FIVE DAYS LATER, ON SATURDAY afternoon, Allison blew out a long, low breath as she dropped two dollars in the tip jar and picked up her vanilla latte at The Vogue. Now to find a quiet spot to think, to journal, to figure out how she could speed up the partnership process with Derrek. Or maybe take the easier route and get in good enough shape to run a sub-three-hour marathon.
“Allison?”
Allison turned back to Marque, the young gal who had started nine months ago with no experience but already made the best drinks in the shop.
“Yes?”
“You doing all right?”
“Sure. Yes.”
“Okay, jus’ checking. Your smile’s been hiding a little lately.”
“It’s still here.” Allison pointed at her mouth and smiled. “It’s just that work is super stressing me right now. And having my mom living with me is stressing me. You know, life.”
“Yeah, I get it.”
“You? How are wedding plans?”
“We should have eloped.”
Allison laughed. “I hear it’s a lot easier.”
“Without a doubt. Thanks for asking.”
She turned to go.
“Hey, Allison, almost forgot.” She spun back as Marque went to the back counter, picked up a nondescript box, and brought it back to Allison.
“Here.”
“From you?”
“No.”
“Then who?”
“I don’t know. Mike told me to give this to you.”
“Mike?”
“You know . . . Mike.” She waved her hand in the air. “The guy who owns this place.”
“Right.”
Marque pointed at a folded piece of paper on top. “Looks like he wrote a note. That might explain it.”
“Mike wrote it?”
“No idea. Like I said, he just told me to give this to you.” Marque smiled and motioned toward the espresso maker. “Sorry, gotta go.”
Allison worked her way to the back of the shop, sat at her usual table, and set her satchel on the floor. She leaned against the dark maroon wall. She placed the small rectangular box on the table, took a sip of her drink, and opened Mike’s note.
Hi Allison,
Apparently this is yours.
Mike
Allison set the note aside, lifted the cover of the box, and gasped. Inside was a leather-bound journal. The one Western Washington Sweatshirt Guy and Richard had talked about. Allison lifted the journal out of the box as if it were a parchment from a thousand years ago and set it on the table. She slid her fingers over the leather. Softer than she’d imagined. A texture that came from years, maybe decades of use. The surface felt warm.
She stared at the cover. Gorgeous. The image of a tree was carved into the leather. An image she knew well. The Tree of Life. Allison ran her fingers over the image of the tree, and as she did, a sense of peace swirled around her mind. An urge to open the journal swept over her, but she gave a tiny shake of her head. Of course not. It wasn’t hers.
After staring at the journal for more time than seemed appropriate, Allison stood and walked to the front of the shop. She caught Marque’s eye a few minutes later.
“Did I mess up your drink?”
“Never.” Allison held up the journal. “This is what was inside the box. It’s not mine.”
Marque blinked. “Beautiful.”
Allison nodded.
“I think I know whose this is. I mean, I don’t know him, but he had it the other day when I was in here. I don’t think he’s a regular, but do you guys have a lost-and-found in case he comes back? I think this is something he’d come back for.”
“I would too.” Marque frowned as she poured a liberal dose of caramel into a cup. “But we don’t have a lost-and-found. I guess we used to, but so much stuff piled up. Plus, Mike and Janice don’t want to be responsible ’cause of some weird thing where they got sued a while back. So now we hang on to things till the end of the day, then have to toss ’em. So if the guy doesn’t come back by the end of the day . . .”
Allison stared at the journal and spoke more to it than Marque. “The journal ends up in the dump.”
“Yes, sorry.”
Allison shuffled back to her table and glanced at her watch. The shop closed in thirty-five minutes. Which meant she would stay till closing and hope the man showed up to recover the journal. And if he didn’t? She’d describe him to Marque and ask her to keep an eye out. No way would she let this journal end up in the trash.
At six ten, Marque said, “Sorry, Allison, I have to kick you out. We gotta clean.”
“I’ve never understood why you guys close so early. You’re a coffee and wine bar.”
Marquee laughed. “You’ll have to take that one up with Mike and Janice.”
She stood on the sidewalk outside the coffee shop till six thirty. No man in wire-rimmed glasses and a Western Washington University sweatshirt came by looking for his lost journal. Time to head for home.
