Something about it really spoke to her.
In the middle of the night, her brain woke her up, her mind reeling. She rubbed her eyes and turned her head to look at the time on her clock radio. Half past three. Too early, and yet the words inside her brain demanded to be acknowledged. She turned on her bedside lamp and pulled a pad of paper and pen from her nightstand, scrawling frantically before she forgot. When she was done, she’d written a poem:
Little, little darling child
Sweetest flower, small and wild
Fill me with your love and light
All my days’ and nights’ delight
Nothing will keep us apart
You’re always there in my heart
You are still my baby girl
Dearest one in all the world
Where did that come from? She had no idea. It was like an ode to a future child, a baby girl. Reading it over a few more times, she found it impressive. As poetry went, it wasn’t particularly outstanding, but considering she’d plucked it out of thin air, it was pretty good. In the back of her mind, a melody came, and she hummed along with the words. Was she composing music now? The idea was laughable. No, this had to be something she’d heard once, maybe as a child. Who knew what memory fragments lurked in her subconscious? The next time she called home, she’d ask her mother if the song sounded familiar. No doubt it was something she’d learned as a little kid.
Satisfied with having written it down, Kathleen set the notepad on the nightstand and turned off the lights, ready to get back to sleep, but now she felt wide awake. Inwardly, she groaned. It was way too early to start the day, and yet she knew from past experience that falling back asleep was unlikely. Inevitably, she’d lie awake for hours, biding the time, having to wait until morning. Her thoughts wandered to the events of the day, of the furniture Joe had brought to the store. Something about the construction of the hope chest jumped out at her. The base struck her as being almost separate from the rest of the chest. She’d have to take a closer look in the morning.
Or she could just get up and go to the store, check it out, then come back home and climb into the comfort of her bed.
She weighed each option, ultimately deciding curiosity won out. She dressed quickly, grabbed her key ring and purse, then headed out of the house, making sure the door was locked behind her.
The sidewalks were well lit in Pullman, and the summer air was warm and humid but not unbearably so. Aunt Edna knew what she was doing living a block away from her business. It was easy to go back and forth from home to work, which was also a drawback, of course. She never quite got away from the store; there was always some detail to attend to, not that she’d complain about it. Despite it being a small town, the lake visitors were good customers in the summer, sparing no expense if they liked what they saw. She made more than enough to keep the business afloat, give herself a fair salary, and pay Marcia as well. It helped that she owned the house and car free and clear. As long as she kept the store filled with new stock, she’d be fine, so in that regard, Pearl Arneson’s estate was a gift, hand-delivered, wrapped in fine paper, and tied with a bow.
The downtown consisted of one main street, and that stretch was now deserted. Even the tavern at the end of the block had closed and locked up for the night. She stood in front of Secondhand Heaven, the key in her hand, listening to the quiet hum of insects off in the distance. So peaceful.
After a moment, she let herself in, turning on the lights and surveying the store the way a customer would. Charming. That was the word she’d use. And quaint too. She was proud of her contributions to the place. She’d reorganized the stock, worked on creating better displays by grouping similar things together, and prided herself on learning the interests of repeat customers. Small changes had helped a great deal too. The antique light fixtures hanging from the ceiling had been largely ignored until she had the idea to post arrows at eye level marked, LOOK UP! Ever since then, they’d sold steadily. A simple thing made all the difference.
Kathleen walked to the back of the store and opened the door into the storeroom, flipping on the lights. The overhead fluorescent fixtures filled the space with white light, illuminating every corner. The room smelled faintly of linseed oil. She went back to Alice’s hope chest and crouched down to take a good look at it. “What’s your story?” she whispered, inspecting the chest. Her great-aunt had talked about antique pieces that carried a piece of history and emotion with them, but Kathleen had never experienced this until Joe brought in this hope chest. The previous owner’s joy and hope for the future fairly emanated off it. So sad that Alice hadn’t lived to take it to the home she’d share with a husband and, eventually, children.
She sat on the floor, giving the chest a good once-over. Just as she’d remembered from earlier, the hope chest rested on four short legs. Just above the legs sat the rectangular base, bigger than the rest of the chest. Lifting the lid, she peered down inside, trying to make sense of the space. The interior was just a cedar-lined cube that extended down to the top of the base. There was no reason for the base to be larger, except as a decorative element or—and this idea truly thrilled her—if there was a secret compartment inside of it.
Kathleen ran her hands over the sides of the base. The surface had been decorated with carved vertical lines, disguising the edges of what she realized had to be a shallow drawer on the left-hand side. If she hadn’t read about this exact thing in one of her great-aunt’s books, she never would have thought of it. Running her hand underneath, she found a latch the size of a wing nut. Turning the latch released the drawer. She pulled it out, and it resisted, squeaking slightly, the wood presumably having swollen with time. She managed to get it open only halfway and was reluctant to force it.
She knelt on the concrete floor, leaned over, and peered inside. There was something there that looked like fabric. With curious fingers, she eased the drawer all the way open. Inside was a drawstring bag made of some kind of coarse material, the kind she associated with feed bags. Her sense of anticipation heightened, she carefully widened the bag’s opening and looked inside. At the bottom of the bag was one item, a small metal key. She took it out and held it in the palm of her hand. So tiny. Not the right size for a house or a car. The key to someone’s diary, maybe? Or a very small cabinet? Her heart sank with disappointment. She’d been hoping for letters or documents or family jewelry. Something with meaning or value. This key could belong to anything. Chances were, she’d never find out what it was for.
She sighed, then closed the hope chest and walked out of the storage area, closing the door behind her. She put the key in the cash register drawer. Joe would be bringing in more items over the next week or two. With any luck, something he brought in would need this key. If that was the case, she’d be ready. Or maybe something in the house required this key, a curio cabinet or jewelry box. She’d ask Joe the next time they spoke if he had any ideas.
Kathleen turned off the lights, locked up the store, and headed down the sidewalk toward home. Now that she’d gotten that out of her system, the comfort of her bed sounded good. Going back to sleep was a real possibility. With any luck, she could get two to three hours before her alarm went off.
She was nearly home when a continuous reedy whistle pierced the night air. Pausing, she listened. There it was again, a whistle, more pronounced now. She’d never heard a bird that sounded like that, but living so close to the lake, she’d encountered all kinds of wildlife she’d never seen before. One evening shortly after her great-aunt had died, she’d sat on her porch, transfixed to see two cranes walk between her house and the neighbor’s, pause at the curb, and then casually cross to the other side.