Lost and Found: (A Ripple Effect Romance Novella) (7 page)

His cell phone interrupted the chaos of his thoughts.

“Hello.”

“Blake,” Brynn said. “Have you looked at your email?”

“I haven’t had a chance.”

“If you’re going to skip out for two extra days, the least you could do is check your email.”

“Sorry. What is it?” Blake’s mind was now completely on work.

“Mary Challis is threatening to back out if we don’t put her stock percentage back to 35 percent.”

“That’s only two percent more. Is she really willing to lose this whole deal for two percent?”

“If you were here, you could ask her that in one of her every-fifteen-minutes phone calls.” Brynn was angry.

Blake sighed. “I thought we had these numbers squared away.”

“Well clearly we don’t. You need to call her. I hate to rain on your little treasure hunt parade, but if this falls through, you can pretty much kiss partnership goodbye. I called her and tried to calm her down, but she’s upset. She said if she doesn’t get the attention she deserves, she’ll call another firm. This is big, Blake.”

“I know it is.”

“I forwarded Mary Challis’s email to you. Two hours ago. If you’re smart, you’ll get on the phone and talk some sense into her. Sooner rather than later.”

“Thanks, Brynn.”

“Don’t thank me. I’m just here at the office doing my job.”

“I’ll call her right now.”

He hung up the phone. No matter what he did, he was letting someone down. By not going, he’d disappointed his grandfather. Now he’d left his firm in a bind. A headache was starting behind his eyes. “I’ve got to pull over at the next exit and make a phone call.”

“Problems?”

Blake glanced over at Lydia’s concerned face. He gave her a wry smile. “Yeah. Sixteen million of them.”

Blake took the next freeway exit, pulled off to the side of the road, and scrolled through his emails. Lydia watched his face change from concerned to panic-stricken in about two minutes. She wished she could offer some sort of support, but she didn’t know how he’d react to her intruding on his thoughts, so she stayed quiet.

“Mary,” he said after he dialed her number. “It sounds like we need to talk.” He paused. “I can understand that. I thought you were happy with the numbers we’d worked out.” Pause. “No, I didn’t decide to take my vacation in the middle of your deal.” Blake sighed. Back and forth they went for another ten minutes. Lydia could tell from Blake’s side of the conversation that she was finally calming down. “All right, Mary. I’ll see you at 8:30 on Wednesday. Don’t worry about it between now and then. Everything’s going to work out fine.”

Blake hung up then called Brynn to give her the details of the phone call. A few minutes later, they pulled back onto the freeway.

“Sorry about that,” he said.

“Sounds very stressful,” Lydia said.

Blake rubbed the bridge of his nose, a move Lydia had seen every time he’d dealt with work. “Money can make people irrational.”

“Then we’d better hope this box isn’t filled with money,” Lydia said.

Blake laughed. “Maybe I should have become a school teacher.” He looked sheepish. “That was pretty thoughtless. I’m sure teaching a bunch of fifth graders is plenty stressful.”

“It has its moments, but I think I’d rather deal with 28 fifth graders than be responsible for multimillion dollar deals. Most of the time, you can get a fifth grader to behave by promising them a brownie or an extra recess.”

“Maybe I should take Mary a box of brownies Wednesday. Do you think that would help her see things clearly?”

“It depends on how much she likes brownies,” Lydia said. “It would certainly help me see things more clearly. Oh, you need to get off the next exit.”

Boone was a picturesque town in the Blue Ridge Mountains. The streets were blacktop stripes on a canvas that included every color of green from the darker shades of the trees and bushes to the lawns so saturated and bright they almost hurt your eyes.

“She lives a little outside of town,” Lydia said. They passed a statue of Daniel Boone and three steepled churches before they turned east. The downtown district was charming and vibrant. Somehow it had avoided the forsaken, dilapidated condition of many older small towns. The brick and clapboard storefronts gave way to tidy old homes with neat yards. At the edge of town, occasional houses appeared tucked behind thick foliage. “I think it’s that house right there,” Lydia said.

