Path of Freedom (19 page)

“Well, I-I—”

“…and remind you how much you miss them, right?”

She pictured Eliot's gap-toothed grin, her dad's playful wink, her mom's loving smile. “Right.”

He took her hand, gave it a little squeeze. “You know what I do when I miss my mom and dad?”

Taylor didn't know if she had the self-control to keep her tears at bay if he continued.

“I hug their pictures
re-e-eal
tight.”

“…because that's all I have left of them,” Taylor finished. Stirrings of resentment swirled in her heart. She'd never forgive his mom for giving away everything, except photographs, that might have reminded Eli of her and his dad.
Makes it real hard to believe your death was an accident, Margo
, Taylor thought. But bitterness quickly gave way to a blush of shame as she realized what Eli was
really
telling her:
“You should be thanking God that you have these things to help you remember your loved ones.…”

“It'll be okay,” he said, patting her hand. “I'll be right here with you. Don't worry, if you get sad, I'll give you a hug.”

With that, Eli led her over to the trunk. “There's nothing in there to be scared of,” he said, getting down on one knee. “There's probably nothing in there but old lady underwear!”

He giggled at his little joke as Taylor marveled at the depth of his perceptiveness.

“Bummer!” he said, tugging at the big padlock. “Did your grampa lock
every
thing up?”

“Pretty much,” she admitted, picturing dead bolts on the tool shed and barn, the garage, and the slanting doors leading into the basement.

“Oh, cool!” Eli said, pointing at a tarnished skeleton key. It dangled from a yard-long strand of twine that had been tied around one of the trunk's leather handles. “Must be something pretty good in there,” he sing-songed, inserting it into the keyhole.

Her heartbeat doubled when the latch went
click
, because now, she couldn't turn back. The sound bounced from sun-faded bureaus, threadbare chairs, framed photos, and fading portraits that stood like somber sentries against the turret's curved walls.

Eli sat back on his heels. “Well…?”

Taylor might have said,
“Well, what?”
—if she could have found her voice.

“You want me to open it, or are you gonna do it?”

What I want, she thought, is to go downstairs, right now, and put Isaac to work installing a big lock on the door to the turret. After which she'd throw away the key.

Eli must have read her hesitation as permission to open the trunk, because that's exactly what he did. “What's that smell?” he wanted to know.

“It's cedar, a much less stinky way to protect clothes than moth balls.” Her hands shook as she removed a layer of tissue paper.

“What's that?”

“A cigar box,” she said, peeling away the bulky burlap wrapper. Hands trembling, she handed it to Eli, who flipped up the lid to expose a jumble of gold chains, once-silvery earrings, bangle bracelets, rings, and a cameo broach the size of an egg.

“Oh, yuck,” Eli grumbled, frowning as he handed it back. “Nothin’ but
girl
stuff.” Then he pointed. “Wonder what's in
there
?”

Taylor set the cigar box aside to retrieve a small wooden cedar chest. Inside, wrapped in brown paper, were dozens of scallop-edged photos, some still wearing the corner tabs that had once fastened them to the pages of an old-fashioned picture album. But sensing Eli's impatience, Taylor put the box down. She'd have plenty of time to look through the photographs after Eli left for his weekend with Reece.

In the next layer of the trunk, three elegant hats: a simple veiled pillbox, one adorned with ostrich plumes, and a straw sunbonnet trimmed in velvet. Here, a lacy-edged scarf, there, a crocheted shawl, and a single elbow-length glove that was missing one of its iridescent pearl buttons. Then, a white box filled with embroidered handkerchiefs, a package of seamed silk stockings, and finally, a wedding gown, veil, and size-five white satin shoes—all preserved to perfection in their blankets of cotton-soft tissue.

Eli exhaled a heavy sigh. “Aw, bummer. Is it
all
girl stuff?”

“Sorry, kiddo,” she said, mussing his bangs, “but it looks that way. But just as soon as we put everything back the way we found it, we'll open another box. And who knows,” she added, tapping the tip of his upturned nose, “maybe that one will be filled with all sorts of cool
boy
stuff!”

“Want me to help?”

“No, you go ahead and play. Just be careful—some of that stuff is sharp, remember.”

As he busied himself with the whirligig and the fire truck, Taylor noticed a brown cardboard box at the very bottom of the trunk; on its lid, her mother's beautifully feminine script spelled out, “To Taylor.”

Was it coincidence that Taylor had found the box today—the Friday before Mothers' Day—her very first as a substitute mom? She didn't think so. Hands trembling and heart pounding, Taylor eased off the lid. And under a blanket of pale pink tissue paper, she saw an unfinished quilt, scraps of cloth, spools of thread, and a pencil sketch of what her mother had had in mind when the project began. “Oh, my,” she whispered, hugging it to her chest, “isn't it just lovely?”

Eli knee-walked closer to get a better look, lips moving as he counted a dozen colorful squares cut from satin and silk, cotton and flannel. Then he picked up a small, square envelope and handed it to Taylor. “What's this?”

Taylor's fingers were shaking when she took it from him.

“Is it a note? From your
mom?”

Nodding, she bit down hard on her lower lip.
“Oh, Lord,”
she prayed silently,
“please don't let me cry.…”