Page 9

Home (Again)

“O h, come on!” I growl in frustration. The pieces of the broken bed are heavy as shit because my parents had a love affair with furniture built to withstand an earthquake. I thought I could at least get them into the hallway before Gene and Niecy’s grandkids show up.

I piled the bags and boxes containing my new clothes on the lounge, and though my visit with Fidelia was definitely not one I look to repeat, it wasn’t the worst interaction I’ve had. I finished my shopping, came home, and worked on the downstairs boxes until it was done.

Unfortunately, that meant bunking on the couch again, and since I’m not a twenty-year-old anymore, it needs to be the last time. Or at least, the last time until I get my furniture inside. The remnants of my folks’ décor are all uncomfortable yet highly presentable for guests. The sparse items I bought in Richmond are designed for comfort and function, not snotty tea parties, so getting those unloaded is another priority for the day.

My dreams were filled with weird symbols and events—so much so that I remembered every second of them when I woke up. Usually, I get fragments, but not much else.

Everything here is off-kilter, and it’s making me batty.

I give the huge chunk of bed frame another shove, using my entire body to slide it through the doorframe. “ Finally .”

I drop to the floor, panting as I fumble for my water bottle. There are piles of boxes in every room of the upstairs, each labelled with its contents. I know that I’ll have to have Niecy’s boys clear the broken bed first, and then every single piece of furniture from that master before I can unpack. I don’t feel comfortable in my parents’ room, and I can’t live in the smaller guest room I’m in now.

Ironically, this was my bedroom growing up, but once I was off to college, my folks re-did it. It stung a little that they didn’t even wait a full year after I left to get rid of my room, but I shrugged it off like I did every eccentricity my folks had. I’m sure they packed away my stuff in the basement, but that’s a project for another day.

I need to finish the upstairs today, because tomorrow I have the visit with Hottie McBabyVet at the farm and I have to take my paperwork in to Bobbi Jo. They will complete the deliveries to the studio by Saturday, and I have to head there to set up the basics and the classroom space. Monday is the first day of teacher orientation at WHFS.

Time is moving so quickly, and I’m not remotely ready.

* * *

Niecy’s grandkids are adorable, lanky teenagers with saucy wits—just like their grandmother. They loaded up the broken pieces with raised eyebrows, but their ingrained Southern manners kept them from asking what happened. I was grateful for that given that I didn’t want to share the NC-17 story of my shame with anyone—much less a bunch of teenagers and a man I think of like a grandfather.

Gene directed them while they carried out every scrap of furniture in my parents’ bedroom, leaving piles of knickknacks, clothes, and other items around the perimeter for me to sort into categories. The storage facility is two towns over, so they’ll be gone long enough for me to unbox some of my own things and use the boxes to designate what’s going to storage, what is getting donated, and what is trash. Gene wisely suggested that I make a trash pile that they will use the truck to take to the dump rather than have it sit around waiting for the garbage day I missed on Monday.

You’d think after years of gallivanting around Europe on my own, I’d be good at this adult shit, but I’m fast realizing that being a nomad meant I learned absolutely zero about what normal people do day to day. I guess living like a college/grad student for half a decade didn’t help, either. I’m lucky I have Gene and the others to help integrate me into society or I’d be in real trouble.

Who worries about this kind of stuff when they might immigrate to another country in a few weeks? Not me, that’s for sure.

I plop down in front of a pile of books, papers, and miscellaneous junk that my parents kept in their drawers in the master. I’m not ready to look at clothing yet—it feels so personal, and I have such conflicted feelings about them right now.

After stacking a bunch of correspondence in a plastic bin that held shoes, I turn my attention to an ornately carved box that sat on my mom’s vanity for as long as I can remember. The detail work is exquisite, and I wonder if it was a gift or something they had made. Squinting, I try to recall if I ever saw my mom open it, and though my memory is hazy, I can’t find a single memory of this box being anything but locked and displayed on the table.

