Page 18 of Unpacking Secrets

Around bites of sandwich, I caved and told her in full detail about my disastrous meetings with Henry at the inn, including a too-thorough description of his good looks, then about this evening’s altercation. As my best friend, Sarah was righteously indignant on my behalf, though she muffled her laughter over my violent reaction to him touching me outside The Mermaid.

“Girl, you better get a grip on that temper,” she warned, then her tone turned serious. “His grandfather works at the inn, too?”

I sighed heavily. “Yeah.”

“So it’s a pretty small operation, right? Tight knit? Maybe Henry is jealous, but it sounds more likely that he’s still grieving.”

I didn’t want to feel it, but a twinge of sympathy filtered through me. Sarah had an annoying habit of being right, which forced me to consider that her read of the situation might be more accurate than my own, even from across the Atlantic. If the staff at the inn was like one big family, then all of them were probably still hurting after Nan’s death.

“Look, I should get to bed, but I expect updates regularly, especially about Henry the Hottie. Do try not to get arrested for breaking his bones, though. It’ll be a bitch to wire bail money from here. Love you, Jules.”

“Love you, too,” I said softly, then tossed the phone aside as I returned to the boxes before me.

Though some of the lids were labeled with an indication as to their contents, others had no such helpful notations. I slid the boxes around like a giant game of Tetris, until all of those with labels were to my left and the unknowns to the right.

As daylight faded and the remainder of my fries congealed into a limp, cold pile, I questioned whether I would ever find actual answers in any of this junk. If Nan hadn’t wanted to confide in anyone about her daughter’s departure from town, was it likely she'd left any clue as to the reason in these boxes?

What am I even looking for?

Frustration got the better of me and I shoved aside the box nearest to the kitchen with my foot. The lid toppled off to reveal a pile of small leather journals, each marked with the year in embossed gold letters. On top lay a bundle of letters, tied with a ribbon.

My mouth dropped, then I lifted a skeptical eye toward the ceiling and called, “Thanks, Nan,” only half-joking.

I sat on the edge of the sofa and lifted the bundle, my chest constricting at the rush of déjà vu. Would these be as life-changing as finding my mother’s letter?

Though each envelope was sealed as though to be mailed, the only thing written on the outside of each was,“To my dearest grandchild.”Briefly, I closed my eyes against a wash of sorrow, then I opened each envelope and spread the contents across my lap.

Letters, cards, a delicate cluster of pressed violets, a tiny watercolor painting of the cottage. Nothing ominous, no warnings or cryptic messages within, only . . . love.

Love for a grandchild she’d never met, whose name she didn’t even know.

I read over each one half a dozen times, stroking my fingertips over the handwriting that was so similar to my mother’s but with a unique swirl to the capital letters. My eyes filled with tears as I studied the little painting, imagining myself as a child, receiving these treasures in the mail.

God, I would've loved that. Even if we’d never met, I would have rejoiced in knowing there was someone else out there in the world who cared.

Maybe I wouldn't have felt so very lost when my mom died.

Eventually, I forced myself to set the bundle aside, more than a little bereft at severing that thread of connection, and turned my focus to the box of journals.

My mother was pregnant when she left town, Mr. Escobar had told me that much. I thumbed through the journals until I found the right year, then put the rest into chronological order. The rainbow of journals made an arc across the floor.

It was almost nine o’clock when I finished sorting, but my heart pounded wildly in my chest and I knew I wouldn’t sleep until I read through at least one journal. As I opened it to the first entry, a wave of anticipation crashed over me.

That was, perhaps, a bit premature. The elegant handwriting appeared to describe relatively mundane events as they occurred at the inn.

Martha Jennings wants a June wedding in the gardens. I told her we’re booked solid but she will not stop jabbering about it. Bridget O’Hennessy snuck a flask of vodka into the Women’s Board Tea this afternoon, I thought Chairwoman Hasslebeck was going to have a fit.

The sense of humor evident in even these innocuous entries reminded me so much of my mother that my heart clenched. I couldn’t help but laugh at some of Nan’s snarky commentary—from what I could tell, she had been a tough old bird, unafraid of speaking her mind.

I continued reading, handling the pages carefully, until I finally caught sight of a familiar name.

Officer Jameson brought Melissa home last night after a ruckus outside the school dance. I sent her up to bed and he said it was T who started it all, and that he’d seen Missy and T together around town, even though she and Lewis have been an item for years. My heart tells me this will not end well, but she refuses to listen to reason. Lewis is a good boy and simply mad about her.

Nan clearly had no reservations about using full names in any other entry, but for some reason, the initial was the only identification for this mystery troublemaker. Could he be my father?

I bit my lip, staring blindly down at the page. If the boyfriend had gotten my mother pregnant, then there wasn’t much of a mystery to be solved—but why would she have left town and refused to look back? If her fight was with my father, it made no sense for her to cut contact with Nan, to change her name and virtually disappear.

Unless she was in danger.

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