Kathleen closed the lid of the chest. “It was an accident; that’s all I heard. Aunt Edna didn’t go into any details.”
“How old was Alice when it happened?” Joe asked.
“Eighteen or nineteen, I think.”
“Too young.”
“Way too young,” she agreed, sadly shaking her head. “Her whole life ahead of her, and she never got to see it happen.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
1983
When Kathleen climbed into bed that night, Joe Arneson was still on her mind. She just couldn’t get over her reaction to him. The second she saw him, there was a lightning bolt of familiarity. It was like watching a movie and seeing a favorite actor unexpectedly enter a scene. Oh, there he is.
There must have been a good reason for the instantaneous, powerful connection that went beyond a physical attraction. It was like her entire being said yes at the sight of him. She was at a loss to explain it. Perhaps he bore a resemblance to someone she knew, a former classmate or a television actor? Or maybe he looked like an adult she’d known as a child but had forgotten about as the years went past? There were only so many combinations of facial features in the world. She’d heard that everyone on the planet had a doppelg?nger. The trouble was, Joe didn’t just look or sound familiar. There was more to it than that. She sensed an intimacy that wasn’t appropriate for a complete stranger. When they came face-to-face, she fought the urge to hug him, and it seemed like he was holding back too.
Marcia had a few things to say about it, of course. She wasn’t one to mince words. After Joe left, Marcia said, “Whoa there, Nellie! What was going on between you two?”
Kathleen said, “What do you mean?”
“What do you mean, what do I mean? I got a D in chemistry in high school, and even I could tell the two of you together were combustible. From the minute you saw each other, it was like some kind of weird sexual tension started up. He couldn’t take his eyes off you, and you—you were being all coy, sneaking glances at him, like you’re shy.” Marcia clutched the front of her chest and spoke in a high-pitched voice. “Joe, my darling, I know we’ve just met, but my loins are on fire, and I must make you mine.”
“Oh, stop.”
But Marcia wasn’t going to let it go. “I had to leave just in case the clothes came off and the two of you went at it. No way I’d want to be a witness to that.” She shuddered. “I’d have to boil my eyeballs afterward.”
“I think you’re making too much of this,” Kathleen said. “I thought he looked familiar. That’s all.” Marcia didn’t contradict her but just smiled smugly as she went about her work.
Lying in bed now, Kathleen could picture Joe with crystal clarity, astounding considering they’d just met. She fell asleep thinking about the way he’d held her gaze while she was describing details of different types of antique furniture. Every time she glanced up, he was nodding and looking at her, not the furniture. As if she were the most fascinating person in the world.
The pieces he’d brought were in excellent shape, with little wear considering their age, and as clean as could be. She found the hope chest particularly pleasing. It wasn’t just lovely to look at, the wood polished to a high sheen. It was knowing （or speculating, really） that the chest had been made for Alice by her loving father. She wished her great-aunt was still alive so she could find out more about the Bennett family. She had so many questions and no one to ask besides Pearl, who struck her as a little testy.
Even with these thoughts crowding her head, sleep came quickly, the way it had ever since she’d arrived in Pullman. The bed was the only item of furniture she’d replaced in the house. She made sure to get a comfortable mattress, and every night she thanked herself for spending the extra money and getting the one she really wanted. Some things were worth the cost. As Kathleen drifted off, she found herself thinking about the hope chest, so painstakingly crafted. The addition of the lovebirds carved on the top added a unique touch. She might, she mused, just buy the hope chest for herself.
Something about it really spoke to her.
In the middle of the night, her brain woke her up, her mind reeling. She rubbed her eyes and turned her head to look at the time on her clock radio. Half past three. Too early, and yet the words inside her brain demanded to be acknowledged. She turned on her bedside lamp and pulled a pad of paper and pen from her nightstand, scrawling frantically before she forgot. When she was done, she’d written a poem: