Page 53 of Curious Hearts (The Healing Hearts #2)
“Are you sure you want to tackle the attic today?” Ali asked, gently rocking three-month-old Vivian against her shoulder. “We could wait until your parents take her for the weekend.”
Jessica smiled at the sight of them—her wife and daughter bathed in the soft morning light streaming through the Victorian’s windows. Every time she saw them together, her heart did that peculiar little flip that still surprised her after all this time.
“If we wait for the perfect time, that attic will still be untouched when our little Vivi goes to college,” Jessica replied, pressing a kiss to Ali’s forehead, then to the baby’s downy head.
“Besides, the contractors are already here, and this is the last room. Once it’s converted, we’ll finally have that home office you've been wanting.”
Ali’s foundation had expanded to five hospitals across Colorado, requiring more administrative work than could be managed at her small clinic space. The upstairs office would give her a place to work from home on the days she didn’t want to leave the baby.
“Fair point,” Ali conceded. “Just don’t lift anything heavy. I need you in one piece.”
“That’s what we’re paying the contractors for,” Jessica assured her. “I’ll supervise while you feed the little monster.”
As if on cue, Vivian made the snuffling sound that inevitably preceded hungry wails. Ali laughed. “Perfect timing, as always. She definitely inherited your scheduling abilities.”
“But your lungs,” Jessica countered with a smile as the baby’s cries grew impressively loud. “Go feed our daughter. I’ll handle the attic.”
Upstairs, Jessica surveyed the cluttered space with its sloped ceiling and dormer windows.
They’d been using it as a catch-all storage room since Ali had moved in permanently—boxes of her belongings that hadn’t found homes elsewhere, holiday decorations, and miscellaneous items inherited from Vivian that Jessica hadn’t been able to part with.
Against the far wall stood an enormous Victorian wardrobe, its dark wood scarred with age but still imposing.
It had been too heavy to move during their initial renovation of the house, so they’d simply worked around it.
Now, with three burly contractors ready to transform the space, it was finally time to decide its fate.
“We need to empty this before we try moving it,” Jessica instructed, opening the wardrobe doors to reveal Ali’s winter coats and a collection of rarely-used veterinary textbooks. “Let's get everything out, then see if it’s worth keeping.”
As she and one of the contractors emptied the wardrobe, Jessica considered where they might put the massive piece.
It was too large for any of the bedrooms, and the downstairs spaces were already furnished exactly as they wanted.
Perhaps it would have to go—another piece of the house’s history making way for their family’s future.
“It's empty, Ms. Taylor,” the contractor—Mike, according to his embroidered work shirt—announced. “Ready to see if this beast will move?”
Jessica nodded, stepping back as Mike and his colleagues positioned themselves around the wardrobe. With coordinated effort, they began inching it away from the wall, the legs scraping against the hardwood with a sound that made Jessica wince.
“Wait,” Mike said suddenly, peering behind the wardrobe. “There's something back here.”
“Probably decades of dust,” Jessica replied, though she moved closer to look.
“No, ma'am. There’s a door.”
Jessica blinked in surprise. “A door?”
As the wardrobe moved further from the wall, the outline became unmistakable—a small door, painted the same color as the wall, with an antique brass knob tarnished nearly black with age.
“Well, I’ll be damned,” Mike said, scratching his head. “You’ve got yourself a secret room. Like something out of a mystery novel.”
Jessica stared at the door, feeling an unexpected flutter of excitement. “Can you get the wardrobe completely out of the way?”
With renewed enthusiasm, the contractors maneuvered the massive furniture piece to the center of the room, fully revealing the hidden door. It wasn’t much taller than Jessica herself—certainly not standard height—and narrower than a normal doorway.
“Should we open it for you?” Mike offered. “Make sure there are no bodies?”
Jessica shook her head. “No, I’ll take it from here. If you could take the wardrobe to Goodwill?”
Mike let out a huff of air, obviously as curious as Jessica was to find out what was behind it.
As the contractors heaved the wardrobe towards the stairs, muttering speculations about what might be behind the door, Jessica approached it slowly.
Something about this discovery felt significant—like the house had been holding its breath, waiting for the right moment to reveal one last secret.
She tried the knob, finding it stuck from disuse.
