Gift of Friends

Chapter One

Lynette paused at the top of her back stairs, unfazed by the damp grit and pitted concrete below her callused feet. A year ago, she’d have flinched away from the rough surface under the baby-soft skin of her pampered soles. She let the ornate wooden screen door slap shut behind her. If she’d still been in the city, she’d have jumped at that sound—so like the pop of a gun.

She pulled the moist air of a rain-soaked morning deep into her lungs. The crisp scent of pine sparked her taste buds, and she allowed her eyes to drift shut. It was easy to imagine the familiar zing of her favorite gin and tonic against her tongue following a slow, delicious nip. Once upon a time, that trigger would have exploded an uncontrollable longing for an actual cocktail, and then another. More would have followed until the jagged edges of her pain could be obscured beneath a pleasant haze of alcohol.

She opened her eyes on the exhale, grateful that, now, in this place, those cravings were less and less frequent.

After she’d fled New York City amid a worldwide pandemic for the quieter streets of Ruby Shores, the small town of her youth, she could feel her polished layers slowly dissolve. New sides of her personality, which she was finally allowing herself to explore, were slowly revealing themselves. This metamorphosis was one of the catalysts behind her early morning jaunt into a far corner of her backyard.

Normally, she would still be snuggled under the age-worn quilt that covered her bed upstairs. The quilt had replaced a black silk duvet she’d left behind in the city. The silk would have been out of place here—garish, even.

During those first few months after relocating, Lynette had felt like she didn’t belong here either. Sometimes she still felt like an outsider.

She skipped down the worn surface of the stairs, one hand resting on the front pocket of her overalls so the heavy ring of house keys wouldn’t bounce against her ample chest. She didn’t need a wayward skeleton key to accidentally damage the implants she was finally coming to appreciate.

The end result of work performed by the world-renowned plastic surgeon who’d taken her from a B cup to a DD cup had always felt oddly foreign to her. She’d resented the change to her natural shape the minute the bandages came off. But gravity wasn’t causing as much droop to her “girls” as her like-aged friends complained about experiencing. Maybe her enhanced breasts weren’t so bad after all. If she still lived in the Big Apple, she likely would have gotten a few nips and tucks, too. But she lived in Ruby Shores now and never planned to move back to the city, so she would simply take care of what she had naturally.

Even before coming here, things like mani-pedis and appointments with her stylist had become impossible thanks to the city’s lockdown. After wasting too many hours breathing in the toxic fumes of hair dyes and polish removers, she’d finally learned to accept her bare nails and untamed locks.

And then the virus got her. Her COVID experience made her grateful for the simple act of drawing deep breaths, but falling ill to the virus had done more than that. It was the conduit that finally galvanized her into action.

Selling her company and the apartment to move back to Ruby Shores had felt like the right move at the perfect time. Even her mother, Donna, who had been reluctant to leave her beloved city life, recently admitted that this was starting to feel like home for her again, too.

But Donna didn’t understand Lynette’s obsession with carving out a tiny place of her own in their backyard. The roomy, century-old home they’d moved into already had more bedrooms and living space than the two city-dwellers knew what to do with.

For Lynette, all that space felt overwhelming.

When Lynette was young, Donna had worked hard to provide for them, but there were months when she’d barely scraped enough money together to keep a roof over their heads and food on the table. Later, their neighboring New York apartment units had been considered spacious for city living. But those high-rise apartments had been compact compared to their current home.

It wasn’t until Lynette realized she was spending entirely too much time in her walk-in closet, supposedly organizing a wardrobe that she’d drastically pared down with their move, that she finally realized why she was feeling so unmoored. She needed somewhere small and cozy to enjoy a cup of tea. Maybe get lost in the pages of one of the dusty old books the prior owners had left behind on the many shelves in their fully stocked library. Too much space, after a lifetime of smaller living quarters, made her jittery.

And she was pretty sure she’d figured out the perfect spot to rectify the situation—the old potting shed in a back corner of her property.

She’d only entered the shed one time, back during her first week as this majestic home’s new owner. She’d shivered in disgust over the cluttered, shadowed interior and closed it back up again almost immediately. The jiggly old lock’s effectiveness was questionable, so she’d added a padlock, then promptly forgot about the rundown little building.

But now, a year later, a new purpose for the old shed had potentially revealed itself. Today was the day she’d earmarked to revisit the small building, and she hoped to finally clear away the clutter and debris. Then she’d be able to decide if it was feasible to transform the space into the decadent, private oasis she envisioned.

Yesterday she’d trimmed away the lowest branches of the massive pine tree that towered over the shed, dwarfing it. The limbs had blocked the moss-covered brick pathway that meandered from the house and around a small rose garden before leading back to the shed.

The mound of cut branches had grown waist-high by the time she’d called it a day. Pine-scented cuttings perfumed the air nicely, but she worried that they would dry out quickly and become a fire hazard.

