Key To Her Heart

Summary: A steamer trunk, an old journal, and a new love?

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Author's Note:

This romance takes place during the height of the COVID pandemic and was suggested by several readers of "The Wrong Pen Pal." Since I'd already envisioned multiple parts of it, I decided to pursue it from two angles which I hope come together in these pages (and in a little bonus revealed in the end notes). While related to the earlier story, this one stands alone; no knowledge of the earlier story is required. It's a slow burn so if you're looking for lots of encounters described in graphic detail, please look elsewhere.

Finally, please let me know your thoughts with your votes, favorites, and comments. Thanks!

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It was late July and I was trying to pack for the move across town to my new apartment I'd be sharing when my phone rang with the special ringtone I'd added a few weeks earlier. Each time it sounded, it gave me a thrill.

"Hello?" I called with a bit too much enthusiasm.

"Hi! How are you today? Getting ready to leave for school, I'd bet."

"Good, good, thanks, and yeah, I'm trying to pack but not having a lot of success. How 'bout you? Off delivering subpoenas for your dad or sorting through some arcane legal tome to solve a suit?"

She laughed. "No, nothing like that. I'm actually off work this week, trying to take care of a few things before going back for my last year."

And there was the rub, the proverbial fly in the ointment. As interested as I was in her, she was too old for me, at least two classes ahead of me and possibly even several years since she had some actual work experience. She was almost finished with her law degree while I was just starting my medical school career. Still, I was more interested in her than any girl—no, make that 'any woman'—in my life. Ever.

"Kyle, how are your dad and brother doing? Are they making progress?"

And that was the other issue. We'd only met because of my mother's unexpected passing due to COVID a few months earlier. Her death had been tough on all of us, but especially them. I'd always been more independent than Kevin, so her loss had hurt me but not like him, sharing a special bond with her despite my interest in following her career path. Then there was Dad, who'd lost his soul mate and seemed to be floundering at every turn.

"Kev's doing okay but Dad's still having a hard time accepting it, I think. He is getting back into the office more now. Today and Friday this week, I think."

"He's at work today? Really? With all that's going on in his life and in the world, I'm a little surprised."

"Yeah, I think he needs people around him right now. Kev and I are probably driving him crazy."

"Bet you could use other people around, too, right, to help cheer you up? Want me to drop by to see you for a little while?"

"That would be great!" I exclaimed before cringing at my obvious overenthusiasm.

"Okay, I'll see you in about 45 minutes, okay? And think maybe we can take a look at that trunk up in your attic? I've only been up there once, when I met your dad, but I'd like to take a closer look at it."

"Sure," I agreed, trying to hide my disappointment.

Yes, she said she wanted to stop by to cheer me up, but I knew the truth.

What she really wanted to see was that old steamer trunk that had played prominently in both versions I'd heard of Etta and my dad's first meeting, the trunk she'd even mentioned in one of our earlier phone calls. That, I feared, was the reason she was stringing me along. After all, she was too old for me but probably still not quite interested in settling down, so she could afford to take her time, have a bit of fun, and move on when she got bored. Sadly, I knew that I'd be the one hurting before too long, but while I'd had a number of dates, some girlfriends, and even a few lovers, I'd never been as interested in or drawn interest from anyone like Etta Wicklow. As such, I was willing to go with it for as long as it lasted, the coming pain be damned.

I tidied the house as much as I could before she arrived, thinking of her as I did.

Etta was beautiful and incredibly fit, a blonde bombshell with bright green eyes, a light tan, and graceful moves that made her a perfect candidate for, as Dad said, the university dance troupe lighting up the stadium and TV sets on game day or, in my view, the SI Swimsuit issue. Her face and her smile, when we were far enough apart to be able to lower our masks, were perfect, too, revealing a hint of playfulness that told me she was leading me on, getting what she wanted before she dumped me and left me behind.

Always dressed in her business attire, the sheer white blouse with just enough lace over her nice-sized, shapely breasts to prevent an R rating, the dark pencil skirt, and the coordinating scarf and heels, she was, I realized, too perfect, too much for me to handle, but I wanted to try, to see if, just maybe, I could interest her in more than some dusty old trunk. I rushed upstairs, brushed my hair and teeth, shaved, and threw on a clean polo shirt just before I expected her to arrive.