As she turned her car down the street where she lived, Allison glanced over at the journal that sat on her passenger seat.
“How am I going to get you back to your rightful owner?”
After she pulled into her driveway and stopped, she picked it up and undid the leather cord that bound it shut.
“Easy. I’m going to open you up and find a name and address.” Who put their name and address in a journal? She didn’t. But maybe Western Washington Sweatshirt Guy did. Allison opened the journal, looked at the top of the first page, and laughed. Right there, in dark blue pen at the top of the page, in a man’s large handwriting, was a name and an address.
ALISTER MORRISON
43417 WHITETAIL LANE
PRESTON, WA 98888
No phone number. No email. But the address was enough. Preston was close. After she had dinner and caught up with her mom, she’d google Alister’s address and see where he lived. She’d write him a note and tell him she had the journal. Maybe just drive by his place. Under his name and address was what looked like a poem, in different handwriting.
Who we are, and truly are,
A matter of perception.
Choose the truth and find yourself,
Step through the veiled deception.
Know it from the inside out,
Not from the outside in.
Though fear and trepidation wait,
It’s time that you begin.
Allison frowned. Wow. Quite the introduction to Alister if he’d written it, and quite the inscription if it had been written for him. She went to put the journal into her satchel, but curiosity got the better of her, and she turned to the next page, then the next, then the next. All of them were blank.
She riffled through the next ten, twenty, thirty pages. No writing on any of them. The rest of the pages as well. It made little sense. Why would Alister tell Richard that the journal had been part of changing his life when there was nothing in it? Sure, the poem was intriguing, but while it raised questions, she couldn’t see where it gave any answers. And hadn’t he said he’d written in it?
After a quick dinner with her mom and a long conversation about how they shouldn’t worry about Allison’s partnership being delayed, she unpacked her satchel and set her things on the kitchen counter. As she did, her mom sipped on her chamomile tea and wandered over.
“Did you get yourself a new journal? Where did you find it?”
“I didn’t find it, more like it found me. By mistake.” Allison laughed. “It’s not mine. It belongs to a guy from the coffee shop, and he—”
“Can I see it?”
“Sure.” Allison handed her mom the journal. “The owner’s address is in the front, so I’ll try to find him online or mail him a letter. Probably just mail him a letter. Go old school.”
“It’s beautiful.”
“I agree. I’m going to ask the guy where he got it. I’d love to have one like it.”
Her mom ran her fingers over the journal. “The leather is so soft. And the tree, my, it’s lovely.”
“Like you.” Allison leaned down and kissed her mom on the cheek. “I’m going to take a shower, Mom. Be back downstairs in a bit.”
“Take your time, honey.”
After a long shower, during which Allison nudged the water hotter than usual, she toweled off, slipped into an old pair of sweats, a T-shirt, and her Running Is Cheaper Than Therapy sweatshirt and headed downstairs to chat with her mom. Allison found her sitting on the couch watching An Affair to Remember. The journal sat next to her.
Mom looked up as Allison slid into the overstuffed chair next to the couch.
“How’s the movie?”
Her mom looked at her furtively. “I peeked inside the journal. At all the pages.”
“Good.”
“Good?”
“Now I don’t feel so guilty.” Allison giggled. “I peeked too.”
“I think you should keep the journal.”
“I can’t keep it, Mom. It’s not mine. It’s Alister’s. And I’m going to get it back to him.”
“How are you going to do that?”
“I told you. I’ll send him a note.” Allison held up her cell phone. “Or I’ll plug the address into my phone and just drive to his house and drop it off.”
“How are you going to do that?”
Allison frowned as a tiny laugh escaped her lips. “Are you okay, Mom?”
“How are you going to do that?”
“Mom, really, are you all right? Like I just said, I’ll write a note using the address Alister put in the front of the journal, or I’ll drive over there. Yes, I’m assuming that’s his address. Why wouldn’t it be?”
A crack of a confused smile appeared on her mom’s face as she handed the journal to Allison and spoke in a whisper. “What address?”
Allison took the journal from her mom. It felt heavier. She held it for more than a few moments before gently lifting the cover, already sensing what she would find. She stared at the first page for a long time. A page without a name. Without an address. Only a poem that no longer felt intriguing, but ominous.