Page 52 of Lightning in a Mason Jar
Bent Oak was so small, she could swear all she had to do was sigh and people would show up on her doorstep offering help. But it wasn’t the same without Winnie, a loss made even worse by the increasing realization that she may not have really known her aunt as well as she’d thought.
Sinking onto a step, she watched Martin’s taillights along the lengthy drive. Would he park at the top of the drive and watch her house through the night again? He’d insisted she keep Skeeter close and set the security system once she got inside, but there’d been no kiss when he left. They’d both agreed on that earlier, hadn’t they? So she had no cause to feel this disappointed.
Besides, she had other problems on her mind.
She was tired of those close to her speaking in riddles. Tonight wasn’t the first time Libby had called her son Fred or Freddie. Each time it happened, Keith, Thea, or June hustled Libby away. At first, Bailey Rae had assumed they did so to protect her dignity, and that likelyplayed a part in their behavior. Still, there was no denying something more was at play. The references to papers and new birth certificates. Different names. A million other little things made her question the secrets of the tight friendships in Winnie’s circle.
And the answers must be here, somewhere.
She shot to her feet and whistled. “Come on, Skeeter. I’ve got half of a hot dog in the fridge with your name on it.”
Skeeter galloped across the yard and up the planked steps, his tongue lolling out the side of his mouth.
Once inside, she set the security system and sagged back against the door, looking at the cabin through different eyes. In a place full of ghosts to escape, had she been so busy trying to leave town that she’d missed clues about Winnie’s life? Now she took deep breaths and forced herself to search for the evidence of memories—good and bad.
She skimmed her fingers along a line of photos on the wall of Skeeter number one, two, and three—a shepherd mutt, an American bulldog, and a spaniel mix. Winnie had said naming the dogs the same thing made it easier to remember, but now Bailey Rae wondered if there might have been a shadow in her aunt’s eyes when she said that.
Padding across the wood floor, she moved on to the marks on the pantry door. Each notch chronicled the beginning of a new school year until ninth grade, when she’d stopped growing. Winnie always vowed if the house caught on fire, she would rip the door off the hinges on her way out.
Time etched in that fashion was so sequential, logical, and not at all the way dear Libby recalled her life anymore. If only her memories scrambled by dementia could be organized back into their proper linear order. Maybe then Bailey Rae would have been able to make sense out of whatever Libby was trying to reveal.
Bailey Rae’s gaze skated to the vintage sewing machine where Winnie had cranked out costumes for school reports on Amelia Earhart and Marie Curie. Strong women, Winnie had declared, encouraging her to aspire. On the one hand, the challenge had excited Bailey Rae asa child. On the other, it stirred a deep sense of unworthiness. Of being that homeless kid in the back of her mother’s station wagon, sticking her hand into the very bottom of a jar of peanut butter, then sucking on her fingers.
Not that Winnie had ever judged her. She taught her instead. Like the time Bailey Rae had been caught sneaking in late as a teenager after drinking with friends by the river. The next morning Winnie had woken her at six to start snapping green beans before canning them. She hadn’t rolled out a lecture about Yvonne’s battle with alcoholism. Winnie hadn’t needed to. By the end of the very long day canning beans, Bailey Rae had received the message loud and clear. Working hungover would make it very difficult to hold down a steady job.
The weight of those memories threatened to choke her with a tangle of emotions that knotted tighter the harder she pulled, like a ball of yarn batted about by a couple of Winnie’s barn cats. Would she ever be able to untangle the mess, the secrets, to weave something beautiful that paid tribute to the way Winnie’s intervention had saved her life?
Bailey Rae clenched her fists, determined to find at least one answer to the undercurrents no one else seemed willing to acknowledge. She tore through the cabin in search of anything she might have missed as she packed up the place with donations and items to sell. The filing cabinet would be too obvious, and she’d already been through that front to back after Winnie died.
Next, she charged down the corridor to Winnie and Russell’s bedroom, only to stop short. Even the prospect of walking into their space made her ache missing them. This was the one room she hadn’t boxed up or marked anything for sale.
Stepping into the paneled space, she yanked open the jewelry box but found only a smattering of costume pieces—hoop earrings, a floral choker, a mood ring—and an old car key tagged as “Olive.”
Nothing more, since Winnie’s wedding band had been on her finger when she died. Bailey Rae swallowed the emotion clogging herthroat. That ring had been a sign of Winnie’s continued commitment to Russell after his death, even if they hadn’t been legally wed.
Moving on to the closet, she searched the pockets of the remaining clothing and tried not to inhale the familiar vanilla scent of Winnie lingering on the fabric. The search turned up nothing of worth, only a couple of receipts and a tin of breath mints.
Fueled by determination, Bailey Rae dragged a chair over and ransacked the closet shelves, tossing one thing after another to the floor. Again, nothing but a pile of sweaters, hats, and an old pair of gardening Crocs.
Breathless, she put her hands on her hips and surveyed the mess around her, deciding where to search next in the cabin. Skeeter sat in the doorway, wide eyes studying her with a sympathy that seemed to say he understood well the benefit of zoomies.
“Come on, Skeeter. I still owe you that stale hot dog,” she said, returning to the kitchen and tossing the dog’s treat into the metal bowl.
Might as well tackle the kitchen. She yanked open the pantry and burrowed a spoon into the leftover baking goods, peeking into the spices, dumping three junk drawers. No luck. Stepping back, she scanned the familiar room from the battery-operated wall clock to the opaque milk jars on the shelves. She grabbed a broom and toppled a jar over, catching it before it hit the floor, and finding ...
Money. Twenty-dollar bills rolled together. Fifteen of them.
Surprise swelled through her, then galvanized her. She tipped over another bottle. Tens and ones this time. One hundred dollars.
Deep in her gut, she knew that wasn’t all. Somehow, she’d found the tip of the iceberg in this mystery. She scrambled up onto the counter and stood, grabbing one bottle after another, tilting them. So, so much cash rained out, drifting to the floor like leaves from tree branches.
Her pulse roared in her ears. She jumped off the counter, bills crackling under her shoes, and started her search in earnest, only to find money stashed in so many places. Rolled in a pill bottle. Buried inside a puzzle box. Underneath Monopoly money. Tucked in a box of tampons.
Heartbeat throbbing in her ears, Bailey Rae dropped to the braided rug in the living room and counted out close to $7,000. That didn’t even take into account what she might have missed or inadvertently sold to someone at the flea market. Imagine buying a jar of peaches only to find silver dollars tucked inside.
Winnie had always told her a woman needed to have money of her own. So Bailey Rae had been surprised at the low bank balance after Winnie’s death. Now it all made sense.
As she stacked the cash in neat piles in front of her, sorted by denominations, she wondered if there might be a floor or wall safe too. Right now, she wouldn’t discount anything. Pushing to her feet, she moved furniture and rolled up rugs, peered under the beds, and checked behind all the pictures. Again and again, she came up dry.
