Total pages in book: 143
Estimated words: 138881 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 694(@200wpm)___ 556(@250wpm)___ 463(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 138881 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 694(@200wpm)___ 556(@250wpm)___ 463(@300wpm)
18
ONE A DAY
CORBIN
After I set the rags on the kitchen counter, I study the cookie jar as if it’s an ancient artifact. Maybe it is. It’s ceramic, a little chipped, and the shape of a strawberry, with a cap that looks like leaves. I don’t think the strip club owners left it behind. But then, who left this?
Gently, I shake it, and something moves inside, but the sound is muted. It’s not full of marbles, then, or petrified cookies. But it holds something.
My heart beats a little faster. Grabbing the towels and holding the jar tight, I return to the front of the bakery. “There’s something other than cookies in it,” I tell Mabel, brandishing the jar while handing Mabel the rags. “I don’t know what.”
She takes the ripped-up cloth but doesn’t move, just stares at the strawberry, curiosity lighting her eyes. “You found that?”
I figured that was obvious, but she sounds transfixed, maybe even freaked out, so I stick to the facts. “Yes. Do you want to clean up the paint first before you open it?”
She shakes her head—not a no, but like she’s shaking off cobwebs. She quickly swipes the paint off her feet, then the floor, saying, “I know you hate messes.”
Huh? That’s what she’s worried about now? “It’s fine. I swear it’s fine. I didn’t want the jar to get paint on it, or for us to slip in the mess and break it,” I explain, as she sets the rags on the drop cloth neatly, more neatly than I’d expected.
But her focus snaps back to the jar. She points at it, shifting away from the mess altogether. “You really found that?”
“I did,” I say, sensing she knows what this is. It’s something precious, judging from the look in Mabel’s eyes. They’re so wide her pupils look blown.
“My grandmother loved strawberries,” she whispers.
The meaning of those words echoes loudly, full of a dangerous hope. The kind you don’t really want to let yourself feel because it’s so easy to be let down. The kind of hope that believes in cures. That believes in a gift from the other side.
Could an old, chipped cookie jar really be so much more? No. No way. Everything rational and logical in me screams to make sure Mabel doesn’t get her hopes up. Even though I think they already are. “Mabel, this is probably nothing,” I say, calm and measured. “It could be receipts. Or flour. Or just—”
“I don’t care. I want it,” she says, her voice desperate. She’s frozen as if she’s afraid to take another step toward it. A hush falls between us. A new tune plays—something sultry, moody—and I swear I can hear her heartbeat.
So much for tempering expectations. “Do you want me to open it?”
She swallows, nibbles on the corner of her lips, then nods several times. “Please.”
There’s a tremble in her voice. She’s already ten steps down this road. But I just can’t let myself believe this contains some kind of treasure. Someone needs to be the realist.
Still, I’m careful as I wiggle off the top, though what would I disturb? Junk maybe? Rubber bands? Piping nozzles? “It’s probably just…recipes.” But wouldn’t that be something?
“I love recipes,” Mabel says breathlessly.
And yeah, that was a bad example.
“It’s likely some paperwork on the firehouse,” I say, lifting the top the rest of the way.
I peer inside. I’m holding my breath now, like an intrepid explorer in a treasure hunt flick when he steps into a cave and discovers more than dust. My pulse spikes as I reach inside, wrapping my hand carefully around a stack of paper that’s not paperwork at all.
“Mabel, I think there are letters in here.”
She clasps her hand over her mouth, gasping, then whispering so quietly I can barely hear her. “Are you sure?”
Sure, this stack could be someone’s handwritten poetry or a novel. But I’m staring at a stack of letters, postcards, and maybe greeting cards, tied with a ribbon. “I think so.”
The proof is in the looking though, so I take out the stack. They smell like old paper and time, with maybe a hint of something floral. I close the distance between us and offer her the bundle, tied with a shiny ribbon around the middle.
She swallows again and looks at the ribbon, then up at me. “It’s lilac. The ribbon color.”
Since that’s her favorite color, this discovery has to be from someone who knew her. Someone who loved her. “Is it from your grandmother?”
She runs a finger along the bow, then slips it aside, revealing a Post-it note. “Oh my god, Corbin! It’s my grandma’s handwriting. The same writing that was on the Post-it on the deed. Holy shit, holy shit, holy shit.”
With shaking fingers, she peels off the note and holds it out to me. “Read it. I need to know I’m not hallucinating.”