And, yes, my actions were a clear indication that I was trying to gain her interest. We'd met on several occasions when she'd come to visit my dad about legal matters; the last two or three times, we'd swapped texts to confirm a time so we would be sure to see each other either before their appointment, after, or, preferably, both.

We'd talked and video-chatted a few times over the past month, too, but with the dangers of the virus and the risk of getting sick—or worse, like my mom—we knew we couldn't risk any close-up encounters like an actual date. I'd agreed, reluctantly, when she said it, while suspecting deep down that she'd have had another excuse if COVID didn't exist. Today would be as close as we would come before she took a look at the trunk, realized it wasn't all that special after all, and moved on.

With that dismal expectation weighing on me, I was surprised when she showed up at our front door in white shorts and a tied-off tee shirt, showcasing her legs that I'd only imagined above her knees and a couple of bonus inches of bare midriff. Her hair was up in a ponytail rather than being perfectly styled as usual and her feet sported flip flops instead of her usual two-to-three-inch "business" heels. That allowed me to confirm her height at around 5'-7 to 5'-8, a very nice height considering that I stood about a half an inch over 6-feet. Most of all, though, was the term "absolutely gorgeous," which wouldn't leave my mind but which I knew I shouldn't use.

She stood well back when I opened the door and gave me a hello with a big smile that threatened to melt me before saying, "Hi, Kyle. Thanks for inviting me today."

"Etta, you look...spectacular," I said with a gulp, only realizing as I said it that I was still violating the "don't overdo it" advice I'd received from Dad when I started dating. She smiled and looked quite pleased though, and even looked like she wanted to give me a hug almost as much as I longed for it. The moment passed, with COVID and common sense prevailing. With a hint of regret that I knew I was feeling, she hooked the mask on her other ear as I did the same before inviting her inside and offering her a drink.

We were soon sitting on opposite sides of the living room—about seven feet apart, we agreed—with our masks off so we could see each other, share smiles, and sip our drinks while we talked.

She surprised me again by spending quite a bit of time with me before mentioning the attic. I had a lot of fun talking with her while waiting for that mention and the inevitable shoe to drop, but in truth, she invested far more time than I had reason to expect, sharing stories and asking and answering questions. She asked me a lot about myself, and, to my surprise, even answered most of my questions about her (though she skirted around the age issue by not telling me when she graduated from high school). In fact, we'd laughed and smiled like we were having a great time being together—or at least as close as COVID would allow us to be. Etta told me that, like me, she loved history, travel, and biking, and she admitted to having an interest in antiques that she'd picked up in recent years from her English stepmother.

With that as a good segue, she asked, "Think we could go up in the attic and take a look at that old trunk now?"

I didn't want it to end, whatever there was between us, before she realized the trunk was a waste of time and then had her laugh at my claim of interest. She'd leave me with my heart crushed, I was sure, but I felt trapped, too, knowing that denying her what she wanted—and which I'd essentially promised on the phone—would put an end to it even faster.

"Yeah, this way," I agreed, putting on my mask. As we reached the door to the attic, I turned to her and said, "You sure you want to do this? It'll be hot as blazes up there."

Her hand reached up and touched my masked cheek. "Then we'll just have to be fast, won't we?"

Her eyes grew large. "God, Kyle! I'm so sorry! I didn't mean to—"

I held up my hand. "Etta, if I get COVID from your hand touching my mask, it will prove that masks aren't that effective but I'll also die a happy man for having you touch me like that."

When I smiled, my eyes showing her I was teasing since my mouth behind the mask couldn't, she laughed. "Sorry, but I'll be more careful, okay?"

"Damn," I griped, leading to a giggle. Then I added, "Ahem, just don't want you to be disappointed, but Dad got rid of most everything that was up there. I'm not sure about the trunk."

Even with her mask on, I could see her face fall, confirming my suspicion. She was more interested in the old steamer trunk than in me, and was using my all-too-obvious interest to get what she wanted.

Figuring she'd leave and crush me now if there was no hope, I caved, going for what little additional time I could get while we searched it. "But I didn't hear him drag it down the stairs and he didn't ask Kevin or me to help so maybe..."

