Chapter 8
EIGHT
JOE
Wednesday, Two Days Before the Summer Swap
The attic smelled of cedar and time. Dust floated in the slanting sunlight from the small window overlooking the garage, glittering in the air. The floorboards creaked under their steps, the quiet pressing in as if the room itself were holding its breath.
Joe paused near the window, letting the stillness settle around him.
He felt strangely adrift in this attic full of trunks, quilts, furniture—an entire lifetime of things.
It amazed him how much a person could gather by simply staying in one place.
He thought of his own life condensed to a single storage unit somewhere in Illinois, and the backpack that held everything he needed.
Somehow, standing here made that feel smaller than ever.
“Wow,” he murmured, crouching beside a stack of hatboxes. “Your grandparents must’ve kept everything.”
Krista brushed dust off a chest of drawers, leaving streaks that glimmered in the light. “Grandma rarely throws anything away. She says you never know when it might come in handy.”
“I guess that’s true. ”
They moved carefully through the attic, lifting lids and sifting through boxes of yellowed letters, lace doilies, and photo albums with brittle pages.
Vacation snapshots, pressed corsages, ticket stubs from county fairs long past. Every item felt deliberate, saved for a reason.
He wondered what it would feel like to have such strong roots, so many things to hold onto. He never had, and maybe he never would.
Then Krista froze. “There,” she whispered, pointing toward the far corner.
Beneath a brass floor lamp, an old trunk waited, its lid bound with a faded blue ribbon.
Joe knelt, fingers brushing the cool wood as he loosened the knot.
Inside, wrapped in a handkerchief, lay a collection of small treasures.
A glass perfume bottle with just a trace of scent, a folded lace slip the color of cream, and beneath them, a leather-bound book, worn smooth with age.
Krista hesitated a moment.
“Want me to leave?” Joe asked, unsure if she needed privacy.
“No…stay,” she said. She stood and then opened it carefully. The pages crackled, the faded ink still legible.
The first entry, in looping script, read:
“ Mama says everything will be alright once I’m married. She says that love can grow from duty like flowers from soil.
I try to believe her .”
Krista’s voice was low and reverent as she read aloud, and Joe found himself drawn not only to the words, but to the cadence of her voice.
“ The church bells rang again this morning, and I felt the sound in my chest like a warning.
Everyone says I should be happy. Peter is kind enough, and his family has money.
He will take care of me, and I will never have to worry.
But every time I look in the mirror, I feel like a stranger is staring back. Is this what is to become of me ?
“That’s not my great-grandfather’s name,” said Krista, softly.
“Peter?” Joe surmised.
“Yeah. My great-grandfather was Joseph.”
Joe leaned closer, inhaling the scent of lavender and something older—rain-soaked paper and honey. “She sounds…sad.”
“Definitely,” Krista agreed, turning the page. The next entry’s handwriting was tighter, and unfamiliar.
“What language is that?” Joe frowned.
Krista studied it. “Spanish. My grandmother never mentioned that Isabel spoke it, but…it makes sense. Her parents came from Mexico before she was born.”
She traced the script lightly with one finger.
“What does it say?” Joe asked.
Krista paused. “ The house is sleeping, but I am not . At least, I think that’s what it says. My Spanish isn’t great—I haven’t studied it since college.”
Joe shifted closer, his shoulder brushing hers. Heat pooled along his arm as her gaze flicked from the page to his face. “You can read some of it, though?”
“Enough to feel it,” she said, her voice catching.
He leaned in further, and the attic felt suddenly smaller, warmer, electric. She’d gone still, and he listened for the quiet beat of her heart.
Krista scanned the rest of the entry, but didn’t say anything. Her silence was starting to drive him mad. Joe wondered if his presence was tripping her up as much as hers was him.
“Anything?” he asked gently.
“Maybe,” Krista whispered, shaking her head and reading the line. “She’s talking about someone else…a different man.” Krista pointed. “This line here she writes: Jonah says our love is a secret that only flourishes in the dark. ”
“Jonah? A lover?” Joe asked.
“I don’t know,” she said.
“Right, sorry…just thinking aloud.”
Her finger traced the script slowly, deliberately.
Cuando me besa… When he kisses me…Krista lifted her eyes to meet Joe’s. For a second, everything stilled. His gaze dropped involuntarily to her mouth as she bit her bottom lip, then back up.
“I think you’re right. She had a lover. And this last line,” she said then, forcing their attention back to the diary, “talks about duty over desire. But she didn’t marry Peter, did she? Unless she got a divorce?”
Joe shrugged. “Maybe Peter passed away, and then she married your grandfather.”
“And for some reason she disappeared for a while? Why?”
“That’s the mystery, isn’t it?”
Halfway through the diary, a pressed flower tumbled free—a pale, silver Moonlight Kiss bloom, still intact after all these years. Krista caught it, cradling it in her fingers as it glimmered in the filtered sunlight.
Joe watched her, captivated. She looked luminous, as if she belonged in this story.
Like the lake and the light and the ghosts were all a part of her.
His hand lifted instinctively, brushing the inside of her wrist, feeling her pulse leap.
She didn’t pull away; if anything, she leaned into the touch.
His thumb traced the edge of her palm, slow and careful, learning her in small increments. The attic felt closer, warmer, the dusty air thick with the scent of old paper, and the honey and citrus that seemed to cling to her.
“Krista,” he said, and her name came out rough.
She swallowed, eyes flicking to his mouth before lifting again. “Joe…”
He leaned toward her, just a little, and it was enough. His hand found her waist, fingers spreading over the curve of her hip.
Krista tipped her chin up, lips parting slightly, and Joe’s restraint snapped.
Their lips met with urgency, all wild want and heat. Her hand slid up his chest, his other hand on the back of her head. She made a soft sound as they gripped each other.
The kiss deepened with one slow, hungry sweep of her tongue, and Joe’s pulse surged, the pull into her impossibly magnetic.
“Krista?” Alice’s voice floated up from downstairs. “Honey? Are you still up there?”
They pulled apart as if they were a couple of teenagers caught kissing in study hall.
Krista’s eyes were wide, cheeks flushed, the Moonlight Kiss flower trembling between her fingers. Joe’s hands fell from her neck and waist, but the heat of her skin remained.
“Yeah!” she called, too brightly, clearing her throat. “We’re coming!”
Joe exhaled, jaw tight, resisting the urge to kiss her again. He took a step back, tearing himself away. “We should…” he started, voice low.
“Yeah,” Krista whispered, her eyes caught in his. “We should.”