devote even more time to crunching numbers. Perhaps Angie could get her father to try fly fishing, a hobby Walter enjoyed, or some other pursuit to keep him from vanishing into the protective shell of his work.
That would come later.
They needed to grieve and keep busy, so Angie helped with cleanup. She had washed all the extra tablecloths and put them back in the plastic bins where they were stored. She turned to her father, who was washing some platters. “Dad, I’ll take this up to the attic.”
“I’ll come with you.” Madeline had stayed longer than Walt and Louise and the catering staff. She followed Angie to the second floor, and then up the staircase in the master bedroom to the attic.
It was organized up there. Kathleen had been fastidious about boxes and labels and things of that nature. It was also easy to maneuver about. The walls were sloped, but the space was wide and the flooring completely hid the insulation. Angie’s father had talked about converting that attic into an office, but it would mean moving all the boxes of things Kathleen had accrued over the years.
Angie put the carton in its appropriate place while Madeline went exploring.
She opened a cardboard box labeled A NGIE A RT and pulled out a headband adorned with beads and colored feathers. “Museum quality,” she said, holding up the object for Angie to see.
Angie returned a laugh. “Second grade, I think. Mrs. Ferguson. I remember I used to sit next to a kid who ate crayons.”
Madeline made a face. “Sounds like pica.”
“Whatever it was, he was a cute kid with a blue smile.”
Angie opened a nearby box and found a photo album she had not looked at in ages. There were pictures of family vacations, time spent at the lake house with Walter and Louise, other photos of other trips with friends who had kids Angie’s age. A pang hit her as she thought about how complete and happy her small family looked.
Angie and Madeline took their time rummaging through boxes, looking through clothes, books, crafts, letters, various bric-a-brac. Kathleen DeRose, fastidiously organized, did not easily part with anything so there was much to explore. One box held an odd assortment of old magazines, another a carousel filled with slides. Without a good light source, it was hard for Angie to see what was on those slides.
“Maybe there’s a projector in one of these,” Madeline said as she went looking.
Dozens of boxes and plastic containers were neatly arranged and stacked in varying heights. From one cardboard box Madeline removed a small wooden music box made of burl maple with a burnished finish. A violin and horn carved from mother of pearl were inlaid into the wood and accented by a very subtle, light-colored border.
“Wow, look at this,” she said, admiring the box. She lifted the cover and then stroked the red velvet interior of the top compartment, which was divided into two sections. The right section contained the mechanism for playing music; the section to the left was empty. Underneath the main compartment was a drawer for storing valuables.
Madeline handed the box to Angie, who turned the wind-up mechanism. The chimes, like metallic raindrops, plinked out the recognizable melody of “The Blue Danube.”
“I’ve never seen this before.” Angie turned the box over in her hands, admiring it from all angles. “It’s so beautiful.”
“Was it your mother’s?” Madeline asked.
“I don’t know.”
It was a bit stuffy in the attic. Angie wished she had changed out of her dress into something more comfortable. When the song finished, she wound the mechanism once more. Again those notes chimed out, sad to her ears.
“I love the song,” Madeline said.
“I wonder why my mom never had this out?” Angie pulled open the bottom drawer, tugging just hard enough so the drawer came out entirely. She was about to put it back in when she noticed a slight gap in the bottom panel. Removing the panel revealed yet another
That would come later.
They needed to grieve and keep busy, so Angie helped with cleanup. She had washed all the extra tablecloths and put them back in the plastic bins where they were stored. She turned to her father, who was washing some platters. “Dad, I’ll take this up to the attic.”
“I’ll come with you.” Madeline had stayed longer than Walt and Louise and the catering staff. She followed Angie to the second floor, and then up the staircase in the master bedroom to the attic.
It was organized up there. Kathleen had been fastidious about boxes and labels and things of that nature. It was also easy to maneuver about. The walls were sloped, but the space was wide and the flooring completely hid the insulation. Angie’s father had talked about converting that attic into an office, but it would mean moving all the boxes of things Kathleen had accrued over the years.
Angie put the carton in its appropriate place while Madeline went exploring.
She opened a cardboard box labeled A NGIE A RT and pulled out a headband adorned with beads and colored feathers. “Museum quality,” she said, holding up the object for Angie to see.
Angie returned a laugh. “Second grade, I think. Mrs. Ferguson. I remember I used to sit next to a kid who ate crayons.”
Madeline made a face. “Sounds like pica.”
“Whatever it was, he was a cute kid with a blue smile.”
Angie opened a nearby box and found a photo album she had not looked at in ages. There were pictures of family vacations, time spent at the lake house with Walter and Louise, other photos of other trips with friends who had kids Angie’s age. A pang hit her as she thought about how complete and happy her small family looked.
Angie and Madeline took their time rummaging through boxes, looking through clothes, books, crafts, letters, various bric-a-brac. Kathleen DeRose, fastidiously organized, did not easily part with anything so there was much to explore. One box held an odd assortment of old magazines, another a carousel filled with slides. Without a good light source, it was hard for Angie to see what was on those slides.
“Maybe there’s a projector in one of these,” Madeline said as she went looking.
Dozens of boxes and plastic containers were neatly arranged and stacked in varying heights. From one cardboard box Madeline removed a small wooden music box made of burl maple with a burnished finish. A violin and horn carved from mother of pearl were inlaid into the wood and accented by a very subtle, light-colored border.
“Wow, look at this,” she said, admiring the box. She lifted the cover and then stroked the red velvet interior of the top compartment, which was divided into two sections. The right section contained the mechanism for playing music; the section to the left was empty. Underneath the main compartment was a drawer for storing valuables.
Madeline handed the box to Angie, who turned the wind-up mechanism. The chimes, like metallic raindrops, plinked out the recognizable melody of “The Blue Danube.”
“I’ve never seen this before.” Angie turned the box over in her hands, admiring it from all angles. “It’s so beautiful.”
“Was it your mother’s?” Madeline asked.
“I don’t know.”
It was a bit stuffy in the attic. Angie wished she had changed out of her dress into something more comfortable. When the song finished, she wound the mechanism once more. Again those notes chimed out, sad to her ears.
“I love the song,” Madeline said.
“I wonder why my mom never had this out?” Angie pulled open the bottom drawer, tugging just hard enough so the drawer came out entirely. She was about to put it back in when she noticed a slight gap in the bottom panel. Removing the panel revealed yet another
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