“She may have.”
The discovery hurt in a way I could not explain. Petra had tried to use my memories as weapons, but somewhere inside her desk she had kept a letter that understood me better than anyone had in years.
Dex touched the box.
“There’s more.”
At the bottom was a small brass key.
Josephine recognized it immediately when we met her that afternoon.
“It opens the cedar chest in the attic,” she said.
“I have not opened that chest since Harold died.”
“Petra apparently did.”
We went upstairs together. Dust moved through the beam of winter light from the small attic window. The chest sat beneath an old quilt, its brass lock scratched.
The key turned.
Inside were photographs, receipts, letters, and a bundle tied with blue ribbon. Beneath them was a folder marked Claremont House Project.
I opened it.
The first page was a set of architectural drawings.
Not for selling the house.
For changing it.
Harold had sketched a wide doorway between the dining room and the unused parlor. He had drawn shelves along one wall, a long worktable beneath the window, and a small sign above the entrance.
Claremont Community Kitchen.
There were letters from neighbors, a list of families who had needed meals after storms, and receipts for donated equipment. Harold had planned to convert part of the house into a weekday kitchen and after-school room.
“He never told me,” I whispered.
Dex picked up a letter.
“He did.”
I looked at him.
The letter was addressed to me, dated two weeks before Harold’s heart attack.
I opened it.
I have asked Dex to talk to you about the kitchen. He says you are tired and may not want strangers in the house. I told him you would decide. Whatever you choose, the house should remain useful. A home that only remembers is still lonely.
At the bottom, Harold had added one sentence.
Ask Dex. He knows where the plans are.
I turned toward my son.
He looked devastated.
