Chapter 23 #2
Not long after, he called for Miller, who got off the sofa and obediently went to see his master. An hour later, as I sat at my desk, his truck pulled out of the driveway, and he was gone.
The tears returned with a vengeance, and I let them drip down my cheeks.
I had no idea what had happened.
Or how to fix it.
I tried working, but my mind wasn’t on the tasks at hand. I did what I had to do, then gave up. I went to the kitchen to get something to eat, opening the fridge and stopping. There was still one cupcake left from our picnic.
I sat down, thinking of the perfect day we’d had.
Carefree, happy Jesse. How much we enjoyed the drive, the lunch, the spontaneous sex in the brook.
The cuddling in the car. Even his sad story hadn’t taken away from the day.
I had thought it made us closer. And last night, he admitted he didn’t want to see other women.
But something had happened. Something I missed.
I made some toast and sat at the table, staring into space. After, I rinsed my plate and recalled the totes Jesse had put on the deck.
I opened the door and dragged them in. They were dusty, well-sealed, and marked “Memories.” They weren’t heavy, and I was curious as to their content. Jesse had shrugged when I’d asked him.
“Lou had them in her closet. I had no idea what they were but thought if she’d kept them, they had to be important to her. I have one in the guest room I’ll bring you too. It’s marked ‘Papers and Photos.’ I wanted to keep it dry.”
I pursed my lips, looking at these two totes. He might have been angry, but he’d remembered I’d asked about them and brought them over for me. That meant something, at least.
I dragged them to the living room, sitting down to open them after I wiped away the dust. Barney appeared, looking lost, meowing loudly for Miller. I bent and rubbed his head. “I know, baby. I miss them too. Even if one of them is a jerk at times.”
He meowed at me, and I rubbed his tummy for a while until he decided it was enough and he jumped up on the sofa. He gave one more meow, as if calling for Miller, then, with a huff, lay down.
I knew exactly how he felt.
I opened the first tote, my eyes widening at the photo album sitting on the top.
I pulled it out, opened it up and gasped.
It was filled with pictures of Lou when she was young.
From the dates written on the pages with the pictures, most of them were in the sixties and onward.
Some were black-and-white, while others were color.
She wore dresses and smart outfits, looking into the camera and smiling widely.
She was beautiful, her dark hair styled in the fashion of the day, cat-eye liner highlighting her brown eyes and a mischievous expression on her face.
She had little handwritten notes, and I realized these were modeling pictures.
I gazed at the pictures in wonder, slowly flipping through the album.
She was a stunner.
I wished Jesse were here to see these. He would have gotten a kick out of it.
I shut the album and peered into the tote after pulling out the tissue paper. I was so excited, instantly recognizing the items stored in there.
They were the clothes Lou had modeled in the pictures.
Or at least some of them. I carefully unpacked them, marveling at the pristine condition.
There were dresses and jumpsuits. Pants and blouses.
Skirts. When I had emptied the tote, I opened the second one, finding shoes and accessories, as well as some shorts.
I stared at the fashionable pieces, amazed.
The Lou I knew only ever wore overalls, jeans, or khakis.
Loose shirts, sandals, and runners. Big hats.
Jesse said she’d never changed. But obviously, she had been into fashion as a young woman.
I lifted one dress in particular, holding it up.
It was vintage. Deep blue with white polka dots.
A halter neck that plunged in the front, edged in lace. Nipped in at the waist.
It was pretty yet, in the pictures of Lou, screamed sexy kitten.
I sat down, knocking over the first tote, and something fell out of the bottom.
I picked it up, mystified. The package was wrapped in brown paper and tied with a simple ribbon.
I opened it, lifting the lid of the box and peering inside.
There were letters, a thin journal, and two boxes. One flat, one a small square.
My stomach grumbled, and I set the box aside and went to the kitchen, throwing together a sandwich.
I made coffee, carried a cup back to the sofa, and sat down.
After some indecision, I decided to read the journal first. I recognized Lou’s handwriting, so I knew it belonged to her.
And she’d kept it, so it meant something.
Somehow I liked to think she knew I would find it.
I settled in and started to read.
An hour later, I sat back, still shocked and amazed at the story Lou had written in her journal.
When she was a twenty-two-year-old woman, she had been discovered by a photographer named Gerard Doyle, eighteen years her senior.
Gerard took the pictures in the photo album.
They had a passionate affair and fell in love.
She was ostracized by her family and friends for the relationship.
No one spoke to her, except my mom, of whom she wrote fondly, saying her loyalty was something she would always remember.
He had no family left, so it was only the two of them.
As Gerard’s reputation grew, she traveled with him, often appearing in his shoots. They were inseparable. They married quietly and lived a private life.
Until he died suddenly of a heart condition he never told her about.
I wept at the grief she described, losing her soul mate, the other half of her heart.
She wrote of learning his estate included a house he owned in a small town that used to belong to his grandparents, and he had many fond memories of times he’d had with them and his parents.
His final request was to have his ashes scattered in the woods behind that house, and that, one day, she would join him there.
His hometown—Covington. The house he owned—this one. It had once belonged to his grandparents, who’d lived there with their daughter—his mother.
My mother always assumed Lou had bought this house. But she inherited it from the love of her life. And she chose to live here alone, never remarrying, staying private about her life. Her loss.
Unable to resist, I opened the letters. There weren’t many of them since Lou and Gerard were together most of the time, but they were filled with passages of love and longing.
He wrote her poetry, praising her beauty, missing her deeply.
She drew him little pictures, always expressing her love in every note.
When my tears finally dried, I opened the boxes. A pretty set of pearls, creamy and rich, was in the one box, the note inside filled with the love of a groom for his bride on their wedding day. I stroked the smooth surfaces carefully, the circles cool under my touch.
The other box contained two rings. Simple bands nestled side by side, the gold dull from disuse. Lou never wore jewelry, and I fancied that she’d decided her ring should be with his rather than on her finger.
I stared at the treasure I had found. Her life. Her memories. I had no idea a love like that could exist in real life. One so deep and intense she never loved another. One so painful she never spoke of it. One so binding she chose to live where he rested simply to be close until she could join him.
I knew her ashes were in a small urn at the funeral home. Sims told me there were instructions for them, and they would be followed. Then he paused and said, “Lou hopes you figure it out. It would mean more.”
I didn’t understand him at the time.
And now I did.
I sat back, emotional and exhausted. I only ever knew Lou as the older, fun-loving “aunt.” Always smiling, laughing, eager to have an adventure and play with me.
I wondered sadly if she had lived if we would have opened this box together and she would have told me her story.
I had so many questions I would have loved to get answers for.
In her journal, at the back, she had tucked a photo of them together.
Her with her youthful beauty, and him, older, serious, but looking at her with so much love it hurt my chest. She looked so joyous.
Complete. I wished there were more pictures, then remembered Jesse said he had a box that was labeled pictures he would bring over.
I sighed as I recalled him earlier. I was supposed to see him tomorrow at the station. How would he react to me? Would he be cold and removed? Friendly but distant?
I glanced at the photo album, picking it up and reading the little note Lou had written beside the picture of her in the blue polka-dot dress.
“Pure magic,” she wrote. “G couldn’t take his eyes off me.”
I knew who G was now. I looked at the dress lying on the chair, pursed my lips. An idea beckoned, but I shook my head.
It would never work.
My eyes returned to the note.
Pure magic.
Maybe that was what I needed.