TEN
A
lockbox under a loose floorboard sounded
intriguing to Darius, but Catherine didn’t mention it as he drove her home and
escorted her inside. Tense and pensive, she walked through the silent house,
letting him check each room and closet, window and door. The place was locked up
tight, the security system working.
“Everything looks good. You can go ahead and grab what you
need. Take a shower if you want. I’d like to go to my place and do the same when
we’re finished here.”
She nodded and retreated up the stairs.
He thought about following, but she needed space and he needed
to sit. His leg throbbed insistently, the endless ache making him long for his
recliner and an ice pack. He dropped into a rocking chair in the sparsely
furnished living room, rubbing his thigh until the muscles eased.
Water ran somewhere in the house, the hushed sound strangely
homey. Darius had been on his own since he’d run away from his last foster home
at seventeen. He’d lived with a few housemates, done the communal living thing
in the military. Since then, he’d lived alone. That worked for him. His job put
high demands on his time, and he kept odd hours. Living alone meant doing his
thing without fear of disturbing a housemate. There were times, though, when he
craved company and noise, times when the demons of the past would have been more
easily fought with someone else.
A floorboard creaked on the stairs, Catherine’s soft footfall
announcing her return. She walked past the living room, retreating down the
hall. He followed, watching as she stretched to reach a teapot sitting on top of
a worn china cabinet. Her black T-shirt rode up, revealing creamy white skin
above her faded jeans. A faint purple scar snaked from her back down toward her
hipbone. She teetered on her tiptoes, grasping the handle of the pot, but not
quite getting it over the wooden edge of the cabinet.
“Let me.” He put a hand on her waist, holding her steady as he
reached over her head and grabbed the pot. It felt heavy and full, nothing
rattling as he put the chipped blue-and-white kettle into Catherine’s hands.
“Thanks.” She nearly pivoted into his chest, her damp hair
brushing his chin, the scent of apples-and-spring rain drifting around her. His
hand lay against warm, bare skin, his fingers curved over the scar.
“You’ve got quite a scar here.”
“I had kidney cancer when I was four. Fortunately, the tumor
was contained. I haven’t had a problem since.”
“Glad to hear it,” he responded, tugging her closer. It seemed
completely natural to trail his hand along her side, exploring the curve of her
waist.
She froze, her muscles taut, her eyes deep blue and wary.
“Relax, Kitty-cat. I don’t bite.” He let her go reluctantly,
smiling as fire replaced the wariness in her eyes.
“Don’t call me that.”
“Eileen does.”
“She used to. When I was in elementary school.”
“She did today, too,” he pointed out.
“I know. I hope...”
“What?”
“That it doesn’t mean anything.” She walked into the kitchen
and placed the kettle on the small table, lifting the lid and looking
inside.
“Wow,” she breathed, pulling out a roll of cash.
“She’s been saving for a rainy day.”
“I guess so.” She set the money on the table, then turned the
kettle upside down. A key and a necklace dropped out. She lifted the delicate
gold chain, studied the small ivory rose that hung from it.
“I guess that means something special to her.”
“I’ve never seen her wear it. Eileen isn’t a jewelry kind of
woman.” She dropped it into the kettle and grabbed the key.
“Did you think she was a lockbox-under-the-bed kind of woman?”
he asked.
“No. Eileen has always been an open book. She says what she
thinks and doesn’t hold her punches. I didn’t think she had any secrets, but I
guess I was wrong.” She shoved the money into the kettle, the bills barely
fitting through the opening.
“You’re not going to count it?”
“Why would I? I’m not going to spend any of it. It’s
Eileen’s.”
“Curiosity?” He’d have counted it. Then again, he’d have taken
the necklace to the hospital and asked Eileen about it.
“I’m curious, but I respect my grandmother’s privacy.
Obviously, she put this here for a reason, and I’m not going to count it or
think of ways we could use it.” She tried to replace the kettle, going up on
tiptoes again, her deep red hair brushing her collar as she stretched up on bare
toes.
