with love, of course.” I smile in reminiscence. “My father has deer heads and stuffed bass and an antique fishing pole mounted on the wall, and a big cracked-leather recliner that no one’s allowed to touch. My mother never saw a floral pattern she didn’t love, doesn’t matter what color or style. Also, she really misses having dogs, so she’s got needlepoint pillows with dogs everywhere, and dog statues, mixed in with all the flowery stuff.” As I’m talking about it, a well of nostalgia swells up in me. I need to visit Peach Pit soon.
Blake smirks. “I see where you get your sense of style from.”
“You mangy Yankee!” I elbow him. “I open up to you about my secret shame, and you hold it up to mockery.”
“Secret no longer. I’m adding it to your company bio and putting it on our website.”
“You know how I keep threatening to call Alice and find out your deepest fears?” I narrow my eyes at him.
He throws his hands up. “I surrender unconditionally. Your company bio is safe.”
Then he looks around the room, and his smirk fades to a faraway look of sorrow. The thousand-yard stare.
“This is a huge amount of space. I can't justify keeping it empty any longer. And emotionally, I think it's time for me to move on."
My throat squeezes in sympathy for him. As someone who came close to losing her mother, I can’t imagine the devastation of losing both parents. And at such a young age.
He walks over to the chair group, and I follow him. "I had a bunch of cleaning supplies and boxes brought up to my office. Would you be okay with boxing up everything in here? Including the stuff in the file cabinets? I can’t bring myself to do it, and I just wouldn’t trust anyone else with it. I know you’ll handle everything with respect and care.” He blinks hard a couple of times, and clears his throat. “You’d probably have to do a little dusting before you pack.” He runs his finger over the back of a chair, leaving a clean streak in the thick gray fur of dust. “I'm going to have everything brought to my house, and I can set it up in one of my empty rooms.”
His trust in me means more than I can put into words. He’s a proud man, and he’s exposing his tenderest innermost feelings to me. A hermit crab crawling out of its shell.
“I would be happy to,” I tell him.
The two of us walk back to Blake’s office in silence. Together, we push two carts full of boxes and cleaning supplies down the hall and into the office, and he hands me a set of keys.
Then he walks behind the desk and puts his hand on it. He stands there, his gaze slowly sweeping the room, eyes shining with emotion. “I just want to look at it one last time. I’m being a baby, I know.”
“No, you aren’t! It’s hard, Blake, I understand that.”
As his gaze sweeps the room, it lights on his father’s desk, and his expression changes. “That’s odd.”
I walk around to stand next to him, and follow his gaze. The desk drawers are slightly ajar, and there are scratch marks on the locks and claw marks around the corners. The desk is covered with a thick layer of dust, so it's obvious the marks aren’t new. Blake pulls open several of the drawers. One of them sticks. The wood around the drawer’s corners is chipped.
“What the hell?” he curses. He starts walking around the office. He checks out the file cabinet. “Same thing here! Jesus. Someone broke in here after my father died and pried open every damn drawer.”
He hurries over to a picture of his father standing next to a 1990s sitcom actress, grabs the frame, and swings it away from the wall. It’s on hinges. There’s a wall safe behind the picture, and he quickly turns the lock several times, then opens the door. There are stacks of files in there, and the papers in them are spilled out as if someone pawed through them and then shoved them back in.
“Do you want to call the police?”
His brow furrows in a scowl. He stares at the desk, and finally lets out his breath in a frustrated sigh. “Honestly, after twenty years, there's not much they could do. The trail will have long gone cold."
Poor Blake. This is the last thing he needs. “I imagine you’re right.”