At the top of a small knoll was a white, two-story farmhouse, complete with a covered, wraparound porch. “Nice place,” Blake said.

“I love it. It looks like it belongs on a postcard.”

They took the steps to the front door. The house was worn and in need of a fresh coat of paint, but that didn’t rob it of its appeal. Blake knocked on the door.

A trim, dark-haired woman answered the door. Her high cheekbones and large eyes took her from unremarkable to interesting. “Come in,” she said and held the door open. “I’m Francie.”

“I’m Blake, and this is Lydia.”

They followed Francie through an archway to what had probably once been called the parlor. Wood trim and walls gave it a rich feeling in spite of the dull paint and worn rugs. The furniture was old but clean. A cold, dark fireplace flanked with built-in wood bookshelves anchored one end of the small room. Books filled the shelves and several more were stacked on the coffee table.

“Please, sit down.”

Blake and Lydia took two overstuffed chairs that faced the window. Francie sat in the corner of the couch and pulled her feet up underneath her. Late afternoon sunshine slanted through the room from behind her, making her expression impossible to read.

“Francie.” A man’s voice called from another room. “Francie, who is it?” His voice sounded urgent and irritated. Something fell and made a crashing sound.

“I’m sorry. My husband’s in a wheelchair. I’d better make sure he’s okay.” Francie left the room, and they heard hushed voices for a minute before she returned.

“My grandmother never mentioned that someone would be coming to take her box of letters,” Francie said as she walked back into the room. “Forgive my curiosity, but could you tell me again why I’m supposed to give them to you?”

Blake shifted in his chair uncomfortably and explained what his grandfather had told him. “I didn’t know it was a box of letters. I just know my grandfather thought I needed what was in the box.”

“There’s more than just letters. There are other mementos in there, too. Including an engagement ring.”

“I didn’t know.”

“I’ve read the letters and looked through the box. I’m not sure why your grandfather thought you should have it, but I suppose he had his reasons. Of course, I’m sad to part with them, but I don’t want to go against their wishes.”

“Thank you,” Blake said. “I’m sorry to take—“

Francie held up her hand to stop him. “Please. All I ask is that, if you decide you don’t want or need them anymore, I’d like them to come back to me.”

“Of course,” Blake said.

“I read in a book once that letters are a priceless part of someone’s history. Too many people discard them without realizing what a treasure they are. I don’t want them to be lost.”

“I understand.”

Francie left the room again. When she returned, she held an old shoe box with the words Enna Jettick on both ends. The cardboard corners were velvety with wear. “I’m guessing this is the box he meant. The letters are from Elliott to my grandmother.” It was strange to hear this stranger call his grandfather by his first name.

“Thank you, Francie. I know it must be difficult turning these over to a stranger, but I promise you, I’ll take good care of them.”

Francie swallowed hard and gave a short nod. She didn’t sit back down, so Lydia and Blake stood. Francie handed the box to Blake then moved to the front door.

“It was nice to meet you,” Lydia said as she left. Blake shook Francie’s hand, and they walked quietly to the car. Francie closed the door behind them.

Blake handed Lydia the box when they were in the car. Neither of them spoke until they’d turned the corner off Francie’s street.

“That was so sad,” Lydia finally said, her hand over her heart.

“I felt terrible. I wouldn’t have taken them if it hadn’t been so important to Grandpa. It’s like I was ripping her heart out. I hope this isn’t all she has from her grandma.”

“I’m sure it’s not,” Lydia said, trying to reassure him. “But I think these were special. She’d read them all.”

“Thank you for coming with me, Lydia. It helped having you there.”

Lydia ran her hand over the old shoe box on her lap. She resisted the urge to open it and look inside. It wasn’t hers to look through.

Blake swung the car in a wide turn and headed back the direction they’d come. “I don’t know if I can wait ‘til we get back to the hotel. Let’s get a piece of the world’s best apple pie a la mode and take a look. He pulled the car into the side parking lot of a diner. The sign on the front actually said they served the world’s best apple pie a la mode.