He took it from her hands again, setting it back in place, and
doing his very best not to notice the warmth of Catherine’s body as he leaned
over her. Trying not to inhale deeply as the scent of apples-and-rain filled his
nose.
“Thanks. Again.” She walked out of the room, and he knew he
shouldn’t follow. This was her gig, her grandmother, their secrets that were
about to be uncovered.
He followed anyway, walking up the stairs and into a small
bedroom that looked out over the backyard. Sunlight splashed across the
wide-planked wood floor, dust drifting lazily in its beams. The place looked
abandoned, the lone bed covered with a single sheet. No pillow. No curtains.
Nothing that would indicate that anyone ever used the room.
“This was her room before she got too weak to walk up and down
the stairs. When I realized how ill she was, I set things up downstairs to make
life a little easier on her,” Catherine said as if she thought he might need an
explanation.
She didn’t ask him why he’d followed, and she didn’t demand
that he leave. Maybe he was making progress, though he wasn’t quite sure what
kind of progress he wanted to make.
Catherine intrigued him. That was for sure.
“I guess I’d better get the box.” She dropped onto her hands
and knees, scooted under the bed until only her legs were showing. Good thing
she was so small. There wasn’t much space between the box spring and the floor.
She rustled around for a moment, and something knocked against the bed. Her
head? The board?
Finally, she scooted back out, dust coating her hair and smudge
on her cheeks. “I think I’m going to have to move the bed. I found the board,
but there’s not enough space to lift it.”
She didn’t ask for help, and she didn’t wait for him to offer.
She grabbed the heavy headboard and dragged the bed, the muscles in her slender
arms popping with the effort.
“Want some help?” he asked, and she shook her head.
“I can manage.”
“There are a lot of things that you can manage, Catherine. That
doesn’t mean you should. Especially not when you’re in a hurry and managing on
your own means taking extra time.” He grabbed the footboard and pulled with her,
the bed moving easily with their combined strength.
“Thanks. These old beds were built solid.” She knelt, touching
one floorboard and then another. “This is the one.” She wiggled the loose board,
managed to get her fingers between it and the one beside it, then flipped it,
revealing a thick floor joist with spaces on either side.
“Is it there?” He crouched beside her, spotting the rusted
lockbox before she responded.
“It looks old. Of course, everything in the house is old.” She
lifted it, set it on the floor. Small and rectangular, made of painted metal, it
didn’t look like it could keep anyone out.
“I can see why she hid it. It wouldn’t take much to open it.
Key or no key.”
“I can’t believe she had anything worth hiding.” Catherine
lifted the box, studying the rusted top, turning it over to look at the bottom.
She didn’t seem in any hurry to open it.
“Want me to unlock it for you?”
“No need to be impatient, Darius,” she responded lightly,
turning the box again.
“I’m not impatient. I’m curious.”
Catherine was curious, too. She was also terrified. Eileen
didn’t keep secrets. She’d always said that she didn’t believe in them.
Hiding things from people only leads to
trouble.
Eileen had said that more times than Catherine could count, but
she’d been hiding a locked box under her bed. Based on the layer of dust coating
it, she’d been hiding it for a long time.
Catherine wiped the dust away, studying the grime on her finger
because it was easier than opening the box and learning Eileen’s secrets.
“You okay?” Darius touched her wrist, his fingers broad and tan
and warm. If she told him to leave, he would. She was sure of that, but she
didn’t want to be alone any more than she wanted to open the box.
Fear beat a hollow rhythm in her chest, the aching pressure of
it stealing her breath. Not fear of the box or the secrets, fear for Eileen.
Fear for what she’d said and what that might mean. Fear that today or tomorrow
or the next day might be Eileen’s last.
“What will I do when she dies?” she said out loud, her hand
shaking as she shoved the key into the lock and turned it.
“You’ll miss her, but you’ll go on.” His hand settled on the
small of her back. Reassuring and light, not demanding anything.
“I had all these dreams when I heard I was going to be released
from prison. I thought I’d come back and fix up the house for Eileen. I’d move
to a little cottage on the beach, and Eileen would visit me there, and I’d visit
her here. When she was too old to keep up with the house, she’d come stay with
me. I had it all planned out, but nothing is like I thought it would be.” The
box top sprang open, and she stared at the papers inside. Lifted them slowly.
