Cooper (The Family Simon #6) - Juliana Stone Page 0,15

she was alone, headed for the stairs. The door to the attic was at the far end of the hall, and it was open. She passed Cooper’s bedroom, noting the unmade bed, an open suitcase propped against the wall, and a stack of books beside a dresser.

She wondered what kind of books a man like Cooper Simon would read and then, with a shrug, headed for the narrow stairs that led to the attic. Once she reached the top, she paused, hand on the railing as she drank in a sight that would be an antique lover’s dream. Mouth slightly open, she took a step forward and turned in a full circle.

The space was huge, encompassing the entire breadth of the house, and while there was some open space, most of the area was filled top to bottom. Furniture. Antiques. Paintings. Piles of books. Boxes and trunks. Dishes. Was that a sewing machine?

And there was dust. Lord, but there was dust. She sneezed and shuddered, shaking off a weird sensation as a cold draft blew through the attic.

She wandered among the McLaren belongings, slowly making her way to the far side, and peeked out one of the floor-to-ceiling windows. The sun that filtered through was warm on her face, and she glanced down below. There was an outbuilding, most likely Cooper’s workplace and—was that a face in the window?

She stepped back quickly, nearly falling over a large wooden crate, glad there was no one around to witness her dumb-ass move. What the hell was wrong with her?

“Jesus, Morgan,” she muttered. “Where’s that damn ledger?”

She spied it almost immediately, back near the door, set aside on a small table that also held a compact stereo. Scooping up yet another note left behind in Cooper’s unmistakable penmanship, she quickly read it and turned on the machine.

His iPod was already hooked up, and after selecting one of his playlists—’70’s and ’80’s classics—she smiled as The Eagles filled the silence around her.

Okay. So he had good taste in music. She shrugged and scooped up the ledger. “Whatever.”

Morgan decided the best way to organize the space was to start to her immediate right and work her way around the room. There were several large paintings, a couple from well-known artists (considering she recognized the names, they had to be), and after she gave them a proper dusting with one of the cloths Cooper had left for her, she carried them to the cleared space and propped them against the wall. She decided to gather up all the framed art and pictures she could find and keep them together.

It took a while—there were thirty-one in total—and once she entered them into the ledger, she spied a large steam trunk, partially hidden by an old red velvet throw. Upon closer inspection, she realized the throw was, in fact, drapery, and she folded the fabric, placing it on the floor beside the trunk, sneezing several times as she did so.

The trunk itself was a beautiful piece, the color of burnt tobacco, with an intricate silver inlay, in bad need of a polish, with the inscription McLaren. It took a bit for her to get it open, and only after major effort did the hinges release and squeak open. Kneeling in front of it, she carefully peeled back several layers of delicate, aged doilies, and then sat there in silence for several long moments. The gentle strains of “Tequila Sunrise” and Glenn Frey’s voice colored the air, but the contents of the trunk held her interest.

There were books—old books from the looks of them—and vintage photos and jewelry and silverware and…

She reached inside and carefully picked up what looked like a small leather-bound portfolio, but when she opened it, Morgan realized it was a journal. The handwriting was delicate and feminine—somewhat girly—and with a wince, she sank back to her haunches and settled into a more comfortable position. The pages were yellowed, discolored with age, but the ink, though faded, was legible. She couldn’t help herself and began to read.

July 4th, 1951

Daddy says I can’t go to the Independence parade on account I was sassing Mother. I’m so mad at him, I swear smoke is coming out of my ears. He knows Thomas will be there, and I’m sure that’s the real reason he won’t let me go. I mean, really, all I did was tell Mother I needed an extra five minutes and then I’d help her peel the potatoes. Anyway, he doesn’t know that I plan on