Six

That evening, as Callie was finishing her dinner, she realized she was starting to feel at home in her new surroundings. It was a good feeling, and she savored it. Then she got a call from Hank. She groaned when she saw his number on the display and briefly debated answering. After two more rings, she picked up.

“Hey, babe.” Hank’s rich baritone, probably the only thing about him that she still appreciated, rolled out.

“Hi, Hank.”

A long pause followed, and Callie wondered what Hank was waiting for. A rush of gratitude over his call? A confession of having finally come to her senses? She let the silence run on until he finally broke it.

“Been missing you.”

“How’ve you been, Hank?” she asked, politely rather than solicitously. He seemed not to have noticed, as she heard a deep sigh.

“It’s been rough.”

“I’m sorry to hear that. Was there a reason you called, Hank?”

“Just … wanted to hear your voice. You okay?”

“I’m fine. By the way, I’ve arranged for a company to pack up my things and transport them here.”

“You’re letting strangers pack up your stuff?”

“Saves me a trip back. I’m pretty tied up here, what with all the things I’m trying to learn about the shop.”

“So you’re really keeping it? The shop?”

“Yes, Hank. As I told you.”

“Yeah, but … I figured you’d change your mind. I mean, a music box shop? What’re you going to get out of running something like that?”

Callie didn’t like the put-down in his tone. She could have, in turn, pointed out the increasingly seedy places he’d been performing in lately, along with his steadily decreasing income, but she rose above it.

“I like the shop,” she said simply and changed the subject. “I’m not having any of my furniture sent on. You can have whatever you want before Goodwill picks it up.” It wasn’t much of an endowment, she knew, since most of the things she’d acquired over the years were a mishmash of secondhand and cheap.

“So you’re really staying there?”

“I am.” There was another long silence. Callie, losing patience, broke that one. “Hank, it’ll be fine. This will be a good move for both of us.”

“I don’t see how it’s any good for me. I’m hurtin’, baby!”

He was beginning to sound far too much like one of his Country-Western lyrics. To forestall any breakout into song, Callie asked, “Got any new gigs lined up?”

“One or two. Still waitin’ to hear about the county fair, one.”

“Hope it works out. Well, I’ve got to go, Hank. Take care.”

“So you don’t want the TV?” Hank hurriedly asked.

Callie hadn’t even thought about the big screen TV she’d been talked into putting on her credit card some months ago, until I get a little cash from my next gig. She hadn’t held her breath on that and had always considered the thing a tacky eyesore. Hank, however, loved watching his games on it.

“It’s all yours, Hank. Enjoy,” she said and hung up, fairly sure that holding on to his beloved TV would significantly soothe whatever “hurtin’ ” Hank might really be going through.

Callie spared perhaps twenty more seconds thinking about him before putting it behind her. With her personal items heading to Keepsake Cove soon, she knew she had some work to do. She’d been living out of her suitcase since taking over the cottage, treating the place as a museum of sorts for Aunt Melodie and not moving a thing. But it was time to be practical and start packing up her aunt’s clothes.

The more Callie thought about it, though, the more daunting the project became. Aware that she needed a push, she picked up her phone.

“Delia, remember that offer to help if I needed it?” Callie barely spoke ten more words of explanation before Delia said she’d be right over.

When Callie welcomed her in, Delia had several cardboard boxes in tow. “Luckily I had a few deliveries to the shop today. I thought we could sort Mel’s things into what you’d like to keep, what to donate or toss, and what to think about a little.”

“How about a fourth category?” Callie suggested. “Things you might like to have.”

“That’s very sweet, Callie,” Delia said. “We’ll see.”

They got busy in the upstairs bedroom, pulling out items from the closet and laying them on the bed. Aunt Mel had been taller than Callie and slimmer than Delia, so dresses and skirts went immediately into a donation box. Callie kept a few blouses that were particularly nice and could be tucked in or have their sleeves rolled to fit. Shoes went into the charity boxes.

When they came to purses and scarves, the sorting slowed.

“I remember Mel buying this at a craft fair in Baltimore,” Delia said, holding up a colorfully embroidered bag.

