Chapter 3 - THE BOYFRIEND WHO NEVER LOVED THE BOOKSTORE
Jason hated Maple Street Books.
That was one of the first things I remembered.
He complained that it smelled like dust.
Hated that I worked Saturdays.
Said independent bookstores were “cute until rent was due.”
Yet he always asked questions.
Who owned the building?
How long was the lease?
What was upstairs?
Did my mother ever work there?
I thought he was pretending interest because he loved me.
Now every question sounded different.
I returned home that night with Daniel’s business card in my purse and three friends I no longer knew how to trust.
I did not go with Daniel.
Important.
I took a cab.
He offered security.
I declined.
He accepted.
Also important.
At 1:14 a.m., I opened the old metal file box my mother left me.
Birth certificate.
Tax returns.
College receipts.
Nothing about property.
Then I found one envelope taped beneath the bottom panel.
My name.
Mom’s handwriting.
FOR EMILY WHEN SOMEONE ASKS ABOUT THE STORE.
My hands shook.
Inside:
One letter.
One brass key.
And a photograph of my mother standing beside a younger Peter Sloan.
Behind them:
Daniel Brooks’s father.
I stopped.
I knew the face from newspapers.
Thomas Brooks.
Killed sixteen years earlier in a harbor shooting.
Why was my mother standing with him?
I read.
Emily, if anyone ever pressures you to sell Maple Street, do not sign anything until you open box 314.
No explanation.
Then:
Peter Sloan knows about the trust, but he does not know where the original deed is.
My stomach twisted.
My mother did not trust her own trustee.
Then:
Thomas Brooks helped me hide it.
I called Daniel.
He answered immediately.
“Are you safe?”
“Yes.”
“I found your father in a photograph.”
Silence.
“Send it.”
I did.
He did not speak for several seconds.
“Where did you get this?”
“My mother.”
“Her name?”
“Sarah Carter.”
Daniel went quiet.
“Daniel?”
“I know that name.”
My skin prickled.
“How?”
“My father mentioned her before he died.”
“What did he say?”
“He called her the only honest person on Hanover Street.”
I sat down.
Maple Street Books had originally been on Hanover Street before moving.
“How did they know each other?”
“I don’t know.”
That sounded true.
Then I told him about box 314.
“Bank?”
“Probably.”
The brass key had one engraving.
HARBOR FEDERAL 314.
Daniel said:
“That bank closed twelve years ago.”
My heart sank.
“But the vault records were transferred.”
“To where?”
“Commonwealth Trust.”
He paused.
“I can help you locate the box.”
“Help, not take over.”
“Yes.”
“Lawyer first.”
“Yes.”
“Independent lawyer.”
A faint pause.
Then:
“Yes.”
Good.
The next morning, I hired an attorney through a legal-aid referral.
Amelia Grant.
Sharp.
Sixty.
Unimpressed by Daniel.
I liked her instantly.
We went to Commonwealth Trust together.
Box 314 still existed.
Inside:
Original deed.
Trust agreement.
Financial ledger.
And a cassette tape.
Amelia read first.
Then looked at me.
“Emily.”
“What?”
“Your mother did not own half the building.”
My stomach dropped.
“What did she own?”
“All of it.
She placed half into trust.”
“Why?”
Amelia turned the next page.
“For you.”
Then another.
“And the other half for Daniel Brooks.”
I looked at him.
May you like
He looked equally stunned.
Our parents had tied us together sixteen years before we ever met.
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