Read Online A Nashville Collection by Rachel Hauck - Free Book Online

dessert special. Somehow we all wound up at Mary Lu’s . . . I was upset . . . She asked about you . . . I said we broke up . . .”
    â€œDon’t grovel. You’re too good for that. I believe you. This time.”
    He exhales. “So, you’re really leaving?”
    â€œI’m really leaving.” The confession feels right. Worthy of a true cartwheel.
    Ricky raises his chin. “So, then.”
    â€œSo, then,” I echo, hoping there’s more. Will he finally say he’s happy for me?
    â€œBetter get to work.”
    â€œRight.”
    Hard to imagine a few days ago we were necking behind the stairs.
    As I walk to my aisle, Martina is belting “Independence Day” over the PA, and my confidence kicks up a little. I’m sure I’m doing the right thing—I think.
    From the end of the upstairs hall, the attic calls me to visit. I stare at the attic door with my hand wrapped around the handle of Daddy’s old leather suitcase.
    Leaving home stirs a longing to roam and reminisce, so I sit the luggage inside my bedroom door and creep across the moaning hardwood floor to the attic door. The attic is not off limits—no room in the McAfee house is off limits—but the attic has always contained secrets. Momma’s. So, I feel a little devious sneaking up the stairs.
    At the top of the steps, the musty fragrance reminds me of rainy Saturday afternoons, playing up here with Eliza and Steve, turning the attic into a wilderness fort or a Star Wars space station.
    Remembering Great-Grandma Lukeman’s authentic Tiffany lamp is in the far corner next to her worn rocker, I fumble in the dark until my fingers touch the lamp’s faded gold chain. With one click, a rosy glow angles across the room.
    The attic is cozy and warm, stuffed to the gills with things Momma calls memories.
    First, there’s the wall of Momma’s ribbons. Hundreds of them. Each one embossed with a gold-lettered “First Place.” Great day in the morning. Bit McAfee, Queen of Canning. Queen of First Place. She should visit Eliza this summer and stop in on the queen. Jude Perry can write a headline: “Queen of Canning to Visit Queen of England.”
    In the corner opposite of the ribbons is Momma’s cedar chest. I try the lid. Locked. Still locked. Always locked. We used to asked her about it when we were kids—not because we cared, but because she told us, “Never you mind,” gave us cookies, and turned on the TV.
    But today I notice something sticking out from under the chest’s lid. I lightly tug on the corner of a picture and carry it over to the light.
    In faded Kodak color, there’s Momma, her face framed with Farrah Fawcett hair. She’s smiling and her expression is one I’ve never seen before. So carefree.
    There are four others in the picture with Momma. Two men and two women. I study their faces. They’re young, about my age, but captured in time twenty-five years ago. The guys’ long hair flows into their wide, open collars, and one of them sports Elvis-like sideburns. I run my finger over the snapshot’s smooth surface.
    Who are these people, Momma? What are you doing? Why have I never seen this before?
    I flip the photo over to see if Momma wrote anything on the back. She didn’t. At the bottom of the picture, there’s a sign or something. But the image is torn, and I can’t make out the words. I try to match the photo’s tattered edges, but they are too frayed.
    â€œRobin?” A muffled call floats up the stairs.
    I jerk my head up.
    â€œRobin, where are you? Eliza’s on the phone.”
    I hurry to the trunk and try to slip the photo in, but it won’t go. Trying a different angle, I only manage to get the picture stuck. Now what? I tug lightly to free the picture, and then rrrrrip .
    Crap. Perfect. Just perfect.
    Another muffled, “Robin Rae! Mercy, did you fall in the toilet? Eliza’s