Running my fingers over the painted teak, ivory, silver, and mother-of-pearl insets, I wrinkle my nose. The design on the top looks very familiar, but I can’t place it. I know that I’ve seen it before—in fact; I believe I’ve seen it many times. But it’s not the logo of an artisan or company or anything like that. No, this is something that I’ve seen in smoky rooms and dark meetings. The harder I try to figure it out, the more elusive it becomes in my mind.

Damnit. I have an eidetic memory about everything in the Universe except my ruddy past. I hate it.

I turn the box around in my hands, searching for clasp or keyhole, but there isn’t one. I’m certain there’s something special inside, but I’ll be fucked if I know what it is. It’s not making a sound when I shake it, but deep in my gut I know it contains important stuff. Growling, I sit the puzzle box aside, vowing to work on it more this evening when I’ve earned time to be irritated. For now, I have a shit ton of stuff to sort before Gene and the boys get back for another load.

My parents weren’t wealthy like the elite families, but I knew we weren’t average middle class, either. Investigating the jewelry boxes, rolls, and containers only confirms my suspicions, because my mother has pieces I know are worth a pretty penny. Taped to the bottom of one box is a note that says ‘ Box 1989, 687626767, 565363, 492743#75, Tom/Card/PiggyWeeWee/Bell/FuckYou ’ in my mom’s looping handwriting.

What. In. The. Hell.

Eloise Clara Whitley never cursed. I never in my entire life span heard my mom utter anything worse than taking the Lord’s name in vain, even if she injured herself.

It feels like a stone has settled in my gut. I’m certain this won’t be the first odd thing I find in my parent’s belongings, and that notion makes me slightly ill. The mystery that brought me back to Whistler’s Hollow may be connected to the disconnect between what I can remember about life here and all the unusual shit I’m running into.

That does not bode well.

My experience is that if people hold secrets over decades, they won’t let go of them easily. In fact, the longer a secret remains buried, the less likely is it to be discovered. Human nature is inclined to preen under the attention of having knowledge others don’t, and the fact this is hidden as skillfully as it is makes me concerned that none of my answers will come without serious sleuthing.

Sighing, I use the tape to secure the scrap to the puzzle box, and file that under something to ponder later. I go back to sorting the jewelry into separate bins—one for items I’ll keep in some sort of armoire furniture thing once I buy it—and one that I’d feel better about storing in a safe. Once that’s done, I work my way through the bric-à-brac, carefully weighing each thing based on whether I want to keep it, sell it, or trash it.

Time flies as I methodically whittle my mother’s belongings down to a manageable selection, and I stand up to stretch when I hear the truck in the driveway again. That’s Gene and the boys, and they’ll be taking up space as they carry out the last of the furniture in here and most of the stuff in the two other bedrooms.

Grabbing a handful of the correspondence, I ponder for a moment. I don’t have to supervise removal since I used colored post-it’s marking storage items this morning, so I head downstairs to check on Jekyll and Hyde. It’s time for lunch, anyway, and I’m surprised they stayed away for as long as they have.

Their ears perk up as I come into view, and the twin cats leap towards me, flanking both sides immediately. “Hey, guys. You ready for lunch?”

“ Mow !” Jekyll answers as he trots along with me.

“Yeah, I figured as much.”

As has become their routine, they jump onto the counter and sit, waiting for me to toss the various ingredients into the separate mixing bowls I’m using for their food. Humming under my breath as I get them taken care, I move to the fridge again to decide what I’ll have. After several minutes of poking, I decide on a sub sandwich and some fruit. I can use some of the fruit for a milkshake, and that would hit the spot after sitting on the floor like a cramped goblin all morning.

I plop down on a stool, munching quietly while the boys chow down. The first bundle of letters I brought seems to be college sweetheart letters between my folks. They’re oddly more emotive than I remember my parents being with one another, but everyone’s a budding poet in college, I suppose.

The next stack relates to estate stuff that may or may not have been taken care of when they passed. I assume it was since my stateside attorney was very thorough, but who knows if there are things he wouldn’t have known to look for? I’ll have to give that a thorough once over with Jackson once I get settled here. I’m sure he’d drive down from the city to look over anything I find in the next week that concerns me.

