Page 19 of Unpacking Secrets
There had to be a good reason behind my mother’s extreme choices, I was sure of it.
I flipped through the pages, scanning for pertinent information, but the journal didn’t have much more to offer.
Missy is becoming more distant, read one entry, and another simply said,Had a big fight with Missy tonight. Just can’t get through to her.
Most of the other entries were about residents of the town or guests at the inn, but I got the sense that Nan was growing increasingly tense. The initial cheerful sarcasm veered a bit closer to biting criticism.
Though I knew the journals continued for many years after the volume I was reading, the final entry in this one was dated September third. My mother would have been very newly pregnant at that point.
My heart grew heavy even before I read the words.
T showed up at the inn last night, drunk as a skunk and demanding to see Melissa. They fought, screaming like banshees for nearly an hour, then he left. Missy is not herself this morning, but I’m needed at the inn to prepare for the Women’s Board luncheon.
And then . . . nothing.
The remaining pages were empty. Was that the day Mom ran away without so much as a word to anyone in town?
I picked up the next journal and thumbed through it, but the entries were short and to the point, and there was no mention at all of my mother. Gazing down at the row of journals on the floor, I wondered if any of them would detail Nan’s search for her. For us.
Maybe she decided to separate her personal life from business records?
It was getting late, and as much as I wanted to throw open another dozen boxes to search for other notebooks or diaries, I didn’t think I could keep my eyes open long enough for the hunt.
With a heavy sigh, I set the journals aside. It would be a lengthy process, sorting through all of Nan’s stuff—I couldn’t expect to find all the answers right away, no matter how badly I wanted to.
This was a journey, a marathon rather than a sprint. I resigned myself to the fact that I would need to take things slow and not let myself get lost in the past.
After all, the past had already taken so much from me—surely I deserved to spend some time dealing with the present, too.
Eight
Juliet
Themorningsunwasblinding once again, so I buried my face in the pillow and vowed to pick up darker curtains sometime soon. Lace was pretty, sure, but who the hell used it for bedroom curtains?
Artistic old lady innkeepers, that’s who. I preferred to sleep in cave-like darkness—maybe I wasn’t so much like my grandmother, after all.
For a few minutes, I debated what to do with my day. Though I’d already filled an entire sketchbook with drawings, I had yet to break out my painting supplies. I could start work on an actual painting, spend more time searching through the dusty boxes in the other room, or venture out to one of the places on Gerard’s list.
The promise of adventure won out.
The day was going to be warm, so I threw on a pair of denim shorts and knotted a dark blue t-shirt at one hip. After shoving my hair into a ponytail, I laced up the hiking boots I'd packed, purchased years ago for a spring break trip to the Grand Canyon with Sarah, and loaded my backpack with a sketchbook, camera, snacks, and a water bottle.
I grabbed the bundle of letters from Nan off the couch and moved to the kitchen to add my mother’s to it, but the countertop was bare. For a long, silent moment, I stared at the spot where I’d set it down during my trips to and from the car, but it didn’t appear. A quick look in the recycle bin, in case it’d gotten stuck to the takeout boxes last night, revealed nothing.
Had I been so distracted by my run-in with Henry that I moved it and forgot where I put it?
Cursing the man under my breath, I brought Nan’s letters to the bedroom and tucked them under the mattress, safe from errant breezes and absentminded artists. I’d probably find Mom’s letter a week from now, tucked “someplace safe” that I’d convinced myself I’d remember and had immediately forgotten.
Back in the kitchen, I traced my fingertip down Gerard’s list, landing on a place called Cooper’s Point. His note mentioned a short hike from the parking lot to the lookout point. I was more the type to enjoy nature from a comfortable perch with a sketchbook in hand, but I was sure I could handle a few miles roundtrip.
Piece of cake. Hopefully the fresh air would clear my head.
The drive was short and simple, a straight shot past the turn leading into Spruce Hill. I pulled into the tiny lot and found a spot in the shade, grabbed my bag, and set off to find Cooper’s Point. At the edge of the trees, I located the path, which was well-worn and wide enough to walk two or three abreast in most spots. Birds sang in the trees overhead as I breathed in the scent of pine and soil and life.
Why didn’t I do this more often? Moving to Spruce Hill was the perfect opportunity to pick up a hobby like hiking, and the fresh air was intoxicating. The woods were so peaceful, everything around me coming to life as spring inched toward summer.
When the path slanted upward at an incline, my calves started burning with the exertion and my euphoria quickly faded.