Not sure she wanted to read what they said.
A will, maybe?
Eileen didn’t have much to leave to anyone.
Or, at least, Catherine didn’t think she had much.
They’d always struggled, always just managed to make it through
the week, the month, the years. There’d been no extra for lessons or fancy
clothes or new cars. As far as Catherine had known, Eileen’s waitressing job had
been just enough to get by.
Of course, as far as Catherine had known, there was no lockbox,
no hidden cash, no necklace made of gold and ivory.
The heaviness in her chest intensified a she lifted the papers
and set them on the dusty floor. Five one-hundred-dollar bills lay in the bottom
of the box along with two wedding bands. A tiny thin one and a thicker one, both
of them silver. Neither was engraved, and she could only guess that they had
belonged to her parents. A gold charm bracelet lay in the corner of the box.
Baby booties and a flower and a graduation cap. Eileen’s? Catherine’s
mother’s?
She didn’t know, and that frustrated her more than she wanted
to admit.
“Family treasures?” Darius asked as she set the box down and
lifted the stack of papers.
“I guess so. I don’t remember ever seeing any of them before.
The rings might have belonged to my parents.”
“You were young when they died, right?”
“Five, and they didn’t just die. My father murdered my mother
and then committed suicide.” It wasn’t something she mentioned often. She’d been
too young to remember much about her parents. The memories she did have were
happy ones. Playing on the swing set in the backyard, riding on her father’s
shoulders, playing hide-and-seek with her mother.
“I’m sorry.”
“I am, too, but it doesn’t really seem like it happened to my
family. My parents always seemed happy, and that’s the way I remember them.”
“I’m glad all your memories are good ones. Not everyone has
that.” He smiled, and her pulse jumped in response.
She ignored it and tried to ignore him as she thumbed through
the papers.
A newspaper article about her parents’ deaths.
An unused bus ticket from Oregon to Pine Bluff. A wedding
photograph with her parents’ wedding date and names scrawled in the corner.
“Are those your folks?” Darius asked, leaning in so close she
could feel every muscle in his arm, every breath that he took, feel him settling
into that place in her heart. The place she hadn’t let anyone touch since
Peter’s betrayal.
“Yes.”
“They were kids.”
“He was nineteen. She was sixteen.” And she was obviously
pregnant, her stomach burgeoning out from the too-tight dress she wore.
“Sixteen is young to get married.”
“Her parents agreed to it. The way Eileen tells it, they were
happy to get rid of her.”
“Harsh.”
“I wouldn’t know. I never met them. They moved out of state
after my parents died and didn’t bother telling Eileen where they were
going.”
“Afraid they’d be asked to help raise you?”
“Probably. Like I said, I didn’t know them.”
“And you haven’t tried to get to know them as an adult?”
“They didn’t have time for me then. I don’t have time for them
now. That’s kind of how I see things.” She had tried to contact them through
extended family when she was eighteen, but they’d never responded, and she’d
given up.
“You haven’t had a very easy life, have you, Catherine?” he
asked quietly, the warmth in his voice matching the warmth of his palm as his
hand slid down her neck, her arm, her side, settled on her waist.
“Don’t feel sorry for me.”
“Who said anything about feeling sorry for you?”
“You didn’t have to. I see it in your eyes.”
“What you see,” he said, leaning closer, “has nothing to do
with me feeling sorry for you.”
Heat unfurled in her belly, the feeling so unexpected, so
unwelcome, she jumped up. “I need to get back to the hospital.”
“Running away never solves anything.”
“I’m not running.” She stopped at the door, wanting to prove
the truth to him and to herself. She wasn’t running. She was
going.
Big difference.
“You are.” He grabbed the box and the papers she’d left on the
ground, then stood, his movements as lithe and strong as a wildcat’s, no sign of
his injury.
Was it his left leg or right?
She looked at his feet, then blushed when she realized he was
watching her.