“That’s a pretty bold claim,” Lydia said.

“I’m not sure they can prove that, but it probably helps them sell pie,” Blake said.

The diner was brightly lit, and the scent of apples and cinnamon gave credibility to the billboard. It smelled delicious. They requested a booth in the back and ordered two ice waters and two pieces of apple pie with vanilla ice cream.

“Let’s wait and open it after we eat,” Blake said. “I don’t want to spill on anything.” He put the box by the salt and pepper and sugar packets then pulled out his phone. “Sorry. I’d better be sure there hasn’t been another crisis.” He scrolled through his emails. The waitress brought them their pie and ice water. Blake ignored the pie while he typed into his phone.

Lydia took a bite and moaned. “I think the sign is accurate,” she said.

“That good, huh?”

“Try it.”

Blake finished his email and tucked his phone back in his pocket before he pulled his plate closer and took a bite.

“Wow,” he said over the pie in his mouth. When he swallowed, he continued. “Definitely the best I’ve ever had.”

“This is heavenly,” Lydia said. “It’s a good thing there’s not one of these in Bridger. I’d be in trouble.” She looked at Blake to see if he was enjoying the pie as much as she was. He was watching her, a small smile turning up the corner of his mouth. “What?” she said, wiping her mouth with a napkin.

“Nothing.”

“Do I have food on my face?” she asked.

“Huh uh,” Blake said, shaking his head.

“What then? Why are you looking at me like that?”

“Cause you’re nice to look at.” Lydia felt the color rise in her cheeks, and Blake’s smile widened.

“Knock it off,” she said. “Eat your pie.”

“I am,” he said, taking another bite. “I wasn’t trying to embarrass you. Just calling it like I see it.”

Lydia rolled her eyes. “Says the man who looks like a movie star.” Blake shook his head. “Just calling it like I see it,” Lydia said.

When the pie was gone, Blake stacked the plates and put them at the end of the booth. “Let’s see what we’ve got here.” He held the shoe box on the table in front of him. “I’m almost afraid to open it. Do you mind if I come sit by you, so we can look together?”

Was he kidding? “Of course I don’t mind.” Lydia scooted closer to the wall. Blake slid in beside her. Their legs were touching and his arm brushed hers as he moved, making it hard to think about the box or its contents. She could barely remember her name.

Blake slid the box so it was centered between them and gently removed the lid. About twenty letters were bound together with a pale blue ribbon. The front envelope was postmarked Denver, 1947. The letter was addressed in a long, elegant cursive to Gladys Renari. Blake took the bundle out and placed it beside the box. Lydia pulled out a program from an orchestra concert at Boston University. The paper was yellowed and brittle. Blake leaned closer to look at it. “That must be from when he was in medical school,” he said. Lydia put it beside the letters on the table.

The waitress brought a pitcher of water to refill their glasses. “No thanks,” Blake said as he held up his hand to stop her. Blake moved the glasses to the edge of the table so she could take them. Next, he pulled out two tickets. “Look at this. Boston Celtics tickets from 1946. Grandpa said he was there for their first season. He never would cheer for the Nuggets. Always cheered for the Celtics.” He handed the tickets to Lydia.

There was a small lavender and white striped box that said, “Griffin Shoe Wax.” Blake opened the lid and tipped its contents into his hand. It was a dried rose. It had probably been red at one time, but now it was a deep russet color. He put the rose back in the box and handed it to Lydia.

Next, he brought out two black and white photographs. “Is that your grandpa?” Lydia asked, leaning in a little closer.

“Yes.” Blake turned the first picture over.

“Elliott Knowles and Gladys Renari. 1946,” Lydia read. They were standing, arms around each other, smiling in front of a sleek, two-door Studebaker. The second picture showed Blake’s grandpa in a graduation cap and gown, Gladys standing proudly beside him.

“They look really happy,” Lydia said.