Free Lady's Man by Tanya Anne Crosby Page A

over-exertion police.
    There was just one more stack of old boxes remaining and she tackled it with renewed enthusiasm, hopeful of finishing before Jamie caught her and made her come down. Shoved at the far back of the attic, these boxes seemed unlike the others. To begin with, they weren’t your usual Boxes-to-Go variety. They were printed with names that screamed of the past: There was one with Victor “His Master’s Voice” stamped on the side. Staring into a daffodil shaped bell, the dog that would later be known as the RCA dog cocked his head curiously. Another box marked Magnavox was crisscrossed with brittle tape, but one corner easily flipped up for her to peek inside. It held a pile of old sheets, yellowed with age. But one box in particular caught her attention. It appeared to be an old World War II ammo box. Curious, Annie started with that one, sitting on the floor beside it. She opened it and found a blue spiral notebook that held sheets of seventies-era baseball cards. In a child’s handwriting, the scribble on the inside of the notebook read: Bobby G.
    A strange sense of déjà vu enveloped her.
    Although the name might be somewhat coincidental, she had certainly never seen the cards before today. She wondered if they were Jamie’s, although it would be yet another in a long line of coincidences she and Jamie shared. Bobby G was her father’s stage name.
    After her parents had divorced, Annie had taken on her mother’s maiden name of Franklin. But she didn’t recall her father ever using his true surname. Apparently, Greaves didn’t lend itself much to a stage persona. She stared at the scribble, brushing a finger over the heavily scribed black ink. It appeared as though someone had written and rewritten it, over and over again, making sure the name was an indelible part of the notebook.
    Funny, but she’d begun to think about her dad lately …
    He was going to be a grandfather and she didn’t even know where he was.
    Setting the book aside, she rifled through the remainder of the items: A pack of well used playing cards, a handful of Susan B. Anthony silver dollars, a few half melted, warped forty-five singles, two eight-track tapes and a J.R.R. Tolkien book: “The Hobbit.” She picked up the dog-eared book and flipped through it idly, thinking that maybe she should reread it sometime. As she turned the pages, a faded Polaroid photo slipped out of the book and fell at her knees.
    Annie’s heart beat a little faster as she picked up the photograph to inspect it. It was a photo of a young boy standing next to a baseball trophy that was nearly taller than he was. His face was eerily familiar. The woman standing beside him was familiar, too. She peered down at the boy lovingly, her arm encircling him, her hand resting on his shoulder. He was grinning broadly, obviously proud of his accomplishment.
    Chills raced down her spine and she clutched the photo to her chest.
    Leaving everything exactly where she found it, Annie hurried downstairs to the backyard. “Jamie!” she shouted.
    He peered up from his work on the hull of the boat.
    “Who owned this house before you?” she demanded, holding the photo out with hands that shook.
    Realizing she was a little frantic, he dropped everything and met her halfway across the yard, his arms going around her protectively.
    “I don’t remember exactly. All I know is the family moved away and was holding on to the house, hoping to come back someday. After Hugo, they decided to let it go. Too much damage and no money to fix it.”
    Tears fell silently down Annie’s cheeks. She shoved the photo toward his face, a wave of emotion nearly choking her words. “This … is my grandmother … and my father!”
    Jamie stared at the faded photo. “Sweet Jesus,” he exclaimed softly, meeting her gaze. “Where did you find it?”
    “In the attic!”
    He didn’t bother chiding her for going up there, realizing the import of her discovery. “When I bought the