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Please let yourself in. I’ve made sure the heat is on so you shouldn’t be cold. I’ve also left a ledger. There’s quite a bit to organize and catalogue, so I’ll leave that up to you. If you have any questions, I’m working out back in the shop today. Don’t hesitate to come get me. Cooper.
She didn’t know she’d been holding her breath until it fell out of her in a rush. Feeling more than a little silly, she glanced around one last time and then let herself inside. The house was silent, and she quickly doffed her boots and hung up her jacket.
“Hello?” She waited a couple of heartbeats and then, satisfied she was alone, headed for the stairs. The door to the attic was at the far end of the hall, and it was open. She passed Cooper’s bedroom, noting the unmade bed, an open suitcase propped against the wall, and a stack of books beside a dresser.
She wondered what kind of books a man like Cooper Simon would read and then, with a shrug, headed for the narrow stairs that led to the attic. Once she reached the top, she paused, hand on the railing as she drank in a sight that would be an antique lover’s dream. Mouth slightly open, she took a step forward and turned in a full circle.
The space was huge, encompassing the entire breadth of the house, and while there was some open space, most of the area was filled top to bottom. Furniture. Antiques. Paintings. Piles of books. Boxes and trunks. Dishes. Was that a sewing machine?
And there was dust. Lord, but there was dust. She sneezed and shuddered, shaking off a weird sensation as a cold draft blew through the attic.
She wandered among the McLaren belongings, slowly making her way to the far side, and peeked out one of the floor-to-ceiling windows. The sun that filtered through was warm on her face, and she glanced down below. There was an outbuilding, most likely Cooper’s workplace and—was that a face in the window?
She stepped back quickly, nearly falling over a large wooden crate, glad there was no one around to witness her dumb-ass move. What the hell was wrong with her?
“Jesus, Morgan,” she muttered. “Where’s that damn ledger?”
She spied it almost immediately, back near the door, set aside on a small table that also held a compact stereo. Scooping up yet another note left behind in Cooper’s unmistakable penmanship, she quickly read it and turned on the machine.
His iPod was already hooked up, and after selecting one of his playlists—’70’s and ’80’s classics—she smiled as The Eagles filled the silence around her.
Okay. So he had good taste in music. She shrugged and scooped up the ledger. “Whatever.”
Morgan decided the best way to organize the space was to start to her immediate right and work her way around the room. There were several large paintings, a couple from well-known artists (considering she recognized the names, they had to be), and after she gave them a proper dusting with one of the cloths Cooper had left for her, she carried them to the cleared space and propped them against the wall. She decided to gather up all the framed art and pictures she could find and keep them together.
It took a while—there were thirty-one in total—and once she entered them into the ledger, she spied a large steam trunk, partially hidden by an old red velvet throw. Upon closer inspection, she realized the throw was, in fact, drapery, and she folded the fabric, placing it on the floor beside the trunk, sneezing several times as she did so.
The trunk itself was a beautiful
piece, the color of burnt tobacco, with an intricate silver inlay, in bad need of a polish, with the inscription McLaren. It took a bit for her to get it open, and only after major effort did the hinges release and squeak open. Kneeling in front of it, she carefully peeled back several layers of delicate, aged doilies, and then sat there in silence for several long moments. The gentle strains of “Tequila Sunrise” and Glenn Frey’s voice colored the air, but the contents of the trunk held her interest.
There were books—old books from the looks of them—and vintage photos and jewelry and silverware and…
She reached inside and carefully picked up what looked like a small leather-bound portfolio, but when she opened it, Morgan realized it was a journal. The handwriting was delicate and feminine—somewhat girly—and with a wince, she sank back to her haunches and settled into a more comfortable position. The pages were yellowed, discolored with age, but the ink, though faded, was legible. She couldn’t help herself and began to read.
July 4th, 1951
Daddy says I can’t go to the Independence parade on account I was sassing Mother. I’m so mad at him, I swear smoke is coming out of my ears. He knows Thomas will be there, and I’m sure that’s the real reason he won’t let me go. I mean, really, all I did was tell Mother I needed an extra five minutes and then I’d help her peel the potatoes. Anyway, he doesn’t know that I plan on meeting up with Thomas after the fireworks. Right down by the rail ties. I can’t wait. I think I’m in love.
V.P.
Morgan fingered the page and chuckled at that. There were several little hearts drawn around the entry, and with a soft smile curving her lips, she continued to read.
July 5th, 1951
I don’t think anymore. I know I’m in love. I met Thomas down near the rail ties, and he held my hand all the way to the river. He told me that no one had hair like the color of mine and that I had the prettiest eyes he’d ever seen on a girl. My heart keeps fluttering just thinking about how he made me feel. I swear I can hardly get this down on paper except to say that I’m in love with a boy, and I think he’s in love with me. He asked me to next Saturday’s social at the church, and I swear to God, I’m going. Even if it means I have to sew my mouth shut to keep from sassing anyone. I’m going to the social with Thomas McLaren, and I hope he holds my hand again. I especially hope that he kisses me. I get a weird feeling just thinking about it. Wish me luck.
V.P.
Morgan read several more entries—enough to know that the young girl had indeed kept herself from sassing either one of her parents—and that she’d gone to the social. Not only that, but Thomas McLaren had kissed her for so long and so sweetly, she’d “darn near passed out.”
She would have kept reading, but her leg was cramping something fierce, and Morgan supposed she should get back to it. She was just about to get up when a creak on the stairs told her she wasn’t alone. She froze and gulped down a strangled breath when Cooper appeared with a tray of food.
“Thought you might be ready for lunch.” Cooper’s deep voice was warm, and those eyes of his found her immediately.
He wore a pair of old, worn jeans, a white T-shirt, and a red-and-black-plaid button-down shirt. His hair was rumpled, and he’d not shaved since she last saw him. Their gazes connected, and for a moment, it felt as if all the sound had been sucked from the room, leaving her slightly off-balance.
Not liking the sensation, Morgan shook her head and winced as the music filtered back in. No longer The Eagles, the heavy guitars of AC/DC filled her ears.
