Chapter 25
After pie and a pretty sunset, I walk Grace home, thinking it might have been more practical to do that while it was still light out, since it’s slow going on the unsteady ground for her and her walker. I gently tuck one arm around hers in case she stumbles.
“This is why Daniel’s always wantin’ me to move away with him,” she says. “Now that it ain’t druggies, it’s me gettin’ old. But I do perty good for an old gal, I think.”
When she reaches the road, her steps come easier and I no longer feel the need to hold on. I smile at her and agree. “I think so, too. And you know if you ever need anything, you can call me. Well, while I’m here, anyway.”
After we get her up her front steps, she says, “This was a real nice evenin’. I’m sorry Matt had to miss out on some of it, but it was real nice indeed.”
“Just nice?” I ask. “That doesn’t speak very highly of the event.”
At that, she lets out a loud, chortling laugh.
Once she’s safely inside and much surer on her feet, I walk back across Lost Valley Lane in the dark, feeling so much less alone here with the sound of the crickets and the quiet house awaiting me than I could have imagined when I first arrived.
Matt’s truck still isn’t home, but I don’t feel worried because he’s the most capable-seeming man I’ve ever met.
As I head inside, I’m wondering if everyone’s right—including Matt himself—about me making things more complicated than they are.
And an unsettling thought hits me. That someone who wears armor .
.. needs armor. That maybe someone who wears armor and puts up walls to protect themselves isn’t actually strong at all.
That a strong person wouldn’t require those things.
Remembering how whipped about like a willow I felt upon coming here, I realize maybe the only difference between that and my usual life was that cancer had stripped all my armor away—and now I’ve put it back on.
My head feels like it’s about to explode with this shocking revelation when the phone rings. A welcome distraction. I walk over to pick it up. “Hello?”
“Hello there, my lovely.” Kevin. I smile.
“It’s good to hear your voice.”
“Likewise.”
When I ask what he’s been up to, he tells me he’s been very busy with Patrick’s Nana.
Patrick twisted an ankle, putting him on crutches for two weeks .
.. “And so I picked up the reins. Because those pariahs who call themselves his family obviously weren’t going to do it, so I had to.
I’m pretty exhausted—we’ve had doctor’s appointments galore for her—but at the same time, I feel good about it. ”
“I guess fate stepped in and sort of forced you to step up ,” I suggest.
“It’ll do that sometimes,” he agrees cheerfully enough.
“How’s Patrick’s ankle now ?”
“Mostly better, my poor baby.”
“Give him a hug for me,” I request. “And how’s your, um, diet, dare I ask?”
“I’m sure it’ll go really well whenever I get around to starting it,” he replies smartly.
When I catch him up on the lost-and-found progress, he says, “I’m aware.
You’re all over the news circuit, lady. People are loving this story.
” He’s aware of the Lexington piece and informs me it aired not only in Saint Louis but in Louisville, Nashville, and Columbus, too.
“And we’re airing it tomorrow ourselves. ”
“Oh, so I suddenly make the cut?” I ask snidely.
“It’s only logical,” he tells me. “And this particular decision was mine, not anyone else’s. Though I’ll make sure the bosses are aware that you’re hot property, making a splash all over the Midwest, and could be lured away at any moment.”
I plop down into the easy chair beside the phone, a little flabbergasted. “You don’t really think that? That another station would pursue me based on the lost and found?”
“Who knows, mon ami ?” Kevin only starts throwing French phrases around when he’s feeling especially chipper and optimistic.
“And for my sake, I hope not—I’d be devastated.
But stranger things have happened, and I want to reinforce for them that you’re still relevant, out there garnering attention and making things happen.
Because you are. It’s impressive, Jess.”
“I haven’t really done anything,” I argue, leaning back into the cozy chair. “It’s a hobby to pass the time. The fact that it’s getting picked up by news outlets is a fluke.”
“There are no flukes, mon cherie .”
I just laugh. “Okay, whatever you say, monsieur . So ... any Tiffany updates?”
“Yep, got a good one for ya.”
My adrenaline spikes a little just from that. “Lay it on me.”
“She mispronounced Vevay. Phonetically.” The Indiana town within our viewing area is actually said “Veevee,” with long e ’s and in a short, clipped way.
