I took a few steps forward, my legs feeling wooden and stiff. Slowly, I made my way toward the table— what Gran called a piecrust table—and the arrangement there. The vase was tall, nearly a foot high and rectangular in shape. The milky white blossoms were still attached to their stems, nestled between the sturdy green leaves. They were fresh, not yet wilted and still full of scent. They could only be hothouse flowers this time of year. But how did they get here?
Mystified, I glanced over at the flower-strewn bed, noticing now that what I’d originally thought was a white throw pillow amidst the pile of blue and gold tasseled ones was actually paper—a sheaf of papers with an envelope on top. My heart was in my throat as I hurried over to the side of the bed and reached across the duvet, sliding the papers closer. My name was scrawled on the envelope in a familiar hand—Aidan’s. I ripped open the seal and took out the slip of heavy, cream-colored paper. Unfolding it with shaking hands, I began to read.
Tears burned behind my eyelids as I refolded the page and returned it to the envelope. I took a deep breath, digesting his words in silence, trying to make sense of it all. He’d deeded the house to me? The house and all of its contents? I glanced around the room in wonderment. What was I supposed to do with it all?
I took the sheaf of papers and removed the clip, leafing through them without understanding much of what I was reading. It was paragraph after paragraph of legalese, occasionally interrupted by lines with signatures, Aidan’s and someone else’s—the attorney’s, I supposed.
I swallowed hard, completely overwhelmed. The town house itself was worth millions—a plum piece of Manhattan real estate. Add in the antique furnishings, the artwork . . .
Thanks to my art history class, I now recognized several of the gilt-framed paintings throughout the house as originals, some by masters. I was pretty sure that the pretty landscape above the fireplace was a Seurat, the portrait by the staircase a Gainsborough.
But I didn’t want any of it, Aidan’s possessions. I wanted
I dropped the sheaf of papers to the bed and rose, hurrying over to the chest of drawers in the room’s corner. I opened one drawer, then another. There were jeans, T-shirts, all familiar and folded neatly inside, abandoned. I picked up a shirt—a worn, black tee—and lifted it to my nose. It smelled clean, like fabric softener, not a trace of Aidan’s scent remaining. There must be something, some hint of him somewhere.
I tried the dressing room next, peering inside the heavy armoire. Several button-down shirts hung there, all in shades of blue, a color that Aidan seemed to favor. There were also several hoodies stacked on a shelf. I lifted one sleeve to my nose, again inhaling deeply, searching for his scent. Once more, I was disappointed. The soft cotton smelled freshly laundered, entirely sanitized. It might have belonged to anyone.
There was a hamper in the corner opposite the fireplace, but upon inspection, I found it empty. Obviously, the entire room had been cleaned and put in order after he’d left. But then . . . I saw something, a hint of color wedged between the wall and the hamper. My heart racing, I bent down and reached into the space, my fingers closing around something soft.
It was a T-shirt, I realized. A dark gray one, one of Aidan’s vintage punk-rock shirts. Somehow, whoever had cleaned the room and done the laundry had missed it. It still smelled like him—just barely, but still . . . I would recognize it anywhere. Nearly weeping with relief, I clutched it to my chest as I hurried out.
Back in the bedroom again, there was one more piece of furniture to inspect, a beautiful desk with a large, roll-top compartment on one side. Glancing wistfully at the framed picture that sat atop the desk—me and Aidan at last fall’s Halloween Fair dance, the same photo I kept on my dresser at Patsy’s—I pushed open the rolling lid and peered inside.
There were several small boxes, one with an engraved pocket watch and another with several pairs of cufflinks. A third held a small signet ring with a crest. I flipped through a brown leather address book, mostly filled with foreign addresses that meant nothing to me. In the back was a larger wooden box—a jewelry box, I guessed. I opened the lid.
Nestled inside was a treasure trove of jewels—his mother’s and sisters’, I supposed. I lifted the top tray to reveal a second layer, which held nothing but a small blue velvet pouch along with another envelope with my name on it, again in Aidan’s script.
The rush of blood through my veins was near deafening as I removed the card inside and read the words scrawled on it.
There was no signature, just the letter
Finally, I set the card aside and reached for the pouch, almost afraid to open it. I took a deep breath before loosening the strings and dumping the contents into my palm. For a moment, I closed my fingers around the treasure, holding it there with the metal biting into my hand as I waited for my breathing to slow. Finally, I opened my hand and stared down at the ring, my eyes widening in appreciation.
It was a delicate piece, set in pink-tinted gold. The center stone was a rectangular-shaped diamond, set sideways. Flanking it on either side were smaller oval diamonds, also set sideways. It was simple but beautiful, and clearly very, very old.
I slipped it on my finger, surprised to find it a perfect fit. But how could I ever wear something like this? And yet . . . it felt so right there on my finger, a link to Aidan and his past, his history. I reached down to remove it, but stopped myself, not wanting to break that link. Instead, I tucked the velvet pouch and the card into my pocket.
And then I broke down. A sob tore from my throat, and I hurried over to the bed, still clutching the gray T- shirt. Tugging down the heavy duvet, I climbed between the covers, scattering the orange blossoms as I did so. Curling up into a ball, I buried my face in the downy pillow and cried, my tears soaking the soft cotton linens.
I have no idea how long I lay there crying—fifteen minutes, maybe a half hour. Eventually, my sobs gave way to sniffles and I forced myself to get up and head to the master bathroom, where I washed my face with cold water, avoiding my reflection in the mirror as I did so. I didn’t need to look to know that my face would be red, my eyes puffy and swollen.
I needed to get back to Sophie. I was sure she was worried about me. Besides, we could come back tomorrow, after the museum. Maybe she could help me go through his stuff, decide if there was anything else I wanted to take back to school with me. I also had to figure out what I was going to tell Patsy.
Quickly, I remade the bed and tossed the throw pillows back where they belonged. Operating on autopilot now, I gathered up the legal documents with Aidan’s note and his T-shirt, flipped off the light, and headed back downstairs. I made a quick circuit around the ground floor, shutting off all the lights before retrieving my coat and bag from the front hall. I stuffed the T-shirt and papers into my bag and then reset the alarm.
I stepped outside, pausing to pull on my coat and lock the door. I just needed to send a quick text to Sophie and then I’d walk back to Patsy’s. I needed the extra time to cool off, to get my emotions under control before I had to face anyone.
But as soon as I turned toward the street, I froze, a scream stuck in my throat. There was someone there, sitting on the top step. I stumbled back against the door, reaching into my bag for my stake when the figure turned
