Carmen’s attempt at levity didn’t work. Howard Bradshaw’s expression looked like a thundercloud about to burst. “No. I think you . . . that your timing is bad, that’s all.”
She smiled slightly and peeked around the corner into the family room, where the TV was on. “I’m sorry about that. I’ll make it quick. Do you have . . . are you entertaining?” she teased. “Why didn’t you say so? I don’t mean to interrupt.”
Her father was not amused. “That isn’t funny, Carmen.”
Geez, no sense of humor tonight. “Okay, well, whatever it is that’s bugging you, I’m sorry. Look, I’ll just grab the boxes downstairs and be out of your hair.”
“Here, let me help,” her father said, sprinting past her and down the basement steps with a burst of energy she wouldn’t have thought him capable of.
“Okay . . .” Carmen said, following him down the stairs. Now she was confused. First he didn’t want her to get the boxes, now he was helping her. What the heck?
There were only four boxes, fewer than Carmen remembered. She thought her mother had had more personal belongings than this, but then she recalled that she, her dad, and her brothers had sorted through Mom’s clothes and personal items shortly after the funeral, donating most to a not-for-profit organization that provided clothing for women job seekers. The boxes were stacked on top of an old banquet table the church had had no use for, all neatly sealed, the more dilapidated ones secured with ancient masking tape and fortified with string, labeled in her mother’s handwriting: “Jo Adams,” her maiden name.
Carmen caressed the top of one of the old boxes and smiled. “Mom must’ve packed these,” she mused aloud. She ran her finger across the name Jo, the once-bold navy ink diminished to the faded blue of old, well-washed denim. “I didn’t know Mom used the name Jo. I don’t think I ever heard anyone call her that.”
Howard nudged the box away and picked up one of the newer ones.
“Nobody here ever called her that. I don’t like nicknames. To me—” His voice caught. “Your mother . . . she was always Joan or Mrs. B.” He stacked another box on top. “Here, I’ll take these and put them in your trunk. Leave those for another time.”
“That’s okay. I can handle ’em. They aren’t heavy,” Carmen said, gathering the two worn boxes into her arms. “You go ahead.” When she looked up, she was surprised that her father had barely moved and was still standing in the middle of the room, staring at her.
“Dad? Are you all right?”
Howard Bradshaw licked his lips. “Yes. Ah . . . you sure that you don’t want to leave those? I could drop them off later in the week. You don’t want to do too much at one time. Going through your mother’s things could be . . . a bit overwhelming.”
Why this tug-of-war?
“It’s fine. Besides, I’ll have help.” Carmen briefly explained about the plan she, Elise, and Dee Dee had concocted. She thought her father would be relieved that she wouldn’t be alone, that she was finally doing something with these boxes. Instead, he looked upset.
“What?” he exclaimed. “Who are these women? How well do you know them?” He was frowning when he turned around to go up the stairs. “I don’t think it’s right to have . . . strangers picking through your mother’s things.”
Jesus Christ.
“Dad, it’ll be fine. Elise is a consultant and an author. Deanna is a lawyer with P&G. I assure you that they are trustworthy, reputable women. Stop worrying.”
None of this made any sense. It was all Carmen could do to keep from showing how astonished she was. Her father had been bugging her for weeks, months, about her mother’s things. And now that she was actually here, picking them up, he acted as if there was no rush. As if . . .
Carmen glanced down at the old box she was carrying: “Jo Adams.”
As if you don’t want me to take these. She shook the box gently. There was no sound or rattling, and nothing shifted. The box felt solid but wasn’t overly heavy. Paper? Photo albums? No, they would knock together and make noise. She would feel the contents shifting. Clothing, linens?
Howard helped her load the boxes into her trunk and closed it. Then he kissed his daughter good night and stood in the open garage watching until she pulled out and drove away, sounding her horn once. In the rearview mirror, she saw the garage door come down, and her father disappeared from her sight.
On the drive home, Carmen finally analyzed her father’s initial hostility, his abrupt change in attitude, and his choice of words. The sea change had occurred when she’d picked up the old boxes, the ones labeled “Jo Adams” in her mother’s handwriting. She knew her mother’s maiden name had been Adams, but she didn’t remember ever hearing anyone call her mother Jo, not even Joan’s close friends. And what was it Dad had said?
“Nobody here ever called her that.”
That’s a strange thing to say, Carmen thought. So where had Mom been when people had called her Jo? As far as Carmen knew, her mother had never traveled anywhere without her dad: church conventions, church- or college-sponsored tours, and the cruises they had started taking once her dad became pastor emeritus and didn’t have the responsibility of two Sunday sermons plus Wednesday prayer meetings and other obligations during the week. And something else was spinning around in her mind like the icon on her cell phone searching for a Wi-Fi connection. When she had looked up, holding the two older boxes in her arms, her father had been staring at her with a strange expression on his face. Carmen had never seen her dad look like that. He’d looked as if he was about to cry. No, that wasn’t it. Something else. A facial expression totally out of character for her father. Was he ill? She couldn’t understand it. And then the expression was gone, in the blink of an eye. She replayed that moment in her mind the entire drive home. But it was still an enigma.
Later that evening, it came to her. Carmen sat up in bed, her bare arms covered with goose bumps in the cool darkness. Fear. Her father was afraid of something, something that was in one of the old boxes.
Chapter 7
Carmen
Carmen had no time to obsess over her mother’s boxes, because the first order of business was a “china sorting party” at the condo that had belonged to Elise’s late mother. After that, the trio would move on to Carmen’s to assess the situation there, then call it a day.
Marie Wade’s two-bedroom condo was in Evendale, and despite Elise’s warnings to the contrary, it wasn’t cluttered, just full. Of everything. The bedrooms had been cleared out, and the smell of fresh paint and carpet cleaner filled the air. Elise opened the windows to air out the place so it was a bit chilly, but there was laughter, hot tea and coffee, sandwiches and cookies, so no one minded much. They set up their work area in the dining room and gave themselves a time limit: no more than three hours. The goal was to organize the dishes in Marie’s 1920s-era china cabinet into sets, then wrap and box them for storage or sale. Elise had found a dealer interested in handling the consignment.
She stood in the middle of the living room floor looking like a goddess rising out of a sea of crumpled newspaper as she surveyed the waves of cups, saucers, dessert plates, and meat platters.