Page 133 of Once Upon A Small Town Secret
“Do it,” Jason says, then taps the legal pad. “What else?”
“Directories,” Paige says, pointing to her laptop. “Three William Hoffmans in the 80’s; two possibles. One P.O. box, one Sycamore address that’s now a parking lot. We’re going to cross-reference with a spouse's name once we have one.”
Jason sits back and chews thoughtfully. “Did you look through the stuff in the attic?”
“What stuff?” Paige asks, furrowing her brow.
“Grandpa and Grandma’s stuff. Dad put a bunch of stuff there when he sold the house after Grandpa died.”
Paige just shakes her head.
“Probably too young to remember,” Jason says. “We went through Grandpa’s house and picked a few things to keep. Everything else got sold in the estate sale. Dad kept everything in a chest up there.”
With every word, my heart lifts a little more, hopeful.
“Well, what the hell are we waiting for?” Paige says and stands. “Lead the way.”
Jason is already headed for the hall when Paige snags the bakery box, pops it open, and plucks out a biscuit the size of a saucer.
“Field provisions,” she says around a grin, pressing a second into my hand. “Attic runs require carbs.”
Jason rolls his eyes, but he’s smiling as he takes the creaky stairs two at a time. We follow him up, biscuit crumbs trailing like we’re marking the way back.
Chapter Forty One
Paige
Dust motes swirl in the dim light as the musty attic exhales the scent of cedar and old books.
A single pull-chain bulb throws a cone of yellow over the plywood walkway. Beyond it: dark pockets, the silent hulks of forgotten furniture, a rolled rug, three Rubbermaid bins with masking-tape labels in my mom’s handwriting.
“Chest should be on the back wall,” Jason says, sneezing on the dust.
He ducks under a beam and raps his knuckles on a stack of boxes until something answers back with a hollow sound. “Not these—Christmas. Not these—summer clothes. Ah. Here.”
It takes both Jason and Ben to wrangle the chest into the light. The thing is big enough to be a pirate prop—dovetailed corners, tarnished brass hasp, wood gone honey-dark with age.
My mouth does that little pinch it always does when I see something of Grandpa Eddie’s. It’s like someone you only half-remember and love anyway.
Ben squats and runs a thumb over the lid, head tipped like he’s listening. “This it?”
“This is it,” Jason says, and flips the hasp.
The hinges complain. Inside: layers. A top sheet of tissue paper gone brittle, wavy with time. Under that, the kind of jumble that would’ve made my mother buzz with organizing energy—paperwork, a couple of small metal cash boxes, two composition notebooks with their corners chewed, a leather folio, a stack of photo envelopes from the drugstore with the year scribbled across them. Wedged along the side: a wedding album so large it takes up the entire side of it.
We sit cross-legged on the plywood like kids at a sleepover. Dust floats through the light in slow, lazy sparks. I pull the album out and park it beside me, saving it like dessert.
“Divide and conquer?” I offer. “I’ll do pictures. Ben, notebooks and the folio? Jase, you’re our paperwork guy.”
“Finally,” Jason says, deadpan. “My time has come.”
Ben grins and lifts the notebooks with both hands like he’s picking up something fragile. I know how important this is to him, so I’m determined to do everything right.
Jason peels a rubber band off a fat bundle of envelopes and starts laying out what looks like everything you collect in a junk drawer over thirty years—warranty cards, membership renewal forms, receipts. The first paper he flattens makes him blink. “Huh. Bunch of Elks Lodge receipts, Brewers Guild tasting.” He slides it toward Ben.
Ben glances up, mouth a line that might turn into a smile if he lets it. “That tracks.”
I open an envelope and pour out a drift of photos. They fan across my thigh—Grandpa Eddie by a grill, my grandmother in a housedress and cat-eye glasses, Dad looking seventeen and trying hard to be cool. Then a set in black and white: six men around a folding table with paper cups and brown bottles. I don’t have to check the caption to know it’s the same picture from the library book, but this one is crisp, edges scalloped. In the margin, someone has written names in blue pen. Wm. Hoffman, Buck Sutter, Frank Delaney, Earl Pennington, Alton Mayes, Edward Richards.
