In the brief moment the closet door was open, Dini noticed a heather-gray suit—the jacket sharing a hanger with a pale blue shirt and tie—a pair of soft leather dress shoes, two other shirts, and a hard-sided carry-on suitcase, a metallic-looking copper color. Quin reached to the upper shelf from which, next to the extra pillow, blanket, and iron, he took down a nondescript-looking black duffel bag.
“I’ve got the original box in here.” He set the bag on top of the small table in front of the window. “I thought if I found anybody to show it to, they might want to see how everything’s been kept.” He unzipped the bag and gingerly lifted out an ancient, fragile-looking cardboard box. A shoebox, most likely its original purpose, tied with a length of loosely knotted string. “And I had to kind of stretch the string off, because that knot wasn’t budging.”
Dini’s fingers itched in anticipation. “I think I should wash my hands. They’re…sticky?” She winced at the immaturity of the word. “And really, before handling anything …”
“Sure. Of course, right through there.” He pointed to the open door to the bathroom. “Watch your step.” He indicated a six-inch difference in the bathroom’s floor level. “It’s a doozy.”
Dini shrugged out of her backpack and dropped it next to his bag on the floor. Once inside the bathroom, she shut the door. The idea of sharing the moment of handwashing seemed far too intimate for strangers. The bathroom was kind of like a time machine in its own décor—sea-green tile, chipped sink, separate handles for the hot and cold water. She unwrapped the tiny bar of hotel soap and started the tap. Quin’s open shaving kit was on the sink. No razor, obviously, as he wore a beard, but a small electric trimmer. A blue toothbrush stood, sharing a glass with a small tube of Crest. She picked up a black tube of Neutrogena for Men, flipped open the top, and inhaled.
That’s him. She locked the scent into her memory.
Finally, she held her hands under the warm running water and lathered them with the soap, softly singing the chorus to “Mandy,” turning off the water at the third repetition of the name.
“Manilow fan?” Quin was sitting on the edge of the bed, not jumping up immediately when she opened the door.
“You know how they say to sing ‘Happy Birthday’ to time twenty seconds for handwashing? I hate that song.”
Quin stood and crossed past her. At the sink, he turned the water to its highest pressure and, not bothering to shut the door, launched into the opening verse of “Copacabana.” He turned off the water and dried his hands on the same towel she’d used, saying, “See? If you tried that with jazz, you’d be washing all day.”
Dini’s laugh was somewhat obligatory, as the box and its mysterious contents occupied the best of her mind. Without waiting another second, she sat down and pulled it toward her, rewarded immediately by the scent of old. Although the string could have easily been pulled from around the cardboard corners, she went to work on the knot, spying its pattern straightaway. It wasn’t anything complicated, just a basic square tying, but years had solidified the strength. She picked at it with her short, sparkly nails, thinking, He tied this. My fingers are touching what he touched. Not Quin’s, of course, but his great-great-grandfather’s. What secrets did he bind with this cord?
The knot finally loosed.
“Shall we?” Quin placed two fingers gingerly along one side of the lid, inviting her to join in the endeavor. She took a deep breath and complied, lifting it—weightlessly—off the box.
Inside were an assortment of papers, photos, and magazines. She almost wished Quin would go away. Maybe she should send him on an errand to fetch up an ice cream or coffee so she could sort and absorb at her own leisure. But then, wasn’t it something to share this with another person?
“Where should we start?” That pronoun again. We.
“The Christmas picture,” she said, eager to see the one thing she knew to be inside.
Quin pulled the box closer to him and rummaged gently through the contents, finally pulling out a piece of card stock, roughly five inches by seven. He held it gingerly by its edge, the image facing him. “Are you ready?”
Dini nodded.
“Close your eyes.”
She did, and felt him shift slightly.
“Open them.”
She hadn’t bowed her head, so the first thing she saw was his eyes fixed on hers, his expression one of