Then I hit the motherlode. I almost choke on the bite of sandwich, staring at the bundle I untied in disbelief. It’s thick and the papers that comprise the stack are of varying ages—some yellowed with age, some newer looking, and some written on paper so delicate that I’m worried about handling it. Scooting my food and drink aside, I spread the sheets out, sorting them by matching age of the paper. The oldest set appears to be in handwriting I don’t recognize, the middle set looks like it might be my dad’s, and the newest set is my mother’s.

I feel like I keep asking ‘what the fuck’ but every time I turn around, something weird happens. It’s like this town is a nesting doll full of secrets and riddles, and I keep pulling another doll off to reveal a smaller one, except this is never-ending.

Scanning the most recent stack, I frown. They appear to be written in code, though it doesn’t look like it’s all in the same code. Some sheets use symbols and pictures, some use a mix of words and numbers, and some are a potpourri of all three. Nothing looks even remotely familiar, and I’m fairly decent at cryptography. The first tech company I consulted for when I moved to Europe had me working for the head of their corporate espionage department to ferret out moles, and I had to spend six weeks in a training their new employees took to prepare for it. I won’t claim to be a code breaker, but my skills aren’t nil.

A quick glance through the other two stacks yields the same results, and I huff in irritation. This is fucking great. Apparently, my parents read too much Tom Clancy or some shit, and now I have to figure out what in the goddamned hell they were doing with old school encrypted documents hidden in their bedroom. Add that to the coded message and the puzzle box and I’m wondering if someone has teleported me into the DaVinci Code .

“Miss Jolene?”

The sound startles me, and I look over at the doorway where one of Niecy’s grandsons is standing. “Oh, Ellison. I’m sorry! I got absorbed in some of the stuff I found in my parents’ room. What can I do for you? Do you need help?”

He shakes his head, giving me a shy smile. “No, ma’am. Pop-pop wanted me to tell you we have the second load ready to go. We’re going to stop near the unit for lunch and then unload. He thinks we’ll be able to squeeze one more load in after that before Mimsy wants us home for dinner, but that should finish out the upstairs and the leftovers from the first floor.”

Smiling broadly, I walk over to him. “That’s fantastic. I’m so grateful to you boys for helping. I tried to hire someone, but Niecy insisted.”

“Oh, no, Ma’am. Mimsy would skin us alive if we didn’t help you out. She tells everyone that you were her practice grandchild.”

Chuckling, I nod. “That she does. Well, let me know if you need anything else. I have two more rooms to sort up there before the end of the day. Gene said you’d come back tomorrow while I’m out to get the trash box stacks.”

Ellison nods again and waves, taking off to help his brothers finish loading the truck.

Shit. I should have fed them, right? My mother is probably rolling in her urn right now. I’ve been pretty good at remembering all the things she taught me since I returned, and I got so wrapped up in this damned mystery that I left my free labor to forage for food. I’ll have to call Niecy and apologize for my oversight.

* * *

Once I clean up the kitchen, I stow the weird documents in my trusty bag and leave it in the care of my fierce new roommates. If I can finish the closet on the master quickly, I can bust through the guest room and the office before Gene’s crew returns. I want to be alone when I hit the office because I’m certain it will have more clues hiding amongst my parents’ jumbled personal finances, lesson plans, and assorted bullshit that accumulated over two decades of living in this house. Grabbing a rocks glass, I pour a hefty scotch, and head up the stairs.

When I enter the bedroom, I sit my drink down and grab a garbage bag. Most of the clothes will be outdated, but these bags can go to the thrift store outside of town and possibly help someone in need.

I start with my father’s clothes, folding and bagging suits, ties, and dress shirts first. There’s a small insignia on the French cuffs of the dress shirts he preferred, and I study it for a moment. I’ve never seen it before, but every single one has it embroidered behind the cufflink holes. Odd. I throw most of the winter clothes in as well, leaving a few oversized jackets and sweaters that I might use for extra warmth when the frost inevitably comes. Pants go next, and again, I keep a few pieces that feel like they might be useful.

