Page 30 of Weeping Roses
I hover in the doorway, enjoying the view, and she lifts her eyes to mine and smiles. I’m unsure why I react so much to the simple gestures she makes, but I’m guessing it’s because Polly is so different to the women I usually associate with. She is pure, like freshly fallen snow. Not contrived, false or jaded. Her natural beauty shines like the brightest star in heaven and the innocent smile she directs my way is at odds with the woman she becomes under me. A woman of contradictions, the perfect one for me, and when she told me about her plan to meet Marsha Steele, I was more than happy because it meant I extended my stay with her.
“So you faced the haunted attic. You are braver than I thought.”
I tease, nodding to the dusty trunk that is open on the rug.
“No.” She shrugs. “I’m not brave at all. Simon was most helpful when I asked if he minded assisting me with it.”
“Simon?” I raise my eyes, wondering how she managed to get the surly chef to step outside the kitchen and help her. He’s not known for his amenable nature and she shrugs. “He’s so nice, and we had a great hour in the kitchen while I showed him around and then he taught me a cool trick with a cucumber.”
“He did what?”
She giggles as she teases. “That man is a genius with a good hard stiff vegetable. Or is a cucumber a fruit? I never really understand the difference.”
I shake my head and drop down in front of her and stare at the dusty old photograph albums laid out on the rug.
“Did you find anything interesting?”
“Not really. They are old photographs from the past, possibly ancestors I don’t know about. I found a few photographs of her childhood and I some later ones and I recognized my mum from the picture.”
She sounds wistful, and I note the brightness in her eyes that she hurriedly blinks away.
As I lift one of the albums, I notice a younger Veronica staring out happily from the photograph with a woman beside her.
“Is this your mom?”
Polly nods. “Yes, she was pretty, wasn’t she?”
I nod. “Like her daughter.”
“If you say so.”
Polly blushes and I say with sincerity, “You are, and I’m not sure you realize just how pretty you are, Polly.”
“Whatever.”
She says wistfully, “This was taken on my parent’s wedding day. I recognize the dress from our family album.”
She shrugs. “There is one mystery that needs solving, though.”
She holds up the small iron key.
“This doesn’t fit the trunk.”
“What do you mean?” I stare at the metal object in her hand and she inserts it in the lock and attempts to turn it.
“It doesn’t fit. It’s probably why it fell out when the trunk fell.”
She gives it to me and, as I hold it in my hand, I shrug.
“It could be meaningless.”
“It could, but don’t you wonder what it’s for? I’m intrigued.”
She leans forward to peer at it in my outstretched hand, and I enjoy an uninterrupted view of her cleavage as she studies the key.
It’s a distraction that surprises me because it appears that any movement this woman makes commands my full attention and I’m still trying to work out why.
“Is there any way you can research keys like this? I would love to know what it’s for.”