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“I don’t care.” Mr. Hollis pointed at the trunks. “I want everyone here to see what my mother supposedly gave away.”
He strode across the lawn toward the largest trunk.
“You think a few pills bought you a fortune.”
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I should have felt afraid.
A week ago, I would have. Instead, I felt Larry’s hand slip into mine.
“Mom,” he whispered. “It’s okay.”
I looked down. “What?”
He shrugged. “Mrs. Hollis told me what was inside.”
My heart skipped. “She did?”
“Mrs. Hollis told me what was inside.”
Larry nodded. “She said they were her favorite things.”
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Mr. Hollis dropped to his knees beside the largest trunk.
He grabbed the iron clasp.
The whole street leaned forward.
With a violent jerk, he ripped the latch free and threw open the lid.
Then he froze.
I held my breath, bracing for silver, jewels, and whatever other treasure Hollis had spent the last ten minutes shouting about.
With a violent jerk, he ripped the latch free and threw open the lid.
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Instead, the morning fell completely silent.
Inside the trunk sat an enormous, hand-carved model of a cathedral.
The sunlight caught hundreds of polished wooden surfaces and intricately carved details, and sent warm amber light spilling across the velvet lining.
Gasps rippled through the crowd.
Mr. Hollis screamed.
The sunlight caught hundreds of polished wooden surfaces.
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“For God’s sake.” Hollis waved dismissively at the model. “Not this junk. Where’s the silver?”
He dropped to the next trunk and threw it open.
Inside was a carving of a covered bridge. The next trunk he ripped open contained a carved courthouse, and the next held a town square complete with miniature trees, benches, and shop windows.
Each piece was more intricate than the last. Each one was beautiful.
Mr. Hollis looked genuinely angry now.
“These were Mother’s worthless little hobby projects.” He turned to Vance. “Where is my silver?”
“Not this junk. Where’s the silver?”
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Mr. Vance stepped forward. “The silver is long gone. Your mother had to sell it to buy her medication and groceries. She asked you to help her financially, but you refused. She did what she had to do.”
Mr. Hollis’s jaw dropped.
Mr. Vance continued. “And for the record, these are not junk, or ‘little hobby projects.’ Your father built the trunks. He built furniture. Cabinets. Tables. Chests. But your mother made art. She spent thirty years creating these models. Entering exhibitions. Teaching classes. Winning awards.”
Larry tugged my sleeve.
“And for the record, these are not junk, or ‘little hobby projects.'”
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I looked down.
“Mom, they’re like giant Lego castles,” he whispered.
I smiled despite the tears burning behind my eyes. “Yeah, baby. They are.”
Mr. Hollis stared across the lawn at the things he had dismissed as hobbies.
The things his mother had spent decades creating.