“No!” I say, scandalized.
“Yes. And the emails did rain down from many a Vevayan offended that a Cincinnati anchorperson didn’t know how to say the name of their beloved hamlet.”
“She’s ... really unprofessional, isn’t she?” I conclude. I’m actually sort of embarrassed for the station. “I mean, it’s so easy to prep and not make those kinds of mistakes.”
“I hear ya, girl. Maybe fate’s stepping in for you in new ways, too, if you know what I mean.”
The next day is a busy one. I swing by the post office to mail a claimed Bible and a claimed trophy, and also to pick up the two new lost items, a photo album with historic pictures and news clippings about a World War II pilot and an old-looking copy of Wuthering Heights with an inscription: To my great lost love, the one who got away, the one who holds my affection forever.
Timothy. That one nearly stops my heart, and added to the antique locket I picked up yesterday, my work is cut out for me.
Outside the post office, I make a video—in my fedora—explaining that new items have arrived and urging people not to send more.
I explain that the town is already overrun with many years’ worth of lost things and that anyone can do what I’m doing, posting them online and asking people to share.
“In fact,” I say into the camera, “tag me in your post, and I’ll be more than delighted to share it here on my page, too. ”
Once I reach the library in Brandywine, I post the new items, along with the video, and I check messages to discover I have two more claimed pieces—yay!—and a lot of what appear to be dead ends. But what Matt said is true—I can’t expect a high success rate, so I don’t let that get me down.
I buzz back to Lost and Found—by which I mean I drive a lot of twisting, curvy mountain roads, but at least I’m getting used to the route—and grab a quick egg salad sandwich from Joy Lynn, the whole time remembering what I learned from Grace last night about why she’s so chronically unhappy.
I mean, maybe there are other reasons, too, but when the love of your life overdoses after putting you and your kid through hell .
.. well, if I felt sad for Joy Lynn before, now I feel much worse and as if I at least understand a little better why she can be so mean.
Part of me doesn’t want to contribute to her heartbreak by continuing to feed into it, but the jukebox is all that stands between Joy Lynn beating me up and the relative peace we’ve established, so when I’m done, I walk up to it as usual.
There are a few other customers, but that no longer even fazes me as I call over, “What number today, Joy Lynn?”
“D12,” she says.
I drop in my money and punch the buttons, and Elvis begins to croon “Love Me Tender.” My heart breaks a little more for her as I walk sadly out the door feeling like an enabler, like maybe she once was to her Bobby. Ugh. Maybe this is a habit I really need to break.
The skies have been overcast all day, and as I pull in the driveway, it begins to rain.
It’s fortunate timing, though, since I was planning an afternoon of digging through more lost-and-found stuff, deciding which to post next.
Up to now, it’s been a pretty random process, but I’m starting to feel the time constraints that come with my temporary stay, and the fact that no one is going to take this task over when I leave.
Suddenly I’m trying to find the items that seem the most potentially treasured, the most valuable, the most cherished by someone long ago.
I ditch my hat and shoes, pull on a pair of comfy sweats, and plop down on the bed in the spare room with a storage container I’ve never opened before. Removing the lid, I spy lots of paper in this one. That already sounds time consuming and more complex, but I dig in anyway.
The first thing I pull out: what appears to be an unpublished novel!
If I had Wi-Fi, I’d google around to verify the unpublished aspect, but since I can’t, I read a little and decide it’s not my cup of tea, yet surely someone who went to the trouble to write a novel—one that appears to have come from an actual typewriter in pre-computer days—wouldn’t have tossed it out on purpose.
What if this is the only copy? The author’s name is on it, so that should be a big help when posting.
Next, I pull out a handful of ... letters, I’m guessing, tied up in a blue grosgrain ribbon.
They look old and I love them already. Someone kept them, meaning they were saved and valued.
I almost want to leave them the way they are, undisturbed—there’s something secret and romantic about the ribbon—but there’s no way I can get them back to where they belong if I don’t dig for clues.
On top, shoved under the ribbon, is a small note that says: I found these in an old dresser I bought at a flea market in Santa Fe in 1988. They seem special. I’ve held on to them for years and don’t know what to do with them.
I open the first letter.
Dearest Millie,