But the key doesn't look like it fits a locker. And it wouldn't make sense for that to be why he had it, either. We’d already talked about the bombing, and he’d had every opportunity to give me that key himself. I knew he was there for Jonah, which would mean whatever was put into that locker was not intended for me.
I stand up and make my way up to the attic. One corner has been devoted to Greg's belongings that I haven't figured out what to do with yet. Most of his things have already been sold or donated, but the remaining handful that I haven’t decided about yet are relegated to the attic. Every now and then, I go up and look at them, waiting for some sign as to what I'm supposed to do with them.
They all have different reasons for being there. For a trunk, four metal boxes, a jewelry box, and a wooden chest, it's all the same reason. They're locked, and I haven't been able to get inside. A couple of them feel very light, as if they may just be empty. But I don't feel comfortable getting rid of them until I know what's inside.
With this key, I might get the answer.
I kneel down in front of the pile of his belongings and reach for the first metal box. It's military green with a silver handle. Not very heavy. It makes no noise when I tilt it back and forth. Resting the box in my lap, I try to put the key into it. It doesn't fit. I flip it over and come at it at different angles, but I can't make it work. Setting that box aside, I move on to the next.
After all of the metal boxes prove to be dead ends, I try the jewelry box. Rocking it back and forth creates a small, dull rattle inside. My heart sinks a little when I think about what might be making that sound. I already knew he was planning to ask me to marry him. A couple of times, he had even given hints that he had chosen the ring.
By the sound, it seems he definitely had.
I've just finished testing the wooden chest when I hear Sam calling from downstairs. His footsteps rattle the stairs coming up into the attic.
“Any of them?” he asks.
I shake my head and roll back from my knees to stand up.
“I tested everything I could find up here with a lock. The key doesn't fit in any of them. Which actually brings to mind another question as to where the keys are for all of these boxes? For a man so meticulously organized as Greg, he seemed to have a problem keeping track of where his keys went,” I say.
“Don't all guys?” Sam shrugs.
I rise up on my toes to give him a kiss. “That would be why you have that little keychain that screams when you click the button on the remote.”
“Ah,” he says, following me as I make my way down the steps. “But you didn't keep in mind the logical fallacy of that, which is that I no longer know where the remote is.”
I laugh, shaking my head as I set the key down on the kitchen counter and start the coffeemaker. There are two grocery bags sitting on the kitchen table that weren't there when I went up to the attic. I nod toward them.
“What's that?” I asked.
“You haven't been home for a while, so I thought I would pick up a couple of essentials for you,” he shrugs.
I use my fingertip to pull one of the bags open and peek inside. My eyes slide over to him.
“Yeast and brown sugar?” I raise an eyebrow with a teasing grin.
“Cinnamon rolls are essential,” he offers. “And I've been doing without them for almost two months. I am dangerously depleted in all of the vitamins and minerals they supply.”
“We can't have that. What kind of girlfriend would I be if I let you wallow away without all those essential cinnamon roll nutrients?”
“Well, let's be honest. You'd be the kind that's out solving murders and trying to take down a really messed up secret society. That can be a little time consuming,” he says.
I wrap my arms around his neck and kiss him. "I tell you what. I'll make up a few batches and put them in the freezer. That way, all you have to do when you are home and feel the need for a cinnamon roll is pop them out, let them thaw, and bake them."
"I can live with that," he says. I smile and make my way back over to the coffeemaker. "Oh. I forgot to mention, Gabriel says hi."
"Gabriel from the grocery store?" I ask.
Sam pulls a bunch of grapes out of one of the bags and rinses them in the sink before pulling several off and popping them in his mouth.
"Yep. He's been back for a few weeks. I went through his line today, and he asked about you. He said he thought you had started going to a different grocery store," he says.
Laughing, I reach for a couple of mugs. "He thinks I'm cheating on him with a different store? Where? There's only that store and the corner market in Sherwood."
"Long-distance grocery store cheating," he shrugs. "Anyway, I filled him in on what you are up to, and he said to say hi."
"Oh. Well, that's nice. I'm glad to hear he's doing okay. I was worried about him after his grandmother died."
"He seems to be in good spirits."
The grapes go into the fruit bowl on the kitchen table, and he reaches back into the bag. Out comes a package of candy corn, and I shake my head.
"Cinnamon rolls, grapes, and candy corn. All the major food groups," I say.
He peers into the bag. "I bought stuff for chili, too."
Chapter Seven
A couple of hours later, the chill of the evening has set in enough to justify thick socks with my leggings and a floppy sweatshirt that stretches down to the middle of my thighs. It is my official “fall-at-home” uniform, and I'm beyond thrilled to actually be in it. Memories of the scorching heat of this summer are still lingering with me, and I'm grateful for every cool breeze.
The chili is just about done simmering on the stove as I pull a cast-iron skillet of cornbread out of the oven. The butter and bacon fat melted into the bottom sizzles. It'll form into a sturdy crust on the bread, making it perfect for standing up to the thick chili.
Inverting the pan onto a metal rack, I leave it to cool for a couple of minutes while I ladle big bowls of chili. I sprinkle each one of them with cheese and add spoons before setting them on a tray. The cornbread is still technically too hot for me to slice, but I'm not feeling particularly patient. The house smells warm and full of spices, and I want to bury myself in the food.
Once thick wedges of the bread are added to the tray, I pick it up and head outside. Sam stands beside the fire pit he built me. Flames jump and spark into the night sky. There's something masculine and primal about him building a fire and standing there with a long stick, prodding the flames, to grow. It stirs up all kinds of feelings in me. I have to set the tray down and wrap my arms around him from behind.
My hands flatten on his chest and stomach, and I nuzzle close to the curve of his neck. His clothes smell like smoke, but his skin is all fresh, clean Sam. He pats my hand on his chest and leans back against me, so we prop each other up.
When he's done stoking the flames, he tosses the stick down beside the fire pit, and we pick up our food to carry over to the wooden glider sitting to the side of the fire. One of my grandmother's quilts is already draped across the back, and we nestle down into it, pulling it around our shoulders to ward off the chilly night air.