Page 35 of Save the Drama for your Mama
“Talk to me, Cooper,” I whispered. “What is it?”
ChapterEight
COOPER
I stood there staring incredulously at the sight before me. Sitting nonchalantly on the chair in the middle of the attic was Alfredo’s black cat. He looked up at me with a bored expression, then went back to licking his paw.
“It’s Mambo—the cat from next door,” I said to Melody over my shoulder.
“Are you serious?” She pushed past me into the attic, then stopped to get a look at him. “How did he get in here?”
“I have no idea,” I said.
Romeo and Mambo touched noses in greeting, happy to see each other. It had been six months since they’d seen each other last, but they both remembered.
I was more confused than ever.
I scratched my head. “I don’t get it—the attic door was locked.”
“Maybe there’s a secret passage or tunnel?” Melody pointed toward the wall. “He didn’t just materialize out of thin air.” She scanned the room for other possibilities. “Or did he?” She wiggled her fingers and made what was supposed to be a spooky sound.
I rolled my eyes. “Don’t start with your ghost theory again.”
“I’m just saying, maybe this place really is haunted,” Melody said. “Not all ghosts are evil, you know. How else would you explain the noises, as well as Mambo getting into a locked attic?”
“Mambo was the one making the noises.” I walked over and closed the open window.
“And now we know how he got in,” I said, gesturing to the window. “Mystery solved.” I glanced around the attic and I noticed the music box sitting on the table. “Didn’t I put that music box back in the trunk earlier?”
Melody paused for a moment, as if retracing my steps before she followed my gaze. “Maybe you just thought you did.”
“I think I’d remember something like that.”
She smirked. “Maybe Mambo moved it there.”
“Of course,” I said. “Right after he cleared out the spider webs and vacuumed.”
“This may be a dumb question, but why do you keep the attic locked?” Melody asked.
I scanned the attic until my gaze landed on the box that said, “Hamilton.” I walked over, grabbed the box, peeled the tape off the top, and flipped it open. I pulled out one of the framed letters that was handwritten in the year 1780.
“This is one of the many reasons this place is locked up,” I said, handing the frame to Melody.
“Wait a minute . . .” She studied the three-page letter mounted inside the frame and glanced at the signature on the last page, her mouth dropping open. “This is an original letter written by Alexander Hamilton?”
I nodded. “It was an early love letter to Elizabeth Schuyler, regretting their time apart and hoping for a reunion.”
“Oh my . . .” Melody placed her hand on her chest, swallowed hard, then read part of it. “I love you more and more every hour. The sweet softness and delicacy of your mind and manners, the elevation of your sentiments, the real goodness of your heart, its tenderness to me, the beauties of your face and person, your unpretending good sense and that innocent simplicity and frankness which pervade your actions.” She stopped reading and glanced at me. “This is so romantic.”
“My mom has always been a big fan of love letters,” I said, thinking of the stack of letters Melody had found from the mystery man, James. “Anyway, we keep them up here for safekeeping. There are about nine or ten other historical letters from Charles Darwin, Katharine Hepburn, and Ernest Hemingway.”
“You are on the fast-track to having a permanent house guest if you keep sweet-talking me like that,” she joked, handing the frame back to me, then peeking inside of the box at the other framed letters. “These are amazing. How on Earth did she get these precious documents? They belong in a museum.”
“You’d be surprised how many historic things like these are floating around in the world, many of them were sold by family members or collectors at auction houses like Christie’s and Sotheby’s. She got these from my great-grandparents, but I have no idea where they got them from. There’s a lot of interesting stuff stashed away up here.”
“Your mom was old school,” she said.
I nodded. “Big time. She loved writing personal letters herself, spending quality time with people, meetups over tea, meaningful conversations that sometimes lasted hours. My mom always believed in the power of personal connections. She preferred to walk down the street and knock on a neighbor’s door to chat with them instead of calling them on the phone. I remember how she lit up when she talked with the cashier at the grocery store or the barista at the coffee shop—she wanted to know their stories. Her friendships ran deep because she nurtured them. I admired how effortlessly she made people feel valued, and I loved how much everyone adored her.”
