Chapter 7 - The Locked WorkshopNaomi secured permission from the legitimate co-trustees for a supervised inventory at Willow House. The property manager from Cedar Bend had no authority to keep us out once the validity of the proposed sale was disputed, though he made us wait nearly two hours before opening the gate.
The workshop smelled of dust, paint, and my childhood. The kiln was cold. Mom's long worktable stood under the north window, but every shelf had been emptied. Even the class photographs were gone.
"Where did you put our supplies?" I asked the manager.
"I was told this place was vacant," he said. "A lady named Vanessa arranged a removal company."
We found a packing slip taped beneath a stool. Forty-seven boxes, delivered to a commercial storage facility on Route Nine. Dad recognized the facility immediately.
"My wife rents a unit there for the church's holiday stuff."
Grandma placed a palm against the scar in the worktable where I once dropped a jar of cobalt dye. "Your mother would be furious with how we let this happen."
"She'd be furious at Vanessa," I said.
"And at us for waiting so long to listen to you."
In Mom's old desk, I found a stack of children's thank-you notes, folded under the false bottom of a drawer that had swollen with damp. They were addressed to the Leah Bell Art Fund. One was written by a girl from a shelter.
THANK YOU FOR LETTING ME MAKE SOMETHING THAT'S MINE.
I sat on the floor and cried. Grandma sat beside me without trying to stop it.
When I stood, Naomi was staring at a printed schedule left beneath the desk blotter. Three dates were circled. The first two corresponded to withdrawals from the art fund. The last was December twenty-fourth.
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Beside the final date somebody had written: CLEAR UNIT. DESTROY OLD INVENTORY.
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