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I glance across the room to the bed that isn’t quite made. The covers are half pulled up, and one pillow is on the floor, but that’s not new for Sin. Keeping things in order isn’t her strong suit.
“Sure.” I reach down and grab two boxes. “Works for me.”
She follows my lead and scoops up another box. “Little by little, we’ll sort through Denia’s life.”
“It’s a big life to sort through, isn’t it?”
She smiles softly. “If I live half the life your grandmother did, I’ll consider myself lucky.”
I feel the same way.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
Sinclair
I tug open the lid of the box with ‘Guestroom’ written on it since that’s where we came from.
Jameson decided to yank open one of the boxes marked ‘Kitchen.’ So far, he’s pulled a cracked yellow spatula shaped like a star out of it and a small cookie jar that looks like a koala bear.
I couldn’t help but laugh at the sight of both of those things since Denia Sheppard was the definition of elegance and class. It feels like the box came into her possession by accident at some point, and it was shoved into the closet and forgotten.
Jameson holds up a piece of yellowed newspaper. “Get a load of this, Sin. This is the front page of the Times from a day sixty years ago.”
I lean forward and reach out a hand. “Are you serious? Give it to me.”
He holds it just out of my reach as he clears his throat. “I’ll read the headline to you.”
“No.” I swipe that idea away with a swat of my finger. “Let me see, Jameson. Please.”
That last word is enough to grant me my wish. He shoves the newspaper at me, and I happily accept it because I consider it a gift.
This is a rich piece of history.
I glance down at the headline and the byline. It’s a reporter that died years ago. I know because when I was a kid, I heard all about the history of The New York Times from a sitter.
My mom asked our retired neighbor to watch over me after school most days, and she loved the newspaper. She’d bring over her daily copy, and then while I thumbed through it, she would tell me about when she worked for the paper. She had more stories than time, so when I went to college to study journalism and English Literature, I often stopped by her apartment to hear more of her tales while I told her about my assignments.
If she were still alive today, I’d gather the scraps of the newspaper that someone used as packing material and go over to her place.
“My grandmother must have packed this box up back then.” Jameson rubs his forehead. “That would have been right around the time she got married.”
I stare at him. “You think Denia used that spatula? Can you picture her pulling a cookie out of that koala bear?”
His gaze drops to the box. “Wait a second.”
I try to peer into it to see what he’s staring at, but he doesn’t give me a chance. His hand is out and clutching onto something before I can register what’s going on.
A square picture rests in his palm. He can’t tear his gaze from it. “Jesus, Sinclair. You should see this.”
“Show me,” I whisper.
Holding it by a corner, he turns the picture to face me. It’s a black and white photograph of a dark-haired woman wearing a blouse and a skirt. Her hair is tucked into a tight bun on the top of her head, and there’s an apron around her waist.
“That’s my grandmother,” he says in a low tone. “I think that’s Denia.”
I pluck the picture from him and draw it closer to study it. The woman is so young. She can’t be older than I am now, and the smile on her face is beaming from ear to ear. The star-shaped spatula is in one of her hands, and a bowl is tucked into the crevice of her opposite elbow.
“There’s something written on the back of it.” Jameson reaches to take it back.
I’m too quick though. I turn it around and read what’s written in masculine handwriting. “My darling D experimenting. Mint chocolate bites. Attempt number one.”
Jameson snatches the picture away, this time to study the handwriting. “Mint chocolate bites were Carden’s first product.”
I gaze at his face because I hear the tremor in his voice.
“My granddad wrote this,” he whispers. “This is his handwriting. I’d recognize it anywhere.”
I nod. “I think we just found a treasure. It’s a piece of Carden’s history.”
“Yeah.” A smile ghosts his lips. “I think you’re right, Sin.”
I thought the spatula and picture Jameson found were treasures, but I just stumbled on something that put both to shame.
I stare at the item resting in the box that I tugged open.
Is this real?
