Celluloid Memories by Sandra Kitt

narrow aisle looking for sponges and Formula 409. She found the items, adding them to the growing pile. Then she stood with her arms braced on the handle of the cart, while she perused her list.
    But instead of the remaining five or six things she still needed to purchase, Savannah’s focus shifted to the memory of the box she’d found in her father’s closet. It was a cardboard suit box that she’d thought would contain shirts or sweaters or other clothing he no longer wore. Instead, when untied and opened, the box protected two piles of papers, each carefully wrapped in aging and yellowed tissue.
    She’d resigned herself to the necessity of reading the contents to make sure that no important documents would be thrown out. But the papers had turned out to be an astonishing number of letters, articles and several journals, written in a shaky but feminine hand by one Rae Marie Hilton.
    At first Savannah had assumed that a former lover had written the saved letters to her father. It was a possibility that was understandable, if demoralizing. There had been no time to read more than a few of them. The tone of the letters was desperate and fearful. They were also very personal, but had nothing to do with a love affair between Rae Marie Hilton and Will Shelton. It was all about Rae Marie’s career as an actress, and the terrible secret she guarded that would have destroyed her.
    Savannah blinked and stood straight. She was anxious to get back home and resume reading. There was a mystery in its contents that she wanted to get to the bottom of.
    Right now, there were food items written on the bottom of her shopping list. Savannah expertly navigated the aisles until she was in the food and produce section of the market.
    She was once again slowly scanning the shelves when someone turned the corner ahead. A man ambled along, carrying a handbasket already nearly filled. A quick glance revealed several varieties of cheese, boxes of crackers and cocktail bread, containers of olives and three bottles of wine. The basket looked heavy, and Savannah’s curiosity was drawn to the man toting it so effortlessly.
    He was wearing black jeans, a pale-yellow polo shirt and Docksides. His sunglasses were folded and hooked into the neckline of his shirt. His only jewelry was a heavy sports watch on his right wrist. His dark hair was thick with a slight wave in the texture, but cut short.
    Something about him seemed vaguely familiar. Unable to place him, Savannah shifted her cart to wheel past, as he continued examining the shelves.
    He glanced at her briefly, nodded and stepped back to allow her room.
    Savannah suddenly became very aware of the fact that she was not dressed as fashionably as the man, even though he was in jeans. She was conscious of her exposed bare legs in a pair of khaki shorts, her olive-green cami visible through the front opening of a white camp shirt. The shirt had been added just before she’d walked out the door because she would have been too self-conscious if her nipples could be discerned through the tank’s fabric. As it was, she felt decidedly under-dressed in the stranger’s presence.
    â€œExcuse me.”
    Savannah stopped at the voice behind her and looked over her shoulder. His voice sounded familiar, too.
    His lips were slightly pursed as he frowned at the stocked shelves.
    â€œWould you happen to know where I’d find the mustard? I like the spicy kind.”
    â€œI think it’s two aisles that way,” Savannah responded, pointing. “French’s Brown Spicy…”
    He was shaking his head. “Grey Poupon.”
    â€œThat, too.” She turned to continue on her way.
    â€œExcuse me.”
    Savannah stopped and turned again. He was staring at her.
    â€œHave we met before?”
    â€œThat line is so lame,” she said easily.
    He laughed, sheepishly. “You’re right, but…”
    There was something in the bend of his head as he