She waves me on. “Please continue.”

I swallow. “I didn’t want my dad to think I was useless so I took Turner up on his offer and started mowing the lawn. Over the years, my relationship with Pop just got worse. He and my mom went through some shit that you might not have heard—”

“You mean the Reverend Keeton thing?”

I cock my head. “How do you know about that?”

She shrugs. “I was good friends with Lana Morris growing up and she always filled me in on the latest Copper Springs gossip.”

“How nice of her to keep you in the loop,” I say dryly. “But yeah. My mom left my dad and married Amber’s dad, and the town brought out their pitchforks for both our families. All hell broke loose and my mom and Brad got divorced. Then my mom moved to Boston and my dad sort of spiraled down a dark path of booze. So while my own parents were pretty self-involved and caught up in all their crazy drama, your dad was there for me.” I laugh softly. “Sometimes I hated it because he was always giving me advice and trying to keep me in line. But most of the time, it just felt good to be noticed, you know?” I gaze out at the road. “Then last year, someone I really cared about—a girl named Charity—died in a car accident. For a while, I blamed myself for her death. I became self-destructive and didn’t really want to live anymore. I was on the edge. But two people helped pull me back; made me believe there was something important inside of me. One of them was my boss, Ellen.” I pause. “And the other was your dad.”

Charity’s death—among other unfortunate events last year—really ripped me up. Afterward, Turner could see it in my eyes: the recklessness; the blatant disregard I had for myself. So he gave me more work. He wanted more things planted in the garden and more trees pruned around the yard. And while I was busy tending to all that, he was at my side, planting new vegetables and trimming the hedges right along with me. Most days, we worked in comfortable silence. But every now and then, Turner would ask about my life then comment on how well I was “handling” everything. I started to live for those moments—the brief exchanges between us where he would praise me and I wouldn’t feel like a total failure. And then one day, I was better. Not healed completely, but better. Because of Turner.

“So yeah,” I say, clearing my throat. “He and I used to be pretty close.”

As I watch the road fly by, my chest starts to hurt. I should have kept in contact with Turner instead of wallowing in my own problems this past year. I should have tried harder to show him how important he was to me.

Kayla eyes me in silence, her free hand wrapping around the steering wheel tightly. Then she quietly and sincerely says, “Well I’m glad he was there for someone,” and returns her gaze to the road.

I stare out the window. Me too.

“Are you sure this place is still open?” I shade my eyes and squint up at the rusted sign that reads COPPER SPRINGS TRAIN STATION hanging above the old building. Cobwebs litter the corners of the sign and dust covers the windows of the station. “It looks deserted.”

Daren exhales. “It shut down a few years ago. But the people who have lockers here still use them sometimes. I guess your dad was one of those people.” He looks at me with a gleam in his eye. “You ready to claim an inheritance?”

A spark of glee shoots through me as I grin back. “Oh I’m ready.”

I am ready and excited, but I’m also nervous and filled with adrenaline. Today might be the beginning of a new life for me. Daren’s chest rises with a full breath as if he’s anxious as well and I wonder of this could be a new beginning for him too. Studying him for a moment, I realize I don’t know much about him. Nothing, really. I know about his parents’ taboo behavior and his sexual reputation, but I don’t know anything real. Anything that matters. And a part of me wishes I did.

The double doors at the front of the train station screech as we open them and step inside. Dim light filters in through the clouded windows and gives the large, musty lobby a weird yellow glow.

“The lockers are over here,” Daren says, heading right.

“I’m guessing you’ve been here before?”

He nods. “Growing up, we had a housekeeper named Marcella who was like a second mother to me. Before the station closed, Marcella would come here to pick up her family members when they’d visit, and sometimes she’d bring me along. I loved Marcella’s family.” He smiles. “They were all loud and loving and always excited to see one another. They were even excited to see me, which rocked my world. Marcella treated me like a son and her family did the same.”

“Do you still talk to her?” I ask.

His eyes shadow over. “No. She passed away a few years ago.”

I quietly say, “I’m sorry.”

I do the math in my head, tallying up the lost loved ones in Daren’s life. My father. The Charity girl. And Marcella. Empathy swims through my veins as I scan his face. He knows I’m watching him, but he continues to stare straight ahead.

“Here they are,” he says, pointing ahead.

On the side of the station stands a set of lockers. All of them old. All of them looking as if they haven’t been touched in a decade. They probably haven’t.

Our footsteps echo as we walk to the lockers.

“Twenty-three…” Daren says, perusing the numbers.

My eyes drift back and forth across the rusty lockers. “There.” I point to one on the left side. We step up to it and I pull the golden key from my purse and hold it up. It looks too large to fit in the small keyhole.

Daren frowns. “That’s weird.”

I try to insert the heavy key anyway, but it’s much too big. “Did we get the wrong locker number?” I pull the suitcase note from my purse and reread it.

“Nope,” Daren says, reading it over my shoulder. “It says twenty-three.”

I look around. “Is there another set of lockers in the station?”

“Maybe.” He glances around. “But that key looks too large to fit in any locker.”

I examine the key. “You’re right.” I blow out my cheeks and look up. “Let’s walk around and see if there are any other cabinets or storage areas.”

Our cuffs clank together as we set off to search the station. It’s completely deserted, but not in a spooky way. The high ceilings are framed with beautiful wood molding and dramatic floor-to-ceiling windows cover nearly every wall. Long wooden pews stripe the floor and a row of private phone booths line the side wall. I bet this was a vibrant place when the train was running. I can imagine dozens of people bustling about, reading the newspaper or calling a loved one while they wait for their train.

“I’ve never been on a train before,” I muse out loud as we walk past an old ticket counter.

“Neither have I,” he says, looking around. “I’ve never even been on an airplane.”

“Never?”

“Nope. The farthest I’ve been from Copper Springs is fifty miles outside of town at Willow Inn, where I work.”

“No way. Surely you’ve been farther away on vacations or something.”

He shakes his head. “My parents used to travel a lot but they never took me with them. ‘It’s not a vacation if your kid is there,’ my mom would say.”

I gape at him. “That’s horrible.”

He shrugs. “She was just being honest. My mom was never crazy about being a parent—neither was my dad. Honestly, I probably wouldn’t have liked vacationing with them, anyway.” He says this with a smile but hurt flashes in his eyes.

I stare at him, half-confused and half-sad. His parents sound awful. In fact, his entire childhood sounds somewhat depressing and a little lonely.

He acts so cool and confident but a few times now I’ve noticed a ding in the armor of arrogance and playfulness he wears so easily. He’s cocky but wounded, charming but lonely, with the sureness of a wealthy man and the desperation of a pauper. I can’t figure him out, but one thing is certain.