bit and stopped trying to wedge herself between us and her trove of rejected treasures. “No, there’s no order to it. It was sort of like playing Jenga with gift boxes. I just stacked it however it would fit.”
Jane shot an amused glance my way and rolled up her sleeves. “I hope you like tedious stacking games, Nola.”
* * *
I bloody hated Jenga.
We’d been through nearly every box in the closet, and so far, we’d found tea towels, sets of bath products in various smells, and a frightening number of angel figurines.
“I thought you collected these!” Jane exclaimed, chucking another reject over her shoulder.
“No, your grandmother used to give them to me every year, and I didn’t have the heart to tell her that I found them downright creepy,” Mrs. Jameson confessed with a shudder. “And then you girls got to the age when you started buying us gifts, and you sort of latched onto the angels. And by then, it was too late.”
“I need to take a break,” Jane muttered. “Mama, do you still keep the—”
“Faux Type O, red label, in the vegetable crisper,” Mrs. Jameson assured her. “Nola, can I get you something?”
“More water, please?” I asked, smiling despite the fact that my teeth still tingled a bit from the sucrose assault on my dental enamel.
I heard their voices fade as they descended the stairs. I flopped back onto the guest bed and closed my eyes. My head felt cloudy, and my nose itched from all the dust in the closet. How in the bloody hell did I get here? I wondered. Lying in some strangers’ guest room, rifling through their unwanted knickknacks. Just a few weeks ago, I’d had a normal life with a normal job. Well, seminormal. I was able to pretend well enough that Stephen hadn’t run for the hills.
Aw, hellfire, I’d forgotten to call Stephen again.
He was going to be furious with me! And rightly so. I’d been in town for days, and I had only called him once. Even after my shirtless Neanderthal neighbor mocked our relationship, I’d just sloughed off to bed and fallen asleep. This did not bode well. It boded . . . very badly.