After a moment of resistance, it turned with a reluctant creak, and the door swung inward to reveal a space not much larger than a walk-in closet.
Dust motes bounced into the light of the tiny room, illuminating stacks of boxes, old journals, and what appeared to be photo albums.
But what caught Jessica’s eye immediately was a large manila envelope propped against one of the boxes, her name written across it in purple ink—the same distinctive handwriting she recognized from Vivian’s Christmas cards.
With hands that suddenly and oddly now trembled, Jessica picked up the envelope. Inside was a letter and what appeared to be a manuscript bound with faded ribbon. She unfolded the letter first, settling on a nearby box to read.
Dearest Jessica,
If you’re reading this, then you’ve discovered my little sanctuary. I always suspected you’d be the one to find it—you have the perfect blend of curiosity and persistence, much like myself at your age, though you hide it better than I ever did.
This room holds the stories I couldn’t tell in polite company, the memories too precious or too scandalous to share with our disapproving family. I sealed it up when my health began to fail, knowing that someday, the right person would find it.
I’ve watched you grow from a distance, my darling great-niece.
I’ve seen you build a life of achievement and respect, climbing every ladder placed before you with remarkable determination.
But I’ve also seen the price you’ve paid for that climb—the gentle heart you’ve guarded so carefully, the joy you’ve set aside in pursuit of the success others defined for you.
That’s why I left you the house and its feline guardians.
A house should never be without pets, Jessica.
They are reflections of our souls, grounding us during life’s hardest moments, reminding us that love needs no justification beyond itself.
My cats taught me more about honest living than any human ever could.
They accept no pretense, demand nothing but authenticity, and love without calculation or expectation.
In a world that constantly asks us to be more than we are, they remind us that being exactly who we are is enough.
The manuscript enclosed contains the uncensored story of my life—The Affairs of Vivian Porter, as I’ve cheekily titled it.
You’ll find tales of my adventures, my lovers (yes, plural), my mistakes, and the wisdom I gathered along the way.
Some passages may shock you. Others, I hope, will make you laugh. All of them are true.
I’ve also enclosed a separate note for Dr. Ritchie. I had a feeling about her from the moment we met. There’s a clarity in her eyes that reminds me of my Josephine (you’ll read about her in chapter four). When the time is right, please share it with her.
Remember, my darling: Legacy isn’t what you leave behind in bank accounts or achievements. It’s the love you cultivate, the joy you create, the authenticity you dare to live with. The greatest act of courage is to live an honest life in a world that rewards conformity.
All my love, Your Aunt Vivian
P.S. If you haven’t fallen in love with Ali by now, you’re being incredibly stubborn and I’m very disappointed in you from beyond the grave.
Jessica laughed through the tears that had gathered in her eyes, the postscript so perfectly capturing Vivian’s direct nature.
She carefully folded the letter and picked up the manuscript, running her fingers over the title written in the same scrawling purple ink: “The Affairs of Vivian Porter: Uncensored Memoirs of a Disreputable Lady.”
“Jess?” Ali's voice called from the stairway. “Everything okay up there? You’ve been awfully quiet.”
“Come see this,” Jessica called back, quickly wiping her eyes. “You won’t believe what we found.”
Moments later, Ali appeared in the doorway, baby Vivian sleeping peacefully against her shoulder. “What in the world?” she asked, taking in the secret room and the dust-covered boxes.
“A hidden room,” Jessica explained, her voice still thick with emotion. “Vivian’s secret sanctuary. And there’s a letter for you.”
Ali’s eyes widened as Jessica held out a smaller envelope with “For Dr. Alison Ritchie (When the Time is Right)” written across it. “For me? But how did she?—”
”I think Vivian knew a lot more than she let on,” Jessica said, making room for Ali to sit beside her. “Here, let me take Vivi.”
She carefully gathered their sleeping daughter, cradling her against her chest. Baby Vivian’s bronze skin, a perfect blend of Jessica’s rich brown and Ali’s lighter tone, seemed to glow in the dusty light of the attic.
Jessica pressed a gentle kiss to the infant’s forehead as Ali opened her letter.
Jessica watched her wife’s expression transform as she read—surprise, then amusement, then a soft wonder that made her eyes shine with unshed tears.
“What does it say?" Jessica asked when Ali finally looked up.