Page 42 of My Dearest Mackenzie

“You don’t look like him—” She caught herself, maybe realizing she was bringing up my mom without meaning to.

“I know. My curse when it came to him. Looking at me only reminded him of her. She was in the rest of the wedding pictures, so Milly took most of them down. Milly hated my mother with a passion.”

“Milly was a strong woman. She raised her kids, endured all that with your grandfather, took you under her wing. Her legacy lives on.”

“She was the brightest spot in my life.” I ran a hand through my hair and looked at Frances. “I want to kiss you, but I’m not going to. Every time I give in to the need, I get spooked. It’s true. I want you and more, Frances, and that’s not something I ever saw for myself.” I swallowed the pride lodged in my throat, and took her hand, giving it a squeeze.

Before she could respond, I led her out of the study, gave an abbreviated tour of the other rooms, save the kitchen, and headed to the armoire, hoping to get the goose chase out of the way…

“Here it is.” I spoke gingerly, noting Frances’s change in demeanor.

Her palm smoothed over the wood, rounding the edges and coming to the door, where she ran a finger along the brass handle. “I know this armoire. My grandparents had the same one.” She spoke quietly, her words coming out one at a time. “It was in the hallway at my grandparents’ house, and my grandmother called it her golden treasure chest. She kept sheets in the drawers and purses on the shelves. She also had a small jewelry box in the back corner.”

“You can open it,” was all I said, sensing Frances was in some sort of state, and not wanting to disturb her emotional response.

“My parents now use it for storage in the third bedroom, my old room. Mostly knickknacks,” she rambled. “My mom said it doesn’t go with the rest of her decor, but my dad insisted my grandfather loved the piece. They always ask if I want it, but I’m not sure it will fit in with my apartment.”

With her slight hand and pale pink manicured nails, she opened the door, revealing a collection of Chanel bags and a whole shelf of perfume, mostly Rose’s Lily. I hadn’t touched a thing since Milly died. I left most of the house intact, paying someone to clean it as is.

Frances opened a perfume bottle and smelled it. “Maybe your aunt wants these?”

I laughed. “That’s what you’re going to suggest? Not that I’m a nutcase for not emptying it sooner? I did donate my grandmother’s clothes to a nonprofit that helps women get back into the workforce.”

“I just meant, the smell must remind you of Milly. Maybe Susie would like to wear it. You don’t make it anymore.”

“It’s dated.”

“It’s beautiful,” she said, rattling on about secrets and her parents. I couldn’t make out what she was saying, but I heard her breath pick up. This whole experience had spiked my anxiety. I could only imagine what it had done to hers.

Pulling her to my chest, I said, “Breathe.”

She took a deep inhale.

“Poor Frances. Take it easy. You’re mumbling and stressing yourself out. I’m not one to ever think you should discuss something if you’re not ready.” I felt a bit of the tension bleed from her. “It doesn’t surprise me they had matching armoires. Milly and James seemed to be in tune with one another no matter how much separation they had. And no, I don’t need to give Susie a damn thing.”

“Can I explore?” Frances asked me hesitantly, her hand ready to dive into the cabinet.

“Of course. Touch anything you want. You can even put on some perfume.”

She immediately grabbed a bottle and spritzed some on her wrist.

“I was kidding…”

“I wasn’t.” She thumbed through the purses, oohing and aahing over a dark pink boucle one. “Sheila, who works in handbags, would die if she saw these.”

“You can take them to show her.”

“No, I could never. You have kept them for two decades in this cabinet. I’m not messing with a piece of your history.” She was fiddling with a black quilted bag, opening it and looking inside. “They always have the nicest linings, Chanel…” She stopped in her tracks and said, “Oh, there’s something in here.”

Pulling out a folded stack of papers, she handed them to me.

Her hand shook and my mind raced.

“Is that what I think it is?” Frances asked me, the two of us communicating in a way I didn’t believe possible.

I nodded, whispering, “Letters.”

Frances waited patiently, and I wished I’d gone ahead and kissed her earlier, delaying this moment.

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