Page 19 of Save the Drama for your Mama
“How long will it be off limits?”
“Until the end of time. Maybe longer.”
Melody studied me for a moment. “That’s not suspicious at all. What are you hiding?”
“Bodies,” I said. “And coincidentally, there’s room for one more.”
She gestured to Romeo and scratched him on the head. “Just like this guy, you’re all bark and no bite.”
I cut to the chase. “Why do you want to go up there?”
“Research,” Melody said. “Spanish colonial revival homes rarely have attics, so, not only am I curious, but I also need to look for original materials, construction techniques, and design features. Chip skipped the attic in his details. It’s important.”
“Like I said, it’s off limits.”
Melody’s shoulders slumped, but she didn’t give up. “Please . . .”
I sighed, relenting since she looked so sincere, plus I had the feeling she would not let it go, anyway. “Fine, but I’m going with you. And don’t touch anything while you’re up there.”
She held up two fingers in a V. “I promise.”
“That’s the peace sign.”
Melody smirked. “Well then, may peace be with you.”
Second guessing my decision to say yes to her, we went down the hallway, then headed up the stairs to the attic, with Romeo right on our heels. With the key in hand, I struggled for a moment before finally disengaging the lock. I pushed open the heavy door, reached in to click on the light, then stepped inside as dust particles swirled in the air like the bullet time-sequences inThe Matrix.
Melody’s mouth hung open as she scanned the entire attic, her eyes sparkling with excitement. “Oh, my word, I have died and gone to heaven. This is like a mini-Smithsonian.”
I hadn’t been up there in years and was completely surprised by the sheer number of things in front of us; they seemed to have multiplied since I was a kid. The attic was completely finished and had been used as my mom’s storage for her artifacts and heirlooms for as long as I could remember. There were many boxes stacked against the wall, two large file cabinets, old antique furniture, jewelry boxes, sculptures, paintings, two giant chests, and several brass floor lamps. Some larger items were covered in canvas tarps. There were even about fifty garment bags hanging from a couple of racks, likely my mom’s old costumes.
Melody glanced up at the ceiling and sighed. “Okay, I have a problem. I have a job to do, butthisis amazing.” She gestured around the attic. “I could spend all day here. The entire month.”
“That will not happen,” I said. “I need to get back to my writing, and I can’t leave you here. You have ten minutes to do whatever it is you need to do, then I will lock it back up.”
She nodded, not looking too thrilled about that. “Can’t I have just a little time to explore? I promise I won’t break or steal anything.”
I blew out a frustrated breath. “Fine. You get fifteen minutes. Divide them however you like between your job and the junk.”
Melody clapped her hands. “Thank you, but don’t you dare call this junk. This is a treasure trove of nostalgia. Just imagine the secrets and stories hidden within these dusty boxes and chests.” She gestured to the closest chest. “May I?”
“Knock yourself out,” I said.
She didn’t waste a second, undoing the latch of the chest and opening it, first pulling out the stack of postcards that were on top. “See? Look at this. It’s a wondrous connection to the past.” She flipped through the postcards, her eyes getting wider with excitement. “Barcelona, London, Santorini, Istanbul. Everything in here has a story.” She set the post cards aside and flipped through a stack of yellowed newspapers, their headlines speaking of a bygone era. “This is amazing.” Then she moved on to a bundle of handwritten letters tied together with a raggedy red ribbon.
“Have you seen this stuff before?” Melody asked.
“No,” I said. “It was private, and I value and respect privacy.”
“Yes. Of course you do. But these look like love letters!” She handed them to me, sidestepping my comment. “They must be from your dad to your mom.”
“Definitely not—my dad’s name was Craig,” I said, staring at the name on the return address. “I have no idea who James Blade is.”
Curious, I opened one of the letters. It bore elegant penmanship and carried the weight of heartfelt emotions. James spoke of love, longing, and shared dreams with my mom. I passed it back to Melody for her to read, since she was breathing down my neck.
She shook her head in surprise. “His words are so passionate.”
There was no doubt about that.
