Kate
The next day,my hair is pulled back in a ponytail, and I’m wearing yoga pants and a tank top when I climb the attic stairs. The stable and horses have been taken care of. And after a slight delay, due to two of my brothers and my best friend checking up on me, it’s now time to focus on Charlotte’s house.
No, my phone still isn’t working, but Charlotte’s landline is.
And no, I never told Tiffany about the horses and how I have to clean the stable. She was horrified as it was that I was coming here to pack up my great-aunt’s house. I thought I’d ease her into the part about the stable…after I hire someone to do it for me.
I also haven’t told my stepmother for the same reason. She’s already stressed out due to a huge charity event that she’s organizing. The news about me cleaning the stable might push her over the edge.
My limp is more pronounced than normal as I climb the stairs, but not enough to slow me down.
I enter the space, and my mouth drops open in dismay. The floor and contents are covered with a thick layer of dust, and an abundance of cobwebs call the attic home. “Oh, my.”
The musty smell warns me it’s been a while since the enclosed space last felt the brush of fresh air.
I weave past the old wooden chests, cardboard boxes, and a wardrobe straight from the movieThe Lion, the Witch, and the Wardrobe. “I don’t suppose I’ll get lucky and find the entrance to Narnia in there,” I mutter to myself. Maybe I could find a nice Narnian to help me out here.
I set the broom I’m carrying against a pile of boxes and attempt to open the small window on the wall opposite the door.
It doesn’t budge. “Darn it.” I try again. Nothing. I release a defeated breath. Yoga and physical therapy haven’t prepared me for something like this.
“Oh, well. The sooner I get started in here, the sooner I can finish.” And then I can hang out with Charlie downstairs while I take a break. He’s currently napping in the living room.
I spend the next half hour clearing the cobwebs with the broom and sweeping the dusty floor. Fortunately, I don’t find any spiders. So that’s a positive.
Once the task is finished, I comb through the attic’s contents.
The wardrobe has an old-fashioned lock that might possibly match the key I found downstairs in Charlotte’s desk. I twist the doorknob, half expecting to find it locked. It easily turns, and I open the door.
“Well, hello. What’s this?” I’m not sure what I’m expecting to find inside, but it definitely isn’t period dresses. I remove the hanger with a dark-red ball gown that resembles one from the 1800s. The bodice is low-cut, the sleeves short and puffy, and an intricate design has been embroidered in black thread above the hem.
When Meg said Charlotte had a thing for historical romances, she wasn’t kidding. The rest of the dresses and accessories look like they came straight out of a novel.
Not all the dresses are from the 1800s. Several resemble fancy dresses from the 1950s.
Wow, these are amazing.I wonder where she got them. They look handcrafted, not something she might have bought from a store.
I can’t remember if the Charlotte I met sewed, other than to make sock puppets, but I wouldn’t be surprised if she did make these dresses. It seems like something she would have done. The Aunt Charlotte I met was creative.
I close the wardrobe door to protect them from the dust. Then I remove a box from the top of the closest stack and search through it.
And now I know where Charlotte kept her historical romances. Some of them date back to the 1970s. I read the blurbs as I work, setting aside any that look good. The sexy ones. With lots of suspense.
This includes a dozen books from the authors whose stories used to leave my girlie parts tingling every time I read them. It’s been awhile since my girlie parts—or any other part of me—has tingled that way.
For a moment my mind drifts to Noah, and my core wonders what it would feel like to have his light beard rub against it. It sighs in anticipation even though there won’t be any beard rubbing—or any other kind of rubbing—going on.
I’m not interested in being someone’s one-night stand.
Especially not with someone as aggravating as him.
Having made that quite clear to my body, I return to sorting through the attic. My yoga pants are looking less black and more gray from the dust, and my red tank top isn’t faring much better.
I slide the almost-empty cardboard box to the side, revealing a dark wooden chest with intricate flower carvings in it. The chest isn’t much bigger than a breadbox.
I attempt to open the lid, but it’s locked. The keyhole looks to be the same size as the key I found downstairs. I move the chest to the door and ignore the strong itch to take it downstairs to see if the key does fit. My curiosity will have to be patient a little longer.
My curiosity snorts mockingly at that. As a kid, it used to get me into a lot of trouble. They say that curiosity killed the cat. I’m not sure if that’s true, but it did result in a lot of lectures while I was growing up.