She punched my arm lightly. "You're a tease, Kyle Pierce. And I'll have to remember that. Seriously, though, I want to see it because it looks so neat. If it could talk, I bet it could really tell some stories. Besides, you never know what might still be in there. It could be like one of those geocaches that I looked for a couple of years back."

"You're into that?" I asked, still learning more about her practically by the minute.

"A jackass—whose name I won't utter aloud—was and I helped him look for them. Someone else found them first both times, but it actually was fun trying to figure out the clues and find the caches."

With every conversation we had like this being a real revelation, I filed the "fun" part away for future reference, hoping I could find more such things to keep her interested in the two of us seeing each other again.

"Okay, you asked for it, but don't get your hopes up. Probably some old magazines or old junk or something," I said as I waved her ahead.

"Nice, a gentleman." To my surprise, she gave my arm a little squeeze as she passed; with COVID and the infernal facemasks, anything more was, unfortunately, out of the question. She leaned up and whispered, "Pretend that's a little kiss, cause it would be if it was safe."

My eyes were wide at her obvious smile below her mask and then she swept by, going up the stairs in front of me. She was confusing me more by the second, too.

Etta was wearing white shorts—make that short shorts. No, very short, short shorts—with no visible panty lines and toned, tanned legs, so, though it hadn't been my intent when I invited her to go first, I enjoyed the view as we climbed.

Hot as blazes was an understatement. I could feel the sweat beading on my brow, under my arms—no, all over!—and it looked like Etta was doing the same but not noticing it. Her sheen added to her mystique; mine was sweat that made me look gross and probably put a stake in any tiny amount of interest that she might have developed in me.

With Dad's apparent decision to keep our house after all, he had indeed moved a few more boxes back up there, but the old dome-top steamer trunk still sat over to the side.

Etta approached it and looked on. "Old now, a real antique, and still looks good, but I bet this was beautiful in its day." She ran her hand over the top of it between the curved slats that separated it into panels. "Wow, this is embossed metal, not leather like I thought. I guess leather would have dried out and cracked over time if it's as old as it looks." Touching the slats, rubbing lightly, she added, "The wood feels really dry, but a little conditioning polish would probably liven it up nicely."

"Yeah," I agreed, having no real idea if she was right, but knowing that those shorts and the rest of what she was packing were appealing to me much more than any old steamer trunk ever would.

Kneeling down in front of it, she giggled. "It's not really a steamer trunk, you know. That's actually a misnomer. Steamer trunks were low and flat so they could fit under the bunk on the ship. No, this is more like a big suitcase that goes under the plane these days. They stood the round-topped ones—they called them semi-circular, domed, or barrel-topped—on end in the hold."

I looked at her in surprise. "How the heck do you know so much about steamers, ahem, trunks?"

"Step 'mum,' remember?" I laughed at her attempt at an English accent and she smiled under her mask before adding, "And the Internet. Once I saw this, I did some research."

She focused on the center lock, flipping the latches open. "Latches, after 1870-something. And here, the keys are on a little chain with the center latch. Way to keep it secure, but I guess it keeps them from getting lost and they could always take them off when they got ready to go...."

She kept talking for a few moments but I'm afraid I didn't hear the words. Her beauty and those shorts were doing their own talking to me.

"Well? Are you going to help me or not?"

"Yeah, sure," I said again, moving in and kneeling down next to her, hoping she'd show me what she needed the help with since I hadn't a clue. I suspect she knew that though since she held the chain up, as if wanting me to take it apart for her. I did within seconds and she gave me a mask-smile in thanks.

Turning toward the lock, she inserted the key and bent down to give a little sniff. "I thought I smelled something. I think your dad oiled this..." It turned easily and she nodded, having apparently nailed it. With the latches already opened, we tried to open the top only to find she'd actually locked it. With the two of us both being a bit on edge as we seemed to dance around each other, we hadn't even tried to lift the top, leading to laughter and a much needed calming effect.

"Okay, that makes sense. It doesn't actually need to be locked up here, so let me try this again." After another turn, she gave a nod of success and opened the top. "Voila!"

