He shrugged. “I’m not sure—I wasn’t allowed in the attic, and then, after Cal left, my grandmother locked the door and didn’t go up there anymore. I think that’s where she made her sea-glass wind chimes.”
I wanted to ask him why—why Edith had made so many wind chimes, and why she’d stopped going into her attic workshop. And why Cal had tried to erase himself from this house and his previous life. But I’d come to realize that Gibbes had probably been asking himself the same questions for two decades.
His phone vibrated and he removed it from his pocket. After looking at the screen, he said, “We’ll have to finish this another time—I’ve got to head back to the office. Apparently there’s some kind of stomach bug going around the under-twelve set and they’re inundated. I’ll call you later to set up a convenient time to come back.”
I held back a sigh. “I’ll be happy to look through closets and drawers between now and then. Obviously anything of personal interest or value will be up to you, but maybe if you could give me an idea of what you’re looking for, that would make this process go a little faster.”
The look he gave me was part amused, part annoyed, and I had to stop myself from flinching.
“Old photo albums. My mother was an amateur photographer and I remember her putting pictures in the albums up until the time she died. There are photos of Cal and me when we were kids. I’d like to see them again.”
His words surprised me. I hadn’t expected him to be sentimental, to want to peer into a past he seemed to have moved beyond, or see photos of a brother who’d left him behind.
We’d reached the top of the stairs and he paused to let me go ahead of him. I walked to the front door and pulled it open. “Let me know when you can come back to finish, and I’ll see if I can find any of those albums.”
“And the key. Let me know if you get into the attic. I’ve always wondered what my grandmother did up there.” He stepped out onto the porch. “Please tell Loralee I had to go and I’ll take a rain check on the coffee.”
I nodded and was about to close the door when I thought of something. “Was Cal allowed up in the attic?”
Gibbes looked at me oddly. “Yes, as a matter of fact. He was.”
We regarded each other in silence, and again I thought of Cal’s spirit walking between us, casting shadows like smoke blocking the sun.
“Good-bye,” I said suddenly, closing the door before Cal’s name was said again, conjuring a ghost neither one of us wanted to see.
chapter 7
LORALEE
Loralee leaned back on the pretty garden bench and closed her eyes. Owen—she couldn’t think of him as Rocky no matter how much she tried—was upstairs in his room playing with LEGOs. He wouldn’t take apart the pieces that had belonged to Merritt’s husband, but instead used his own to make an airport, a runway, and other planes to play with alongside the original ones. When she’d asked Owen whether he was keeping Cal’s planes intact so Merritt wouldn’t be sad, he’d shaken his head and told her that he wasn’t taking them apart because he felt that Merritt would do it herself when she was ready.
Merritt was upstairs in her room taking everything out of the dresser drawers, armoire, and closet, cataloging everything in a notebook before placing it all in boxes marked TOSS, GIVE AWAY, and GIBBES. Loralee slid her feet out of her shoes, feeling it was safe with nobody looking. Her mama had taught her that lipstick, manicured nails, and high heels would always make you feel better than you actually did. And she’d been right, to a point. Lately nothing made Loralee feel good or less tired, but that didn’t mean she wouldn’t keep trying.
Opening her eyes again, she found herself staring into the face of the crooked stone statue, sticking catawampus out of the dirt like it had been carelessly tossed from heaven. She placed her journal, which she’d been sketching in, next to her on the bench and leaned toward the statue, wondering whether he had a name. He looked like one of those saints that Molly O’Brien—her best friend from Gulf Shores—had all over her trailer. Her mama was Catholic and was always asking for Saint So-and-so to find her keys or Saint What’s-his-name to send her a good man who was easy on the eyes and long in the pocket. She’d also asked for a saint’s help to make Loralee’s mama better when she got sick, but Desiree would have none of it, saying if it was her time to go, it was her time to go, which was probably why she continued to smoke three packs a day until the day she died. Mama had had a strong faith, but had never cared too much for religion, although she’d had more than one come-to-Jesus meeting with her daughter during Loralee’s wild years in high school.
“Loralee?” The back screen door slammed shut as Merritt made her way down the steps into the garden.