Last night, after twenty minutes of attempting and failing to scrub the tree sap from her hands, she’d called her friend Annie and asked to speak to her son, Relic. The young man agreed to swing by today with his pickup truck to haul away the cuttings. He’d sounded happy to earn a little money. Lynette knew many places around town were still struggling after long closures, and Relic had admitted to not having a summer job.

Pine needles poked at her bare feet as she approached the shed’s locked door. “I probably should have worn shoes today,” she said, stopping to pull a sharp barb out of the toughened skin on the ball of her left foot. She’d run back to the house for her tennis shoes if the shed’s floor turned out to be treacherous for bare feet. Ever since leaving the city, she’d sworn off high heels and, at least in the non-winter months, rarely wore shoes of any kind while at home.

She pulled the heavy ring from her front pocket and eyed its extensive assortment of keys. It was easy to locate the shiny new padlock key and pop open the extra lock. Corrosion around the original keyhole on the underside of the shed’s ornate door handle looked problematic.

Living in an old house had taught her the value of WD-40. She’d even stashed a small can of it in the left side pocket of her overalls as she’d passed through the kitchen that morning. After injecting a quick squirt, hoping to loosen the locking mechanism, she turned her attention back to the ring of keys. She’d found the correct one for the door’s original lock once before, so it had to be here.

The incessant squawk of a crow pulled her attention up to the antique weathervane atop the shed. She squinted at her obnoxious morning visitor, perched on the vane’s bullet-hole-ridden metal horse. Streaks of rust, like blood, made it all look like a snippet out of a horror movie set.

“Oh, zip it, bird!” she hissed as she shook the heavy ring in the bird’s direction. “I’m trying, okay?”

Eventually, she located the slightly twisted iron key and worked it into the keyhole, then held her breath until she was rewarded with a satisfying click. Air, heavy with the unmistakable scent of old oil and mothballs, wafted out at her.

The possibility of encountering any crawling, slithering, or flying creatures had terrified her when she first poked into the shadowed corners of this home—new to her but older than most—but her aversion had faded with time. Spiders barely made her pulse jump these days. The infrequent capture of a wayward mouse in a trap under the kitchen sink or in the musty basement didn’t faze her much anymore, either.

Despite rusty hinges, the door wouldn’t stay open of its own accord, so she shoved a cantaloupe-sized rock in place to keep it from swinging shut on her. Donna wouldn’t be back until early evening, and if she foolishly got herself locked inside this old shed, she’d be stuck there until Relic showed up to haul away her clippings or she could call someone for help. A dead mouse no longer bothered her, but that didn’t mean she wanted to be trapped inside with a live one.

She entered the shed and promptly stepped on the threaded shank of a long screw. Her breath escaped her in a hiss. Bare feet weren’t going to cut it. She almost turned to go collect her tennis shoes when she spotted a pair of green rubber gardening clogs next to the door.

“Perfect!”

She gave each clog a quick shake to dislodge anything unsavory that might have taken up residence there before shoving her bare feet inside, then straightened and gazed around the interior.

What a mess.

Dust tickled her nose. Her eyes watered, and the long shadows made it difficult to see, but her vision quickly adjusted to the gloom.

With hands on hips, she studied an indistinguishable, sheet-covered lump that was as tall as she was. Floor-to-ceiling metal shelving units sporting equal parts rust and spider webs flanked the shrouded item. Individual shelves bowed under the weight of an assortment of old junk.

“Not exactly the welcoming, serene space I’m imagining. Yet.”

To help with her perusal, she pulled her phone out of yet another pocket—thanks to the practicality of her denim jumper. Using the flashlight, Lynette could better make out more hulking shapes that stood next to and behind the utilitarian shelving units. She remembered how Sybil, the grandmother of the woman she’d bought this house from, had fondly referred to this as the “potting shed.” But to Lynette’s untrained eye, it didn’t look like there was even one spare inch of room in here to perform any actual work with plants.

More dust erupted when she pulled a sheet down, revealing a curious-looking metal statue of a girl standing in a narrow bowl and wearing a crown of flowers atop her wavy hair. Its greenish-blue hue was probably a warm copper before oxidation took hold. The statue was lovely, even with the patina.

A water fountain, perhaps? Regardless, it belonged outside and would look nice in the middle of the rose bushes her mother had tamed into some semblance of order. But she’d need help to get it out of the shed.

She groaned, realizing one allotted day to clear out the junk wasn’t going to be enough. She’d have to go through the items on each shelf, open every cardboard box, and decide what to toss, donate, or keep.

The shelving units blocking the building’s two windows would be the logical place to start. Once those were empty and the windows washed, the light should stream in, making this gritty task easier.

That decided, she retreated from the shed and retrieved three metal garbage cans from the side of the garage, knowing she’d likely need more.

