There was a ten-year age difference between us, but sometimes, when he was in one of his funks, it felt like fifty.
He was an only child whose parents had both died in a car accident when he was right out of high school. He had no other family but me. He moved to Lake Tahoe from the Midwest a year before I met him and took a job working the ski lifts at Northstar Resort. In the summers, he took tourists on lake tours for a boat rental company. He was in great shape, a natural athlete, and loved the outdoors. He exercised as much as he could.
It helped him sleep better. On the days when he had to skip a workout, he’d be restless and agitated, pacing like a caged animal.
Those nights, he’d jolt out of a dead sleep, shaking and drenched in sweat.
I made more money than he did, but neither of us cared. He had a knack for saving and investing, and both of us were frugal, so we got along fine financially. My parents left me the house when they retired to Arizona to live in a condo on a golf course, so I was in the fortunate position of having no mortgage payment.
After our honeymoon, David was going to move in with me.
Obviously, fate had other plans.
When the knock on the door comes, I nearly jump out of my skin. Mojo lets out a yawn and rolls over.
Then the doorbell rings, and a voice comes through the door. “Natalie? You home?”
It’s Chris.
Dumped-me-over-the-phone Chris, who’s now dropping by unannounced as I’m having a meltdown over a mysterious unidentified key my missing fiancé mailed to me from the past.
He always did have shitty timing.
When I open the door and see him standing there in his uniform, holding his hat in his hand and smiling sheepishly, my heart sinks. I can tell this isn’t a conversation I want to have.
“Hi.”
“Hey, Nat.” His gaze sweeps over me. His smile falters. “You okay?”
Cops and their damn sharp eyes. Though he’s a sheriff, not a police officer, he’s got that law-enforcement heightened-senses thing. That high-alert watchfulness that assumes everyone is about to commit a crime.
My cheeks are dry, but he can probably smell the tears on me.
I smile reassuringly. “Yeah. Fine. How are you?”
“I’m good, thanks.” He shifts his weight from foot to foot. “I just wanted to check up on you.”
Wondering if that busybody Diane Myers pestered him into this, I lift my brows. “Really? Why’s that?”
He glances bashfully at the ground for a moment, chewing his lower lip.
It’s an adorable, boyish look. He’s got the whole Clark Kent cute-nerd thing going, complete with glasses and a cleft chin. I feel a vague twinge of regret that I never felt anything for him, because he’d make someone an awfully good husband.
Just not me.
He looks up at me with his chin still lowered. “I feel bad about how we left it the other night. I think I was kind of a jerk.”
Oh. That. I’d already forgotten. “Don’t be silly. You were a total gentleman.”
He examines my face in silence. “Yeah? Because you look upset.”
It’s amazing how men assume any emotion a woman is feeling must somehow be directly related to them. I’m sure I’ll be suffering from a menopause hot flash one day twenty years in the future and the idiot in line behind me at the grocery store will think I’m red-faced and sweating because he’s too hot to handle.
Trying not to sound unkind, I say, “This is usually the weekend I get upset every year, Chris. Yesterday would’ve been my fifth wedding anniversary.”
He blinks, then his eyes widen. “Oh. Shit. I didn’t even—”
“Don’t worry about it. Seriously, I’m okay. But thanks for checking in with me. That’s thoughtful of you.”
He’s wincing like he just kicked something and broke his big toe. “If I would’ve known it was this weekend, like yesterday, I wouldn’t have…I mean I would’ve… Fuck. That was really bad timing.”
“You couldn’t have known. You didn’t live here when it happened, and I never told you. So please don’t beat yourself up about it. We’re cool, I promise.”
We stand there awkwardly, until he notices the envelope in my hand.
I whip it behind my back and swallow, curling my fingers around the key.
When he glances back up at my face with an eyebrow cocked, I know I look guilty.
Shit.
“I was just, um, going through some drawers and I found this, um, key that I think my parents must’ve left.” My shrug tries for nonchalant, but probably looks shifty as hell. “I was trying to figure out what it might be for.”
“You could text them a picture, see if they recognize it.”
“That’s a really good idea! I’ll do that. Thanks.”
“Though it’s probably just a spare house key. You’ve got a Kwikset lock and dead bolt.” He nods at the door. “Their keys are all a standard size and shape. Did you try it yet?”
“No. I literally just found it.”
“Let me have a look.” He holds out his hand.
Unless I want to look ridiculous—and guilty of something to boot—I have no choice but to hand it over.
He takes it from me and holds it up. “Nope. This isn’t for your front door.”
“Oh. Okay.” I reach for it. “I’ll just take that back, then—”
“It’s for a safety deposit box.”
My hand freezes in midair. My voice comes out high and tight. “A safety deposit box?”
“Yeah. You know, at a bank?”
My heart pounds. The urge to snatch the key from his hand and slam the door in his face is almost overpowering. Instead, I tuck my hair behind my ear in an attempt to appear as if I’m not going completely insane.
“At a bank. Uh-huh. And how do you know that?”
“I have one just like it. Same size and shape, with that square top. Even the numbers on the head are the same.” He chuckles. “Well, not the same same. That’s the box number.”
Because I’m having a hard time concentrating on not going cross-eyed with impatience for him to leave, I make a noise that’s supposed to mean Oh, I see, how very interesting.
“Actually, it’s probably from the same bank as mine. Wells Fargo. Different branch, though, maybe. But these kinds of keys are standard to whichever bank they’re made for.”
My pounding heartbeat falters.
David didn’t have an account at Wells Fargo. He banked with Bank of America.
Even if you could rent a box at a bank you didn’t have an account with…why would you?
Chris holds out the key. I take it from him, my mind going a million miles per hour.
“Great, thanks. I’ll call my parents and let them know I found it. They probably don’t even remember they had the box. When they moved, my dad was going through a lot of health issues.”
“Yeah, you should definitely let them know right away. If those box fees go unpaid long enough, the bank opens the boxes and sends the contents to the state treasurer or auctions it off.”
He chuckles. “I mean, assuming it’s not just a bunch of dirty pictures. Then they just get shredded.”
I don’t ask how he knows all about the rules governing safety deposit boxes. I’ll be in for a thirty-minute monologue. I just nod and try to look impressed and grateful.