If you asked me what for, I couldn’t tell you, but my instincts rarely fail me, so I follow them.

Once his side is almost cleaned out, I find another small puzzle box like my mother’s sitting beside an onyx box. Grumbling under my breath about my timeline, I ignore the mystery and open the simple box. It contains my dad’s pocket watch, several pairs of expensive cufflinks, and a money clip.

Every single one of them have the mysterious logo.

I rub my hand over my face in frustration, knowing the symbol means something, and these are all important items that I need to keep. I close the box, pick its companion up, and take them into the bathroom. Moving the linens aside, I hide the boxes behind them until I can figure where I’m going to store all this valuable mystery shit. It can’t be somewhere without safety measures, but it also can’t be as far away as the deposit box at the bank I’m going to place my mother’s expensive jewels in.

Crime is non existent in the Hollow—save juvenile pranks—but I’ve seen far too many clients get complacent in the past to let that keep me from making solid choices about security.

Padding back to the closet, I compact the male clothes to the front left area and move over to the side belonging to my mother. Her taste and mine have never meshed, so I doubt that I’ll be saving much from her wardrobe.

Tossing floral atrocities in the bag, I mutter to myself about how I could possibly have come out of this woman. One shirt looks like they cut it from a Florida woman muumuu, and I cringe as I fold it. She always looked impeccable and stylish—the latest fashions right off the designer racks—but I was right about much of it being dated, and even more so about it not being my style.

Finally, I hit the last section—zippered garment bags. I’m a little terrified of what Southern lady looking lace monstrosities are stored in these because I may have to sell them if they’re vintage and expensive. I’m not in the mood to deal with E-bay, but I can’t send clothing valued in the realm of small vehicles to thrift stores. It’s not budget savvy.

I pocketed the money in the money clip; you know. Waste not, want not.

When I unzip the first bag, I almost have a fucking aneurism on the spot. The smell of leather assaults my senses and I take a deep whiff, pleasure sparkling through my limbs. Running my fingers over the calfskin, zippers, and studs that adorn it, I look for the tag that will identify who crafted the jacket, pants, and vest in this bag.

Mary Magdalene, mother of whores. It’s a motherfucking Saint Laurent—no, not just a Saint Laurent. This is hand tailored, Saint Laurent leather motorcycle set .

I might have an orgasm from looking at the outfit in this goddamned bag.

Blinking my complete shock out of my eyes, I rush to open the other bags, gasping as couture gowns, skirts, dresses, pants, and shirts of baddest assed variety I’ve ever seen get revealed. What in the absolute shit is my mother—patron saint of the Sunday Chanel—doing with this?

It’s been worn, but well taken care of. Tags hang from the items with locations and dates that I don’t recognize, and a band of color that must mean something I don’t get yet. There must be over a hundred grand in clothes here—minimum—and I haven’t even figured out where she kept her shoes. I’m drooling just thinking about it.

Wait. If my mom had a secret stash of fly clothes, why didn’t my dad have something similar?

My eyes close and I try to imagine the past, pushing past the haze in my mind. Work trips. My mother went on work trips for the college to recruit students and staff—several times a year. Dad always stayed with me, joking that he wasn’t cut out for the whole ‘social networking’ aspect of his career.

Could those dates line up with ones my mom went on college recruiting jaunts? I can’t remember, and that makes me scream in irritation. My brain has the capacity for infinite amounts of bull crap, but not memories of my childhood. It’s absolutely baffling.

I finally give in and leave the bags of astounding garments for further perusal later. I won’t remember anything right now, and I’m wasting daylight while I stand here and struggle. With the clothes finished, I head for the spare bedroom to work off my frustration on whatever is lying in wait in that mess. I don’t think it will hold many secrets, but the office will be last and that I’m banking on holding the keys to the kingdom.