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my phone and checked email and then wasted time looking on Pinterest. I
knew what was bugging me, but I was fighting it. I kept looking at the hope
chest across the room. I was determined not to open it and go down memory lane,
but it was like it was taunting me and daring me to open it. It’s not like I
didn’t know what was in it (well mostly).
    I finally gave in and threw off the
covers. I sat crossed legged in front of it. I took a deep breath and carefully
lifted the lid of the old cedar chest. I inhaled the scent of the wood and of
days that had long gone by. My white cap and gown sat on the top, but my gown
looked crinkled up like someone had gone through the chest and hastily laid the
gown back in; that was odd. I gently removed them and placed them on the floor
near me. It was what was under those that I was in search of. Next was Brady’s
Lettermen jacket. I took it out and smelled it. It still faintly smelled like
him, it was a musky masculine scent. I put it on. It was still way too big on
me. Next was the state football championship game ball. He had signed it, “With
all my love, Brady.” Next up was the thing that taunted me the most. It was a
small burgundy velvet box. It was what he left on the sofa table that Christmas
he broke up with me. I’d never had the courage to look to see what was in the
little box. All I ever did was unwrap it. On many occasions I tried to open it,
but I could never bring myself to do it. I tried to send everything back to him
by courier, but he just sent it right back with a note that read. “These don’t
belong to me.”
    I held the little box in my hand and just
looked at it. Tears started to trail down my cheeks. I began to peek at the
contents and the hinge on the box creaked. I snapped it shut before I could
look inside. This was stupid. I took off his dumb jacket and threw it and the
ball back in the “hopeless” chest. I took the stupid box back to bed with me
and I threw it in my nightstand drawer. I turned off the light and cried myself
to sleep.
    I woke early and dressed carefully for
Aunt Lu’s sake. I felt a little silly getting dressed up to sit in a hospital
room all day, but I was used to doing things that didn’t make sense for Aunt
Lu. That was basically my life in a nutshell. I had brought a black Calvin
Klein pantsuit that fit the bill. It fit me well and showed off my curves and
slender figure. I matched it with pointed black stiletto heels. I even took the
time to curl my now shoulder-length hair.
    Doris was waiting for me down
in the kitchen, she had even made me breakfast. Bless her. I usually just
grabbed a piece of fruit in the morning. I had never really learned to cook. My
Aunt Lu hadn’t either, because we always had Doris, and if Doris wasn’t there,
we had takeout. My cooking skills were limited to toast (but I even seemed to
burn that frequently), smoothies and salads. Doris set my breakfast in front of
me: blueberry pancakes, bacon and fresh squeezed orange juice. I needed a Doris
in Atlanta.
    I made small talk with Doris while I ate.
It was nice to have someone to talk to in the morning. It reminded me of how
lonely my life was in Atlanta. Sure, I had business associates and employees
and even a few people I would consider friends, like my agent, Olivia, but I
lived a pretty solitary existence by choice. I dated on occasion, but no one
seriously, even though a few of them would have liked to. I spent most of my
spare time answering fan mail. I made it a point to answer each one personally.
My agent said I was nuts to do that, but when a little girl (and occasionally a
little boy) took the time to write me, it was the least I could do. I loved
hearing about how they loved my books and how they wanted to visit the places
in my books and about how much they learned about a particular place. Sometimes
I even got heart wrenching stories from sick children or those that just needed
to know that someone cared about them.
    I tried to help