Total pages in book: 132
Estimated words: 135300 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 677(@200wpm)___ 541(@250wpm)___ 451(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 135300 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 677(@200wpm)___ 541(@250wpm)___ 451(@300wpm)
With every room, every day that passes without finding anything, the anxiety wound around my throat tightens.
At least I’m not alone in the hunt.
When he isn’t tightening doors and cabinets or touching up little dents in the walls, Kane helps out.
He’s better at this than I am, too.
Even if he cracks his dumb Dad jokes while I’m turning blue with frustration.
The way I groan or laugh painfully forces me to take a break, to breathe, to stop myself from ripping my hair out over nothing turning up again.
“Thanks for roughing it up here with me,” I tell him now as he wipes dust off his chin.
It’s hard to breathe without coughing thanks to decades of accumulated particles thrown into the air by every footstep.
A single bright bulb dangles from the middle of the attic, which we’re searching a second time.
Yesterday, I poked my head up here for the first time and started pawing through old furniture and boxes of broken toys I haven’t seen since I was five. I gave up and didn’t bother with another pass.
But this is the last major area we haven’t picked to the bone and it’s a natural storage space. So yes, it warrants a second sweep.
Incredibly, Kane hasn’t complained once while we’re stumbling through fifty years of cobwebs. All so he can help me comb through family debris he’s not even connected to.
His eyes meet mine over a pile of boxes we’ve turned out.
“I’d say it’s my pleasure, but we both know that would be a lie.”
And we all know how he feels about lies.
“What? You mean you’re not having the time of your life?” I wipe my forehead, smearing dust everywhere. “Need some water?”
He holds out a hand for the bottle, which I toss to him.
His throat moves when he rips the cap off and drinks, and his eyes close.
Ugh!
A man drinking water has no business looking this erotic.
“Think we’re almost done. We’re getting to the end of that last stack,” he says, lowering the bottle and glancing at the pile of books he was flipping through.
Gramps was an avid book collector and I think my grandma was too. There are a ton of old overflow books from the fifties packed away up here. Mostly editions of old classics, American lit, and some thrillers from the eighties with fun cheesy covers of explosions and bloodied hands gripping knives.
My book crazy bestie and sister-in-law would die from joy.
I just want to shower off all this muck. We’ll talk about donating the books later.
If I never have to smell musty pages again for the next decade, I’m cool.
Over in the corner, behind the boxes, there’s a painting propped against the wall. I’ve noticed it a few times, but I doubt that’s the awesome secret.
I shuffle over and shake away the worst of the dust before I remove the grey tarp and gently turn it over.
I’m confronted with a picture so pretty I gasp.
It’s a striking scene: brilliant blue sky, lively yellow flowers, and lavender rioting across green grass.
In the center, next to the flowers, there’s a pair of little white shoes. They could be kids’ shoes, judging by the small size.
The big grey tabby cat sprawled out next to them adds to the sense of size, sleeping in the shade of a tree at the edge of the flowery field.
The Maine countryside.
Possibly a familiar place, if that’s the same lake I think it is in the distance.
It must be this house, a long time ago, back when it was full of love and life with perfectly maintained gardens that stretched down to the water.
“What did you find?” Kane joins me.
“Just an old painting.”
“That’s a stunner. Damn, those colors—looks like it was just finished yesterday. What’s up with the shoes? Sophie had a pair almost like that when she was a baby.”
“No idea. It’s a little odd.”
I tilt my head, studying the scene.
There’s something familiar about the style, too, though I can’t pin it down.
Did they hire someone to paint the backyard?
I gently wipe more dust off the glass frame, revealing the signature, and frown.
Where have I seen this before?
Another painting at Mom’s house comes to mind. But this one was a close-up of vibrant red flowers in a tall white urn with wavy blue stripes.
It might’ve had the same signature.
No, I’m sure it did. Just like this one, it’s gold, and I’ve seen that art a thousand times.
“Huh,” I mutter, sinking down on my knees.
“You think this is it? Your holy relic?” Kane’s gaze sharpens.
“No, but… I think my grandma might’ve painted this. I never knew her. She died a long time ago.”
I look closer at the corner and wipe more stray dust until a gold signature pops out.
May Blackthorn.
My heart skips.
Gramps called me May until his dying day. Because I reminded him of my late grams in spirit, he told me.