The caption read James Thomas Kellan MacCrae IV.
My vision blurred as I choked back a sob. The picture confirmed what I’d known in my soul—Jamie was real.
The sound of heavy footsteps on the stairs forced me out of my daze.
Shoot!
Was this the proof I needed to show Kenna? Or would she come up with some explanation for this too? I needed more.
With a sigh of regret, I stuffed the small book in among Kenna’s sleepwear and socks, and carefully shut the drawer. Switching off the lamp, I sprinted from the room and across the hall just as Ken’s shadow stretched from the stairwell at the opposite end. In my own room, I eased the door shut and sagged against it … the portrait still grasped in my trembling hand.
CHAPTER 5
Veronica
Kenna wove her way through a maze of trunks, boxes, and clothing racks, tugging at chains to turn on a row of dust-coated light bulbs. I followed behind, peering into every nook and cranny of the cavernous attic. I’d almost walked down to the Brig o’ Doon a handful of times the previous night, but the rain and my fear had kept me tucked safely inside the cottage. I still had nothing tangible to connect Jamie MacCrae to the bridge. There had to be hundreds of stone bridges in Scotland. What were the odds, when I stepped onto the Brig o’ Doon, that he’d be waiting there like a dream come to life? And what if he wasn’t? What then?
Without warning, Kenna stopped. I nearly crashed into her, managing to dodge at the last second. A crease wrinkled her pale forehead. With a huff she bent to pick up a green glass vase filled with crumbling sprigs of dried lavender. “Sweet Baby Sondheim! How did I miss this yesterday? I searched through half the attic, and it was right under my nose the whole time.”
Was Jamie right under my nose? I glanced at Kenna, tempted to tell her again that the golden-haired boy was real, but her eyes were distant. Her lower lip trembled as she blinked into the artificial light. “I miss her so much,” she whispered.
Pushing away my own preoccupation, I determined that my present priority had to be my best friend. Kenna’d always been there for me, and now it was my turn. I took her hand and gave it a gentle squeeze. “I know. She loved you and you’ll always have that, right?”
“Right.” She swiped the moisture from under her eyes and snuffled loudly. “I’m really glad we’re doing this today. The cottage doesn’t feel complete without her stuff.”
Eons later we’d sorted almost everything into piles of sell, keep, or trash—but still hadn’t found the boxes of Gracie’s personal items Addie claimed were tucked in the attic.
With a sigh, I turned to the next trunk. The lid creaked open to reveal an old-fashioned bonnet. Rimmed in lace, its wide turquoise ribbons arranged in a neat line, it looked like a prop from a Jane Austen movie. I scooped up the hat, and its delicate material crumpled in my fingers like butterfly wings as I placed it on the floor. Underneath were what appeared to be the contents of a desk. It was odd that antique clothing would be packed with papers and envelopes addressed to … Mrs. Grace Lockhart. “Kenna! I think I found something.”
Kneeling side by side, Kenna and I began removing the contents of the trunk: official-looking letters, boxes of old checks, address labels, and photo albums. Rain beat against the attic roof, filling the space with an escalating rhythm that matched my racing heart. Each drop proclaimed, close—close—close.
Kenna pulled out a book with a maroon cover. “Look! Aunt Gracie’s scrapbook. It’s filled with clippings about local history.”
Close—close—close.
The trunk was nearly empty. Only one large padded envelope remained. I reached in and lifted the bulky package. “Uh … this one’s addressed to you.”
“Me? Let me see it.”