| Romance Fiction posted September 23, 2025 | Chapters: |
...23 24 -25- 26... 
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Tension Builds
A chapter in the book Yesterday's Dreams
The Untold Story Chap 3
by Begin Again
Silence held for a few seconds after the argument. Rachel stared at the door and counted to five. Leaving would be easy. Staying would cost. She wasn't going to run — not yet, anyhow. Ten minutes, she told herself. Then she could rethink if necessary.
"Can we call a truce? I'll make coffee."
Mark rubbed his jaw and nodded. "Half-and-half's in the fridge."
She ran water, measured scoops, and let the coffeemaker hum. She couldn't believe her mom still used the old thing. The small sounds —spoon against mug, the click of the warmer — took the edge down a notch. She set a mug in front of him and kept one for herself.
"I meant what I said," she told him. "I came to help."
"Good," he growled. Still agitated, he tore a strip of tape and wrote on the box flaps — KEEP, SALE, DONATE. He muttered, "You can read that, right?"
Ignoring his jabs, she let her eyes go to the living room. A darker rectangle marked the spot on the carpet where the grandfather clock had stood. She knew now wasn't the time, but when was?
"What happened to the clock?"
"Halpern picked it up," Mark said, still writing. "It's not coming back. He's moving high-value things off-site for the sale."
"You moved it without telling me?"
"We've got deadlines," he said, voice tightening. "If you wanted it, you should've spoken up."
"I just arrived a few hours ago, Mark."
"You could've said something the day of the funeral."
"Excuse me, but my thoughts were on other things."
"What? Like how you left our mother with a broken heart so you could run off to the big city?"
"I didn't run off."
"Really? What else do you call it?"
She swallowed. "Maybe I did run off at first. But I got a good job, and you told me I wasn't needed. All Mom or you had to do was ask."
"You'd have liked that, huh? Making your ailing mother beg."
"Stop right there, before we both say things we shouldn't."
"It wouldn't make a difference anyhow." He stared at her a second, then added, "I'm doing the kitchen and then the basement. We've got work to do."
"Where do you want me?"
"Bedroom," he said. "Finish up in there. Paperwork and the desk are mine."
"Fine." She started down the hall, then paused. "By the way, I looked in Mom's jewelry box earlier. I didn't see Grandma's brooch. I'd like to keep it."
"Like I said, you should've said something. It's with the jeweler for appraisal."
"Mark, I'm not looking to fight with you, but I did just get here today. You've made a lot of decisions without considering me."
"Yeah. Old habits. You weren't here to ask."
"The brooch is an antique. Do you have a receipt?"
"He'll email it," Mark said, already turning back to his boxes. "Let's keep moving."
"Of course, let's get rid of our past," she said, soft enough that he wouldn't hear.
The bedroom met her with order that felt staged. Bedspread pulled flat. Dresser tops wiped. In the top drawer, the small jewelry box held what she already knew it would have — the church pin, mismatched earrings, and a thin chain. No cameo. No locket. None of the good jewelry she remembered her mother wearing. She closed the lid and kept her hands there a second longer than necessary.
The closet smelled faintly of cedar. Coats on the left. Sunday dresses under plastic. On the shelf above them, a row of handbags. She brought them down one by one. Everyday purse — soft and slumped. A canvas tote with a pharmacy pen in the pocket. At the back, the good one — a small black patent purse Julia carried to weddings and funerals.
Rachel unclasped the purse, and a faint lavender sachet drifted up. She breathed it in, remembering the little packets her mother used to tuck in drawers, and smiled. Inside were the usual things — a folded church bulletin, two tissues, a stick of gum, a dime, and a flat lipstick.
She ran her fingers along the lining; one side felt stiff. The stitches there were short and tight, not factory. She eased a fingernail under the seam and opened a one-inch gap, then pinched the lining and coaxed the hard shape toward it until a small black film tube slid into her palm. Masking tape wrapped the lid. FRIDAY was printed in her mother's block letters.
She glanced at the doorway. Nothing moved.
She turned the tube in her hand and listened to the tiny shift inside. Her mother labeled everything — casseroles, envelopes, pill boxes. Perhaps she labeled the film by the day it was shot. Maybe Friday meant the veterans' hall fish fry. Possibly, it was the day for pharmacy refills. Or it could be nothing, just one of her mother's quirky ways.
"Bedroom done?" Mark called as he came up the stairs.
She slid the film into her jeans pocket and pressed the tiny opening in the lining flat with her thumb. "Almost," she said, and lifted a folded sweater with a hem receipt pinned to it — something harmless he could see.
He leaned on the doorframe, taking inventory. "Bedroom looks close. I'm going to the basement. If you find envelopes or receipts, put them on the table. The desk stays closed."
"Understood," she said.
He shifted the pad under his arm and went downstairs.
She checked the other handbags quickly — nothing in their linings, just tissues and old receipts. She set the Sunday purse back on the shelf. She glanced around the room. She could almost feel her mother here, or maybe she wished she could. With a sigh, she left the bedroom.
In the dining room, she chose a safe task — sorting the hutch and boxing the cookbooks. She opened Community Favorites to retrieve her mother's recipe cards, and a folded paper slipped from between two pages and landed on the table.
Not a recipe. A note. Cream stationery, creased twice. She unfolded it.
Looking forward to seeing you again. Same time. Same place.
— A.
No date, just the line and the initial. She read it twice. She turned the paper over as if more might be hiding on the back. Nothing.
She set the note beside the box and felt the small film tube in her pocket. Friday in her mother's hand. Same time. Same place. In someone else's. It could be nothing. It could be important. More likely, it was her imagination running rampant.
She carried the cookbooks to the box and went back for her coffee. It had cooled, but she took a sip anyway and stood by the table, looking at the note and thinking about the roll in her pocket.
What could be on it? Perhaps the ocean trip they took when they were kids. Maybe Christmas at Aunt Linda's.
She almost smiled.
Maybe Mom had a secret love affair, she thought, half-teasing herself.
Get real, Rachel! This is Mom you are talking about. Between helping everyone else and church, she rarely had time for us. And for her younger years — nah, not mom.
From the basement came the scrape of a box and the rip of tape. Rachel slid the note into her pocket with the film and pressed her hand there. She didn't know what was on the roll. She only knew she wanted to see it before anyone else did. She didn't know why. Maybe it was just one last thing to share with her mom.
 Recognized |
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