She stared at the picture of him, and for a moment she could hear his voice again, the timbre of which she had almost forgotten. He'd bequeathed so much of himself to the boys: the blue, mischievous eyes, the dark hair, the easy grin. It was the grin that had gotten her, so cheerful and sexy - well, that and the lean, athletic body.
He'd been an advertising executive: she'd worked in a large bank. They were young and single and had enough money to do the things they wanted. After they'd gone on their climb together, they'd begun seeing each other in locations other than on a sheer rock lace, and things had grown from there.
She moved on to a picture of them on their wedding day. They'd done the traditional ceremony; he'd worn a tux; she'd worn a romantic satin-and-lace gown. How young she'd looked, she thought, suddenly catching a glimpse of herself in the mirror and comparing the two images. Her shoulder-length brown hair had been in a sleek, sophisticated style; now it was merely long, and the style was a clip or ponytail. She'd worn makeup then; now she was lucky if she had time for a swipe of lip balm. Then she hadn't had a care in the world; now the constant strain of worry caused faint shadows under her eyes.
Her mouth hadn't changed; she still had a duck-mouth, with the upper lip fuller than the lower. Derek had thought her mouth was sexy, but she had obsessed about its shape all through her teenage years and she never quite believed him. Michelle Pfeiffer's duck-mouth was more subtle, and way more sexy, date's mouth had often caused her little brother, Patrick, to go into such prolonged fits of quacking that she had once thrown a lamp at him.
Her eyes were still brown, a lighter, more golden shade of brown than her hair, but... brown. Unexciting brown. And her body was still the same shape it had always been, except during her pregnancy, when she'd actually had full breasts. She was lanky to the point of thinness, with the sort of build that made her look taller than her ordinary five-foot-five. The only curvy part on her body was her butt, which looked too prominent for the rest of her body. Her legs were muscular, her arms thin and sinewy. All in all, she was no bombshell; she was just an ordinary woman who had loved her husband very much and, at times like this, missed him so acutely his absence was like a knife in the heart.
The third photograph was of the four of them together: Derek, her, and their three-month-old babies. They had each held one of the twins, whose tiny faces were identical, and she and Derek had such wide, proud, sappy smiles as they looked down at their children that, looking at them all now, she wanted to both laugh and cry.
Oh, God, their time together had been so short.
Cate shook herself back to the present and blinked the tears from her eyes. She let herself cry only at night, when there was no one to notice. Her mother and the boys could return from their picnic at any time, and she didn't want them to catch her with her eyes red. Her mother would be worried, and the boys would cry if they thought Mommy had been crying.
She got the old, long key out of her dresser, slipped it into her jeans pocket, and retraced her steps down the hall to where she'd left the suitcase and Dopp Kit outside room 3. She turned on the hallway light, then picked up the suitcase and kit and took them all the way to the end of the hall, where the attic stairs were, plunking them down again.
The stairwell door opened outward, revealing three steps up to a landing; then the stairs made a right turn and ended at an awkward spot in the attic, so close to the slanted ceiling that she had to duck to take that last step. At least, the door was supposed to open outward. She inserted the key and turned it, and nothing happened. The lock was a little tricky, so she wasn't surprised. She pulled the key out a little and tried again, with no success. Muttering to herself about old locks, she pulled the key all the way out, then reinserted it a little at a time, trying repeatedly to turn it. The key had to hit the pins just right...
She thought she felt a tiny click, and triumphantly turned the key with a brisk motion of her wrist. There was a snap, and half the key came away in her hand. Which meant, obviously, that the other half was stuck in the lock.
"Son of a bitch!" she swore, then hastily looked around to make certain the twins weren't standing silently behind her. Not that there was much chance of them silently doing anything, but if they ever did, it would be when she was swearing. Seeing that she was safe, she added - for good measure - "Damn it!"
Okay, the door needed a new lock anyway. And locks weren't hideously expensive, but still, there was always something that needed repairing or replacing. She also still needed to get that door open, so she could store this suitcase somewhere out of the way.
Swearing under her breath, she stomped downstairs and into the kitchen. She was just reaching for the phone to call the hardware store to locate Mr. Harris when she heard a car stop outside. Looking out the window, she saw - miracle of miracles - Mr. Harris himself, climbing out of his battered pickup.
She didn't know what had brought him here, but his timing couldn't have been better. She jerked open the kitchen door as he was coming up the steps, both relief and frustration evident in her voice as she said, "Am I glad to see you!"
He stopped in his tracks, his cheeks already firing with color as he glanced back at his truck. "Will I need my toolbox?"
"A key broke off in the attic door - and I need the door unlocked."
He nodded and went back to the truck, reaching over the side of the bed and one-handing the heavy toolbox up and over. She had the fleeting thought that he must be stronger than he looked.
"I'm going into town tomorrow," he said as he trudged up the steps. "Thought I'd stop by and let you know, in case you need anything."