out of the way.”
He pulled open the door to the closet and stepped in. I stopped in the doorway and watched as he started up the short ladder on the far wall of the closet. After just two rungs he was able to push the piece of plywood covering the access off into the attic. Grabbing the edges of the hole with both hands, he boosted himself up through the hole. I smiled appreciatively at the display of muscles bunching under the sleeves of his blue T-shirt.
“You coming?” he asked from upstairs as he swung his jeans-clad legs up through the hole and into the attic. The next moment his face appeared in the opening. “I’ll pull.”
“Is there anything worth seeing up there?”
Derek looked around for a second. “Not much, no. A few old boxes over in the corner. Maybe some stuff whoever cleaned the place out seventeen years ago didn’t realize was here.”
“No super-duper sound system with spooky, ghostly sound effects?”
“Afraid not. Just the boxes. And some more dust and old insulation and stuff like that. C’mere, I’ll pull you up.” He extended a tanned arm down through the hatch.
“If there’s nothing there, I think I’ll pass. Go get the boxes and hand them to me, would you? We may as well look through them.”
Derek crawled away and reappeared a minute later with an old corrugated cardboard box. “It’s heavy,” he warned, lowering it through the opening, the muscles in his arms tensing.
“I’m stronger than I look,” I answered. And added an involuntary, “Ooof!” when the box dropped into my arms. My knees buckled, and I staggered out into the bedroom, groaning, while Derek disappeared from view to gather up another box, chuckling.
There were four boxes in all, and we opened them sitting cross-legged on the floor in the master bedroom. Derek slit the tape on the first with his trusty X-Acto knife, and a cloud of dust flew skyward as he pulled the flaps apart. I sneezed.
“Old books,” he said after a moment’s examination. “Paperbacks. Romance novels from the late ’80s and early ’90s, looks like.” He wielded the X-Acto knife again. “Same thing in this one. I think Melissa used to read these. Wonder if she still does. And how that makes Ray Stenham feel.” He smirked.
“Why would it make Ray feel anything at all?” I wanted to know. I mean, we all know that just because a woman enjoys a good romance novel now and again, it doesn’t mean that she’s unfulfilled in her own relationship, right?
“Hey, anyone who drives a Hummer that big must have something to prove, don’t you think?”
“I prefer not to think about Raymond Stenham in that way,” I said.
“Because he’s not as good-looking as me?”
“Because he’s my cousin. And because I’m involved with you and shouldn’t have a need to speculate about anyone else’s . . . um . . . tools.”
Derek chuckled but didn’t pursue the subject. “This one’s full of elementary school stuff,” he said, opening the third box. “Composition notebooks, projects, drawings. Peggy must have kept her kid’s school work.”
“Open the last one.” I pulled the fourth box toward me. “If there’s anything valuable anywhere, it must be there. Nothing in these others would fetch a fortune. A first edition pre-Plum Janet Evanovich romance might be worth a few bucks on eBay, but even if every book in the box is a first edition, and autographed, we’re only talking a few thousand dollars. And I doubt anyone would want Patrick’s drawing of A-is-for-Apple or the handprint turned-into-a-turkey he made for Thanksgiving the year he was four. Although Patrick himself might like them.”
“Sorry,” Derek answered, having ripped open the last box while I was expounding. “Nothing exciting here, either. More papers. Notes. Something that looks like a manuscript. Maybe Peggy had aspirations of becoming the next big thing in romance. It’s called Tied Up in Tartan .”
“Ooooh!” I reached out.
Derek
He pulled open the door to the closet and stepped in. I stopped in the doorway and watched as he started up the short ladder on the far wall of the closet. After just two rungs he was able to push the piece of plywood covering the access off into the attic. Grabbing the edges of the hole with both hands, he boosted himself up through the hole. I smiled appreciatively at the display of muscles bunching under the sleeves of his blue T-shirt.
“You coming?” he asked from upstairs as he swung his jeans-clad legs up through the hole and into the attic. The next moment his face appeared in the opening. “I’ll pull.”
“Is there anything worth seeing up there?”
Derek looked around for a second. “Not much, no. A few old boxes over in the corner. Maybe some stuff whoever cleaned the place out seventeen years ago didn’t realize was here.”
“No super-duper sound system with spooky, ghostly sound effects?”
“Afraid not. Just the boxes. And some more dust and old insulation and stuff like that. C’mere, I’ll pull you up.” He extended a tanned arm down through the hatch.
“If there’s nothing there, I think I’ll pass. Go get the boxes and hand them to me, would you? We may as well look through them.”
Derek crawled away and reappeared a minute later with an old corrugated cardboard box. “It’s heavy,” he warned, lowering it through the opening, the muscles in his arms tensing.
“I’m stronger than I look,” I answered. And added an involuntary, “Ooof!” when the box dropped into my arms. My knees buckled, and I staggered out into the bedroom, groaning, while Derek disappeared from view to gather up another box, chuckling.
There were four boxes in all, and we opened them sitting cross-legged on the floor in the master bedroom. Derek slit the tape on the first with his trusty X-Acto knife, and a cloud of dust flew skyward as he pulled the flaps apart. I sneezed.
“Old books,” he said after a moment’s examination. “Paperbacks. Romance novels from the late ’80s and early ’90s, looks like.” He wielded the X-Acto knife again. “Same thing in this one. I think Melissa used to read these. Wonder if she still does. And how that makes Ray Stenham feel.” He smirked.
“Why would it make Ray feel anything at all?” I wanted to know. I mean, we all know that just because a woman enjoys a good romance novel now and again, it doesn’t mean that she’s unfulfilled in her own relationship, right?
“Hey, anyone who drives a Hummer that big must have something to prove, don’t you think?”
“I prefer not to think about Raymond Stenham in that way,” I said.
“Because he’s not as good-looking as me?”
“Because he’s my cousin. And because I’m involved with you and shouldn’t have a need to speculate about anyone else’s . . . um . . . tools.”
Derek chuckled but didn’t pursue the subject. “This one’s full of elementary school stuff,” he said, opening the third box. “Composition notebooks, projects, drawings. Peggy must have kept her kid’s school work.”
“Open the last one.” I pulled the fourth box toward me. “If there’s anything valuable anywhere, it must be there. Nothing in these others would fetch a fortune. A first edition pre-Plum Janet Evanovich romance might be worth a few bucks on eBay, but even if every book in the box is a first edition, and autographed, we’re only talking a few thousand dollars. And I doubt anyone would want Patrick’s drawing of A-is-for-Apple or the handprint turned-into-a-turkey he made for Thanksgiving the year he was four. Although Patrick himself might like them.”
“Sorry,” Derek answered, having ripped open the last box while I was expounding. “Nothing exciting here, either. More papers. Notes. Something that looks like a manuscript. Maybe Peggy had aspirations of becoming the next big thing in romance. It’s called Tied Up in Tartan .”
“Ooooh!” I reached out.
Derek
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