Tomorrow's Sun by Becky Melby Page A

crumbling red rubber ball, a miniature iron frying pan, a water-damaged lapel button with a picture that looked like it might be Harry Truman. In the middle of the treasures stood an ivory-handled knife in a leather sheath. More marbles, a handful of jacks, and the tiny frog. She fingered the rustic angles of the frog and turned it over. An
M
was carved into the belly. Maybe it was a sign she should give it to Michael.
     
    She pulled out what appeared to be a carved wooden baseball bat about four inches long. “Eww.” Not a bat, a doll’s arm. She laid it on her knee and lifted a matchbox half-filled with wooden matches. “Not for little boys,” she whispered.
     
    The treasures, like pieces in a game of Clue, spread out beside her, all of them raising more questions, creating more imaginary characters to fill the empty house. Did the woman who wrote the letters play with the doll when she was a little girl? Or had the wooden arm been carved by the same person who etched the name in the bench? Did the knife belong to “Papa”? Or the man who never read the letters?
     
    As she took another sip of coffee, her phone rang. Cara. Her timing was eerie. “Morning.”
     
    “Hey. Just cruisin’ up the Big Sur on my way to work. Thought I’d see how you’re settling in.”
     
    The vision sparked an authentic smile. Change the car to white and the hair to a mahogany red only available in bottles, and Cara was the convertible girl she’d seen earlier. “We’re getting a lot done. I refinished the corner cupboard in the kitchen, and the guy I hired tore out the kitchen cabinets and he’s starting on the walls. It’s a mess, but each day there’s a little more progress.”
     
    “Can’t wait to see pictures.”
     
    “You’re sure this doesn’t bother you?”
     
    “Absolutely sure. Luke and I were just talking about it yesterday. We have great memories, but that’s what scrapbooks are for. If we’d wanted a museum, we would have kept the house. You do whatever will get you the big bucks. The sooner you do, the sooner you’re here.” A siren wailed. Cara waited it out. “But you know you don’t have to have a suitcase of money before you show up. That room’s just sitting there empty. Well, not exactly empty—I’ve been working on decorating it. It’s totally you. Totally Toji.”
     
    A silent groan deflated Emily’s lungs. Their trip to Japan three years ago had transformed the way she dressed, wore her hair, and decorated her apartment. The Japanese symbol for “Live Strong” emblazoned the front of the shirt she’d worn under her jacket the day of the accident. But cherry blossoms, warm
sake
, and the Toji Temple belonged in the scrapbooks Cara had mentioned. “Sounds”—a reflexive swallow threatened to betray her—“beautiful. It won’t be anytime soon, you know.”
     
    “Yeah. Says you.”
     
    Yeah. Says me
. Emily swallowed sarcasm with a mouthful of coffee. “Did you and Luke check over this place before you”—
practically gave me your inheritance out of pity
—“sold it to me?”
     
    “Nah. Neither of us could get away. Mom and Dad and my grandma were there in February. They took a few things and hired the auction people. Is there a problem? I mean, I know there are problems with the place, but is there something you didn’t expect?”
     
    I didn’t expect mysterious letters or a hidden room or an iron cross or a little boy in a striped shirt
. “Well, yes. There were a few things left here.”
     
    Cara groaned. “I was afraid of that. Listen, just hire somebody to cart it out and send me the bill.”
     
    Emily cringed. “I found a tin box with a bunch of toys.” She balanced the truck on her knee. “Marbles and stuff, like a little boy’s collection. It all looks old enough that it could have belonged to your great-grandfather.”
     
    “Huh. Well, just toss it or give it to some little kid. Knowing you, you’ve already met all the kids in the