I’m already getting jitters about clearing this stuff out. It’s foolish to expect this to all be a mistake and for him to walk back in through the door, right?”
Emerson shook her head. “It’s not foolish. I think it’s human. If this is too soon, we don’t—”
“No,” Olivia said firmly. “I want to start this process. I’m just being silly.”
Emerson reached for her sister’s hand. “Not silly, either. I’m sure we’re going to find all kinds of stuff that make us pause today. He was a sentimental man. I’m sure there are going to be all kinds of mementos.”
Olivia nodded. “I guess so. Jake is out in the garage and toolshed; he’s got four tarps in the backyard. Keep. Sell. Donate. Toss. We figured we’d each take an area and give it a go. Then go through the piles together and divide up what we want to keep or sell.”
“Sounds good to me,” Emerson said. There wasn’t a ton of room in her own home. She had all the furniture she needed and was happy for Liv to take it all to set up her own place. There were some personal items she’d love, like their grandfather’s fountain pen that had become her father’s. After their mother’s death, most of her things had been divided by the three of them, but her father had been reluctant to part with her engagement and wedding rings. Perhaps the engagement ring should pass to Jake, but she’d love her mother’s wedding ring if Olivia was okay with it. “I’ll make a start on the office,” she said.
“Urgh, you are welcome to it,” Olivia said. “I went in there to clean and walked straight out again. It’s a disaster.”
Emerson walked down the hallway, running her fingers along the wood paneling below the rail. It was something they’d all done so many times, she swore she could feel the ridges. She pulled the door open and immediately understood Olivia’s point.
Books on steam engines, Victorian architects, and water wheels. The walls were covered with sepia photographs and line drawings in graying ink of antique equipment and machinery. Her mother had always said stepping back to his office was like stepping back a hundred years in history. Emerson always felt there was something magical in the technical drawings rolled up in cardboard tubes, like hidden treasure to be discovered.
The rest of the house had been decorated by their mother, but this was all him.
Emerson began by opening the window to let some air into the musty space. She took down the yellowing net curtains and could see Jake carrying a large and obviously heavy box from the toolshed.
The bookshelves were likely the easiest place to start, and she began to pull books off and place them in piles in the hallway.
Keep. Sell. Donate. Toss. She’d follow Jake’s designations.
It was tempting to run her fingers over every book’s cover, to take a quick flick through the contents. But she knew that as soon as she did, she would end up taking days. Dust left an outline on the shelves of where the books had been, a clear marker of the past and present.
Everything seemed suddenly temporary in the big scheme of things. Even this house.
Her father’s legacy was the distillery, and he’d trusted her to ensure it stayed in the family, no matter what it took. She couldn’t let him down, no matter the personal cost.
Papers, crammed between books and within their pages, fluttered to the ground. Notes and doodles of designs for stills, ratios, and combinations of flavors. They were everywhere. Emerson began a pile on her father’s desk. All of it should belong to Jake.
There was a personal laptop on his desk, and Emerson placed it in a pile of things to take home with her. She already had his business laptop at home, but there may be family photographs and other things they’d want to keep on there.
On top of the bookshelf sat two large banker boxes. Emerson pulled the stool over to the shelf. Balanced precariously, she reached for the large box and slid it toward the edge of the shelf. The weight of it threw off her balance when she took the full brunt of it.
“Shit,” she gasped as she wobbled with it in her hands. Emerson placed the box on one of the lower shelves before she climbed off the stool. As she transferred it to her father’s desk, she noticed her mother’s handwriting on the lid. It must be her things.
Emerson