From the look on her face, Callie could see that it brought fond memories. “Please keep it,” she said. She did the same with several scarves that were definitely Delia’s color, and her neighbor accepted them with minimal protest. They attacked the dresser drawers, then the closet in the second bedroom, and within an amazingly short amount of time—at least to Callie, who’d feared a days-long project—all had been cleared.

“Well!” Callie said, standing up and rubbing her hands after closing the flaps on the last box. “We’ve accomplished a lot! There’s some very nice items to be donated and not all that much to be tossed. Aunt Mel must have been really organized, never letting things pile up.”

“‘Something in, something out’ was her motto,” Delia said. “It helped that the closet space in these cottages is so limited.”

“I hope it’ll help me,” Callie said, knowing she’d have to pare down her own wardrobe to essentials unless she wanted to rent storage space somewhere.

Delia helped her lug the boxes meant for charity downstairs and recommended places in the area that Callie might consider. She declined an offer of coffee, saying it was getting late, and headed to the door.

“Thanks for these, Callie,” she said, holding up the items she was taking with her, obviously touched. “It’s nice to have something of Mel’s, something tangible.”

“I’m sure she’d want you to have them,” Callie said, holding the door for her. She heard a muffled trill come from inside the roll-top desk where Grandpa Reed’s music box was still locked up. Delia heard it too, and she glanced around the room, looking for the source.

To head off questions she couldn’t answer, Callie quickly thanked Delia for her help. “I couldn’t have done it without you,” she insisted, to which Delia laughingly answered, “Pshaw!” and wished Callie a good night.

As Callie closed the door, she turned in the direction of the corner desk. “That does it. You’re going to the shop, which is apparently your proper place. At least if you start playing there, you’ll be simply one of dozens of other music boxes, and it won’t be so unnerving.” She unlocked the desk, pulled out the square wooden box, and marched it across the way to House of Melody. There, she set the music box on its shelf behind the counter, stepped back, and waited. Hearing nothing beyond her own breathing, she turned and went back to her cottage.

•

Later that night, wrapped cozily in her terry-cloth robe after a relaxing shower, Callie fixed a mug of cocoa and plopped on the sofa. Jagger immediately jumped onto her lap, and she stroked him idly as she sipped, enjoying the quiet time. As she stared absently toward the small coat closet, she said aloud, “We forgot about that one.” Jagger’s ear twitched.

“I’ll ask Delia for another box in the morning. It shouldn’t take me long to fold up the things in there.” She imagined herself doing so during her lunch break, and tried to remember exactly what was stored inside. She’d glanced into the closet only once, not having needed a jacket on the warm days she’d been in Keepsake Cove.

Curious, she set down her mug, eased a reluctant Jagger onto the adjacent cushion, and went over to open the closet door. Two coats—a black wool and a tan, lightweight trench—along with jackets for winter and spring hung there, nearly filling the narrow space. A couple of empty hangers waited for visitors’ coats. The shelf above held a tidy assortment of knit hats, scarves, and gloves.

Callie stooped down to see a pair of snow boots on the floor beside slip-on rubber gardening shoes. She’d pulled herself halfway up before she stopped and knelt back down on the floor. She’d spied a box at the back, behind the long winter coat and nearly hidden in the shadows. Curious, Callie reached in and pulled it out.

It was gray metal, about twelve inches by twelve, and, as she soon discovered, locked. She shook it lightly, half fearing she’d hear the sound of disposable cell phones rattling inside. Instead, she heard the soft swish of paper.

She went to get the ring of keys, which she’d left on the kitchen counter, and searched through it for one to fit the small lock. The only small key was the one she already knew was for the roll-top desk. All others were for doors.

She and Delia had gone through all of the drawers in Aunt Mel’s bedroom and hadn’t come across any loose keys. There was the small desk in the guest bedroom, but Callie didn’t feel up to searching through it right then. Instead, she set the metal box beside the small coffee table and sat back down on the sofa to finish her cocoa. Jagger instantly reclaimed his spot on her lap.

“What do you know about that thing?” Callie asked the cat as she scratched his head. “Hmm? Something I need to know about, inside? Or just a collection of old Christmas cards?” As she asked it, Callie knew that what was in the metal box was more important than old cards—at least to Aunt Mel, who’d taken the trouble to lock it.

Jagger, however, simply tucked his nose into the folds of her robe and exhaled. Whatever he knew, he wasn’t sharing.