13
Kayla
“Are you sure this place is still open?” I shade my eyes and squint up at the rusted sign that reads COPPER SPRINGS TRAIN STATION hanging above the old building. Cobwebs litter the corners of the sign and dust covers the windows of the station. “It looks deserted.”
Daren exhales. “It shut down a few years ago. But the people who have lockers here still use them sometimes. I guess your dad was one of those people.” He looks at me with a gleam in his eye. “You ready to claim an inheritance?”
A spark of glee shoots through me as I grin back. “Oh I’m ready.”
I am ready and excited, but I’m also nervous and filled with adrenaline. Today might be the beginning of a new life for me. Daren’s chest rises with a full breath as if he’s anxious as well and I wonder of this could be a new beginning for him too. Studying him for a moment, I realize I don’t know much about him. Nothing, really. I know about his parents’ taboo behavior and his sexual reputation, but I don’t know anything real. Anything that matters. And a part of me wishes I did.
The double doors at the front of the train station screech as we open them and step inside. Dim light filters in through the clouded windows and gives the large, musty lobby a weird yellow glow.
“The lockers are over here,” Daren says, heading right.
“I’m guessing you’ve been here before?”
He nods. “Growing up, we had a housekeeper named Marcella who was like a second mother to me. Before the station closed, Marcella would come here to pick up her family members when they’d visit, and sometimes she’d bring me along. I loved Marcella’s family.” He smiles. “They were all loud and loving and always excited to see one another. They were even excited to see me, which rocked my world. Marcella treated me like a son and her family did the same.”
“Do you still talk to her?” I ask.
His eyes shadow over. “No. She passed away a few years ago.”
I quietly say, “I’m sorry.”
I do the math in my head, tallying up the lost loved ones in Daren’s life. My father. The Charity girl. And Marcella. Empathy swims through my veins as I scan his face. He knows I’m watching him, but he continues to stare straight ahead.
“Here they are,” he says, pointing ahead.
On the side of the station stands a set of lockers. All of them old. All of them looking as if they haven’t been touched in a decade. They probably haven’t.
Our footsteps echo as we walk to the lockers.
“Twenty-three…” Daren says, perusing the numbers.
My eyes drift back and forth across the rusty lockers. “There.” I point to one on the left side. We step up to it and I pull the golden key from my purse and hold it up. It looks too large to fit in the small keyhole.
Daren frowns. “That’s weird.”
I try to insert the heavy key anyway, but it’s much too big. “Did we get the wrong locker number?” I pull the suitcase note from my purse and reread it.
“Nope,” Daren says, reading it over my shoulder. “It says twenty-three.”
I look around. “Is there another set of lockers in the station?”
“Maybe.” He glances around. “But that key looks too large to fit in any locker.”
I examine the key. “You’re right.” I blow out my cheeks and look up. “Let’s walk around and see if there are any other cabinets or storage areas.”
Our cuffs clank together as we set off to search the station. It’s completely deserted, but not in a spooky way. The high ceilings are framed with beautiful wood molding and dramatic floor-to-ceiling windows cover nearly every wall. Long wooden pews stripe the floor and a row of private phone booths line the side wall. I bet this was a vibrant place when the train was running. I can imagine dozens of people bustling about, reading the newspaper or calling a loved one while they wait for their train.
“I’ve never been on a train before,” I muse out loud as we walk past an old ticket counter.
“Neither have I,” he says, looking around. “I’ve never even been on an airplane.”
“Never?”
“Nope. The farthest I’ve been from Copper Springs is fifty miles outside of town at Willow Inn, where I work.”
“No way. Surely you’ve been farther away on vacations or something.”
He shakes his head. “My parents used to travel a lot but they never took me with them. ‘It’s not a vacation if your kid is there,’ my mom would say.”
I gape at him. “That’s horrible.”
He shrugs. “She was just being honest. My mom was never crazy about being a parent—neither was my dad. Honestly, I probably wouldn’t have liked vacationing with them, anyway.” He says this with a smile but hurt flashes in his eyes.
I stare at him, half-confused and half-sad. His parents sound awful. In fact, his entire childhood sounds somewhat depressing and a little lonely.
He acts so cool and confident but a few times now I’ve noticed a ding in the armor of arrogance and playfulness he wears so easily. He’s cocky but wounded, charming but lonely, with the sureness of a wealthy man and the desperation of a pauper. I can’t figure him out, but one thing is certain.
Daren is not as tough or undamaged as he lets on.
“What?” He smiles at me crookedly. “You’re making a weird face.”
I shake my head. “I’m just surprised, that’s all. I pictured you jetting around the world every summer in a private plane with an entourage of other rich people.”
His eyes harden. “I told you. I’m not rich. My family used to be wealthy but we—I—don’t have money anymore.” He looks away, dismissing the topic. “Let’s check by the baggage area.”
I follow him in silence, wondering how he can claim to be “not rich” when two days ago I saw him driving a Porsche and right at this moment he’s wearing an outfit that probably cost more than my car is worth. But I drop the subject, not wanting to argue with him right before finding the inheritance.
It’s not an overwhelmingly big station, so we’re able to walk through the entire place rather quickly, without success.
“Nothing,” Daren says after we make two rounds of the building. “No other lockers or storage units of any kind with the number twenty-three.”
I tuck a wayward strand of hair behind my ear. “There has to be something we’ve overlooked. This is the only train station for miles. Let’s check outside on the platform.”
We pass through the waiting area to the outside where more dust and cobwebs fill the corners. The platform has no storage areas, and the old railroad tracks are rusty and covered in dead leaves. On the other side of the tracks are several empty crates and a string of out-of-service train cars covered in dirt and frozen in time on the maintenance tracks beyond.
Aside from that, there is nothing.