Last Of The Joeville Lovers. Anne Eames

didn’t want to leave, but she knew Michael was right. And then there was the matter of her mother’s request. Was there really something in the attic beneath loose boards? If there was and she could tell Mom she had found it and removed it, maybe it would buoy her spirits. It was grabbing at straws, but that was all she had at the moment.

      Her father joined them in the hall, his chin back on his chest.

      Taylor took his arm, and Michael moved to the opposite side. “Let’s go home, Dad. She’ll be better in the morning.” Her words sounded hollow to her own ears, yet like a gentle breeze, they fanned a low flame of hope.

      

      After a fitful night of half expecting the phone to ring, at dawn Taylor sat up with a start when she heard her father tell Michael that he was taking a shower and to listen for the phone.

      All night she had thought about her mother’s request and wished she could go exploring upstairs. But the night had been too still and the house too small for her to hide her movements, so she had waited. Now, as soon as she heard the water running, Taylor checked that Michael’s door was closed before darting up the attic stairs.

      It had been years since she’d ventured up here, and the dusty smell of cardboard boxes and stored treasures reminded her of lazy afternoons with Mom, times when they had retraced the steps of old shoes and hats left behind by Grandma and Aunt Helen. Taylor stopped at the top step and eyed the old rocker in front of the window. A floor lamp with an arched neck and Tiffany shade waited next to the rocker for someone to pull its chain. Cross-stitched throw pillows rested at the foot of it all, where Taylor used to sit by the hour and listen to her mother’s stories of the Big Sky Country of her youth.

      Particles of sunshine filtered through the aged organza curtains and spotlighted the old love seat on the opposite wall. The curved cherry wood trim on the back was in better shape than the willow green brocade upholstery. She could almost hear the cushions ripping if she dared sit on its fragile surface. She walked cautiously toward it, having no intention of sitting on it at all, wishing she didn’t have to touch it. If there were loose boards beneath it, she hoped they revealed nothing. Yet the sound of her own fast breathing told her there would be something there. Something she wasn’t sure she wanted to discover. Something that might tip the scales of their balanced little family, a good and loving family that was at the core of who she was.

      Taylor stopped at one end of the small sofa, her arms still at her side. She closed her eyes and pictured her mother’s worried face when she’d made this strange request. There was no going back to the hospital without telling Mom all was safe.

      Before she could lose her nerve, she lifted an armrest and moved the sofa silently away from the wall. Wide cracks bracketed two boards beneath and she fought the urge to run from this once-cozy space. Instead, she stooped and tugged at the planks, listening for the water to shut off downstairs, hearing nothing but the hammering of her own heart in her ears.

      There, below the floor, were two cloth-covered journals, their delicate calico prints suggesting a woman’s loving touch. Taylor retrieved them quickly, replaced the boards and repositioned the love seat in the clean spots left by the claw-footed legs.

      With the books tucked safely under her bulky sweater, she descended the stairs, raced to her old room, and pressed her back to the closed door before releasing the breath she’d been holding.

      There. She had Mama’s journals. Dad would never see them, would never know their content.

      But what did they say that would hurt him so much?

      There was a soft rap on the door and Taylor jumped. “Taylor?”

      Quickly she hid the books in her carry-on bag and then took a cleansing breath.

      “Be right there, Dad.” Suddenly she felt as though she were part of some conspiracy. Would he see a guilty look on her face? She glanced at the mirror and practiced a calm she didn’t feel, then opened the door.

      “Are you okay, sweetheart?”

      His concern doubled her guilt and she struggled to conceal it. She’d had no reason to ever deceive her father before, but Mom had said he must never know. “I—I’m fine, Dad. Maybe we should leave for the hospital now.”

      His weary gaze lingered on her face a moment and her pulse raced. But then he turned and headed for the door, Michael right behind him. “Yes. I think we should get going.”

      

      When they arrived at the room, they were blocked by a wall of white and aqua jackets surrounding Angela’s bed. Orders were barked and obeyed. Taylor stood on one foot then the other trying to see the monitors, but the view was obstructed by a burly intern whose pinched brow and intense eyes gave her reason to worry. She squeezed Michael’s sweaty palm and felt her father’s hand dig deeper into her shoulder.

      It was at times like this that Taylor wished she knew less about medicine, that she was a little girl again... who thought her mother was invincible.

      Her ear was trained on the beeps from the monitor, picturing each peak, praying for the next. And then she heard the sound she feared the most—a constant hum

      Injections and paddles followed the dismal sound, but to no avail.

      The time of death was called by the senior physician.

      The trio huddled in the doorway, Taylor in the center. She closed her eyes and pictured her mother’s soul winging its way to heaven and tried to draw comfort from the fact that she was in a better place now, free of all pain. It helped a little, and surely as time passed her faith would help her again.

      But in the deep recesses of her mind, there was a dark dread that in the months to come Mom’s death would only be part of her grieving. Grandmother used to say trouble came in threes. If she was right, Taylor didn’t speculate on number two and three. At the moment one seemed more than enough.

      

      It came as no surprise to any of them when the family read Angela’s letters Wednesday afternoon. There was one for each of them that they would later share, and there was one that listed the whereabouts of valuables and papers of importance. Angela had anticipated this day and had planned every last detail, including prepayment of expenses. She’d asked to be cremated after a private family viewing, and if they decided to have a memorial service, she hoped it would be the next day at the hospital chapel.

      Simple, clean, fast.

      That’s what she wanted and that’s what she got, the family somewhat relieved that decisions had been made, all too numb with the loss of a young, vital woman.

      Phone calls kept them busy until late evening, when her father and Michael each retreated behind closed doors, leaving Taylor alone in the kitchen. She cleaned up the bowls of half-eaten soup and wiped the counter, noticing her mother’s hair appointment marked on the calendar next to the phone. It was for next Thursday.

      Later, she told herself. She’d call the shop tomorrow.

      The idea of telling the sad story one more time today left her weak in the knees and she slumped into the nearest chair. She’d held it together all day, as much for her father and Michael’s sake as her own. Right now she could use a good cry, alone in her room.

      But there was one more call she had to make.

      Not only had she promised Josh she’d call, but she knew Max would want to know. Josh. She remembered their conversation on the plane and his faraway look when he’d spoken of his mother. The pain had shown on his face, even after all these years. The knot at the back of her throat pushed again as she forced herself out of the chair and to the phone.

      Hannah answered on the second ring and said she was the only one home. Taylor rushed through the bad news, surprised when the tough old housekeeper started sniffling and then blew her nose. They didn’t know each other that well; the reaction seemed out of character. And what seemed even stranger were her parting words.

      “Call Max after the funeral tomorrow,