The Box
Five days before the wedding, Isla knelt on her grandfather's living room floor, surrounded by cardboard boxes that smelled of dust and mothballs.
"You don't have to do this today," Anselm said from his armchair, watching her over the top of his newspaper. "The wedding will still happen if you don't find your mother's veil this afternoon."
"I want to wear something of hers," Isla said. "Even if it's just a pin."
He smiled, but it didn't quite reach his eyes. She'd noticed that a lot lately — small hesitations whenever the wedding came up, whenever Weston's name came up.
She pried the lid off a rusted tin box wedged at the bottom of a crate. Inside: yellowed photographs, a pocket watch, a stack of papers bound with string gone brittle with age. She untied it carefully.
A newspaper clipping slid free. MARCHETTI SHIPPING FILES FOR BANKRUPTCY, the headline read, the paper soft as cloth. Below it, a business card, cream-colored, embossed letters catching the lamp light: Halvorsen Import & Trading Co.
Her stomach dropped.
She sat very still, telling herself it was a common enough name. Then she found the contract.
Two pages, typed, official — a termination agreement between Marchetti Freight & Shipping and a holding company. At the bottom, her grandfather's signature, shaky even then. Beside it, in smaller print: Countersigned on behalf of Halvorsen Import & Trading Co.
The same year as the newspaper clipping. The year, she now remembered, her grandfather always went quiet about — the year he'd "retired early," the story she'd been told her whole life.
"Grandpa," she called, her voice tighter than she meant it to be. "Who's Halvorsen?"
From the kitchen came the sound of a mug hitting the counter — too hard, too sudden. Silence followed, the kind that answered the question better than words could have.
Isla looked down at the contract again, at the name that in five days would legally become her own.
Halvorsen.
Weston's name.