There was a little board lying inside, with a V-shaped notch at top and bottom, that Etta used to prop up the lid. "Careful, with that. It can fall—"

"And hit you in the head," we finished together with a laugh, thinking of my dad's trouble with it.

The inside of the lid was unlined, so we could see the individual boards running front to back across the dome hat were probably tongue-and-grooved to lock them together, but the tops of sides were lined with what looked like patterned wallpaper or maybe a fabric, bright pink flowers on beige background. I don't know enough about flowers to know what they were, but Etta must have seen my look.

"Pink hibiscus. The flowers," she said. When she saw my questioning look, she added, "I like flowers."

I filed that away, too.

"And with those slats, I'd guess this was made in the late 1880s or later. Up to around 1915 or so."

I didn't really care when the trunk was made, but was trying to look interested in the trunk rather than her and her body as she spoke. Sadly, I think she could tell so I tried to refocus on the trunk.

There was some cloth on top—possibly an old curtain?—with another flower, but she didn't identify it, looking instead at the back side of the trunk's lid. It was hinged on the outside, attaching it to the main box, but on the inside face she was pointing to a name that was written there.

"Do you know who that is?" she asked.

The word was a bit faded but still legible and it only took me a second to recall this part of my family tree. "Yes, my great-grandmother, Amanda. She was born, ahem, in the mid 1920s, I think, and died when I was like four or five so I don't remember her very well, but Mom always said she was a wonderful lady."

"That's what grandmothers and great-grandmothers are, wonderful ladies," Etta agreed. "Hmm. What's that?" she asked, pointing to something to the left of the word Amanda. "Your dad had a magnifying glass and was looking at something when I met him. I wonder if that was what it was. Can you make it out?"

"Ah, my eyes are probably a little better than my dad's—"

"He's not that old," she chuckled.

"—but not that much better. Tell you what, I'll run downstairs and grab his magnifying glass and a flashlight. Be right back, okay?"

"You'd better be or I might melt," she purred, slipping an arm around me and giving me a quick squeeze before letting go and returning her attention to the trunk.

Considering that before today we'd never touched—COVID had seen to that—and that our only approximation of a date had been by video chats over the phone, this had me grinning behind my mask, really liking where this seemed that it could be headed, though I feared what would happen when the treasure she sought in the trunk turned out to be trash.

I've got to keep her interested in seeing me again,

I thought as I went down the attic stairs as fast as my legs would carry me.

I've just got to! But how?

The answer to that question wasn't easy, but the flashlight was; Dad has several stored around the house in case of an emergency like a power outage, but the magnifying glass was tougher. It wasn't in his desk drawer where he usually kept it, wasn't on his desk (which was completely clear for a change), and wasn't on or in the credenza. I was about to head to his bedroom when I hit paydirt, spotting it on top of an old leather-bound book that had been laid on top of some books on the bookshelf.

"That's new," I muttered, not meaning the old book itself but its presence on the shelf. I'd been in Dad's office enough over the years and through the pandemic to know that book wasn't normally there.

It was wrapped with a silk ribbon, with the end of the ribbon looped to the top and tucked in like a bookmark. I picked it up to take a closer look.

There was no name on the cover and nothing on the spine, but when I opened it, I saw a date, 1917, at the top of the first page, and a 1918 date at the ribbon bookmark. Considering how much time Dad had spent up in the attic a few weeks earlier when it was cooler and the age of the trunk based on Etta's estimates, I suspected this was the treasure she was hoping we'd find.

"Sorry, Dad," I quipped, before picking it up and heading back up to the attic. He'd always told me I could borrow any of his books as long as I put them back where I'd found them when done, so I figured this was fair game, too.

When I topped the stairs to the attic, I saw she'd pulled the cloth out of the trunk and had several piles of things sitting around her.

"It would have been a fun story someday, but there's nothing of real interest, I'm afraid. You were right, there actually were a few old magazines, a couple of books, some sewing stuff—I think these are several different sewing machine feet—and there are some cutout papers that may be old sewing patterns. And here are some other thingamajigs that I have no idea what they are...but there's nothing that looks all that interesting," she said, looking quite disappointed. "Want to help me put it back? You can look at it on the way back in so we can get downstairs and cool off."