Her stomach rumbled, and she patted the multiple pockets in her overalls, searching for the granola bar she’d stashed in one of them. She hadn’t taken the time to eat breakfast or go on her morning walk, but the special treat should give her enough energy to carry her through to lunch.

Val—the sister of her old friend, Renee—made the bars herself, and Lynette always tried to keep a supply on hand. The woman was attempting to get her bars into grocery chains around the state of Minnesota. Lynette suspected that if Val’s business acumen was half as good as her baking abilities, she stood a good chance of success.

Maybe she should reach out and offer Renee’s sister some help. She’d sold plenty of products in her own business over the years, and now that she didn’t have her company anymore, there were days when she missed the work. She was even toying with the idea of testing her skills in the world of consulting.

But not today. Today, she’d get most of the junk cleared out of this shed. Which meant she’d have to do her best to keep distractions at bay.

She finished her granola bar and started with the top shelf of the unit that was blocking the morning light from flowing in through the east window. A hard tug on the handle of a white leather bag brought a heavy bowling ball crashing to the littered wood of the shed floor. Two inches to the left and she could have lost a few toes, despite the rubber garden clogs.

Taking it slower to avoid injury, she established a variety of piles in the circle of gravel outside the shed door. She struggled to decipher which items warranted donation versus what was just old junk to be tossed.

She’d never been much of a saver, herself.

Growing up, she and her mother kept their belongings to a minimum. This was partially to make their frequent moves easier, but also because there was seldom any money left over each month after rent, gas, and food to buy much else. There wasn’t always enough for food.

Later, when she and Donna found success in New York, they surrounded themselves with shiny new objects; things they could never afford before. They’d left much of those items behind when they moved back to Ruby Shores to start this new life.

“Just do your best,” she muttered, half expecting the crow from earlier to mock her, but there was no answering squawk this time. “No one has touched this junk in years. I just need to get through it all.”

Lynette talked to herself often these days. Following months of isolation, and none of the work-related meetings that used to eat up a significant portion of her time, she needed to keep using her voice. Otherwise, it might get as rusty and ineffective as the hinges on the shed’s door. It didn’t matter if she was the only one there to listen.

She worked her way down the shelves. Filtered sunlight streamed in through the cleared area in front of the window. The beams highlighted floating dust motes in the air.

“Almost done with this section.” She knelt down and rubbed her hands on her denim-clad thighs, surveying the assortment on the bottom two shelves. Dark patches of grime clung to her fingers where the stubborn pine sap from yesterday remained. Once she got these cleared off, she’d take a well-deserved coffee break before moving on to another shelving unit.

A battered, rectangular wooden box, coated with a thick layer of dust, filled most of the bottom shelf. Curious, Lynette reached for it, wondering what the long-forgotten vessel might contain.

“A stash of gold coins would be nice. Maybe some pirate’s booty!” she joked, grunting when the top of the box caught on the shelf above it. It took some jiggling, but she pulled it clear.

Her knees protested as she struggled to her feet, holding the box against her hip. She took it outside, where she shook out her cramped legs and coughed yet again over the dusty conditions.

Bright sunlight revealed heavy carvings on the top and sides of the box, but the lid stuck. Something tumbled around inside when she shook it, though there wasn’t much weight to it.

“So much for finding gold.”

Still, she had to know.

The rest of the junk on the bottom shelves could wait. She’d grab a rag—along with that cup of coffee—and wipe away some of the dust so she could better examine her discovery.

At the back steps, she set the box down, not wanting to drag the dust into the house. Her curiosity was growing by the minute over what might be inside.

She returned with a dampened dishtowel and fresh coffee. She’d also grabbed a face mask from her purse, hoping it would help her inhale less of the irritating dust.

It didn’t take long to accept that it would take more than an old rag to dislodge the dirt and dust wedged deep into the decorative carvings. But all she cared about at the moment was getting the box open. It turned out to be in better shape than she’d initially thought, once she’d removed the first coating of dust. Aside from one heavy scratch across the top right corner of the lid, there was no other apparent damage.

Still, the lid wouldn’t budge. It was locked.

Remembering the reading glasses perched atop her head, she settled them on her nose to inspect the box. Finally, she spied what looked like two small keyholes nestled in the heavy carving on top. They were equidistant from the sides of the box, in its exact center.

Now what?

There was an old letter opener inside a rolltop desk in the house’s library. That might work to pry the locks open, but she’d hate to damage the box.

Then she thought of the ring of keys she’d left in the shed. Could she be that lucky to find a key to the box amongst the assortment?

She set the box to the side, swigged more coffee, and hurried back toward the shed, noting the increasing heat of the morning sun on her neck and shoulders. It might get too hot to work out here all day. It would take her a week to clean out her future she-shed at this rate, but something told her the effort would be worth it. Starting with the box.

She’d always loved a good mystery.