Page 85 of The Pink House

Over the years, Hannah and her father had utilized every room in the house except for one. Her dad had made it very clear that as long as he lived there, that room was off-limits.

Which was why the room looked exactly as it had the day her mother died. A shelving unit above the table held her mother’s sewing supplies and swatches of fabrics. A half-finished dress next to the machine and racks that her dad must have mounted held everything from thread bobbins to ribbon spools.

Planning to turn the small room into a home office, Hannah made quick work of clearing out the room. All that was left was to empty the closet.

She’d left one item hanging in there, a red-and-white gingham apron with cross-stitching on the pockets. The knowledge that this had been her mother’s apron had Hannah holding it to her cheek for several seconds before putting it back on the hanger. She would keep the apron, and every time she wore it, she would think of her mother.

Hannah told herself the faint lily-of-the-valley scent in the closet had to be coming from the mounds of carefully folded fabric stored on the top shelf.

Even standing on her tiptoes, Hannah couldn’t reach the fabric. Grabbing a step stool, she climbed to the top step and began dropping fabric into an open cardboard box.

The last pile of fabric made a satisfying thud when it landed on top of a floral print. Ready to climb down, Hannah paused. A tarnished round pull, flat against the back of the empty shelf, caught her eye.

Hannah narrowed her gaze, then inhaled sharply.

It was a hidey-hole. Like the one Maisie had mentioned from her own house.

Excitement surged as Hannah imagined the treasures she might find inside. Leaning forward, she slipped her fingers around the ring and pulled. It took a second tug with more force to have the drawer sliding out.

Her heart beat an erratic rhythm as she picked up the surprisingly light drawer. Taking the drawer downstairs, she placed it carefully on the kitchen table.

When she opened the top, her breath quickened at the sight of the shoebox inside.

Anticipation fueled her movements, making her clumsy as she lifted out the shoebox. Pictures of every shape and size spilled out onto the table, photos of her as a baby, photos of her dad as young man and…photos of a beautiful woman with golden hair.

Hannah recognized her instantly.

With trembling fingers, she flipped over the photograph to see that her father had written in his scrupulously precise penmanship the wordsCharlotte Mae Beahr. My beloved Maisie.

Tears slipped down Hannah’s cheeks. How could this be? Then again, it explained so much.

The closeness Hannah had felt with the woman. The pink house from her childhood that had held everything she wanted, including a mother.

Even the letter from Brian that Maisie had given her. A gift from beyond the grave. A reminder that the past and the present weren’t separate, but were intertwined.

Whether or not she could remember her mother, her mother was a part of her even now. Just like Brian was.

Hannah glanced at the envelope she’d left on the kitchen table, the one Maisie had given her from Brian.

Setting down the picture of her mother, Hannah picked up the envelope. She didn’t have to do things that Brian had loved to do in order to remember him or prove she loved him. She just had to keep living, keep loving, keep being happy, because that was at the heart of their bond.

The future is not guaranteed.

I want you to be happy.

Those two simple phrases urged her to not take time for granted, reminding her that life was fleeting, and no one was promised tomorrow.

Hannah realized it would have been okay if Charlie had sat on the porch with her Saturday night, sharing cake and conversation.

Brian wouldn’t have begrudged her pursuing a relationship with Charlie. He’d known his best friend was a stand-up guy, a good man who could be trusted with her heart.

With great reverence, Hannah laid Brian’s letter on top of the photographs and closed the lid.

Then she took the drawer back upstairs and put it back where she’d found it.

These were her memories to revisit as often as she wanted. Unlike her father, she wouldn’t forget where to find them.

* * *

---