A Secret Space

Sandra glared at a bright spot of blood welling around the tiny splinter that had burrowed into her index finger. Wiping it onto paint-crusted jeans, she snatched up the work gloves that lay on the worn top of the antique dresser she had been sanding.

Her morning was not going well, and the dark cloud over her head was threatening to burst into a storm of profanity.

As with most mornings, her first tasks had been to start the coffee maker and jump into the shower. However, when she returned to the kitchen in wet hair and robe, the glass pot was still sitting in the sink where she had washed it. Weak brown liquid mixed with coffee grounds spilled across the counter from the overflowing drip filter.

She had sopped up the mess with a dish towel, started another pot, and then reached for her phone from the charger, finding only the cord. Groaning, she walked over to the table next to the sofa. Her iPhone lay like a mute accusation next to an empty wine glass and equally empty chardonnay bottle. “You idiot!” she huffed as she plugged it in. Pouring a bowl of granola, Sandra realized that she had forgotten to pick up milk the day before.

She was leaning against the counter, her mind turning as she picked at bits of dry granola, when a series of dings announced the phone was awake.

Its back-lit screen displayed three notifications- a missed call from her mother, a text from a friend, and at the top was a message from her bank. She did not need to swipe- this was the notice she had been dreading.

Sandra was overdrawn and broke.

Business had been surprisingly good when she first opened her used furniture boutique just outside of downtown Sarasota. She possessed a gift for finding discarded and unloved older furnishings and using her artistic talents to re-imagine them into one-of-a-kind treasures. The local style mag had declared the store “Sarasota’s Best Kept Secret for Unique Coastal Décor!" Wealthy snowbird residents of the surrounding beach houses and high-rises had flocked in, snapping up colorful pieces to decorate their winter nests.

The shop was the detached garage of her 1940's-era home with a shell drive and parking area leading past the cheerful pink and aqua house to a funky garage/storefront at the back of the tiny lot. The two original paneled doors with glass panes in the upper sections faced the road. A stone path wound past an eclectic collection of tropical plants and architectural salvage, guiding curious browsers around the corner to the small entrance on the building's left side. A large sign took up much of the scallop-shingled gable above the doors. "Jungle Junque" was painted across carefully distressed wooden planks in large hot pink and lime green script, accented by twining leaves in darker green.

Inside, the shop was divided into two areas. Behind the left garage door was the small showroom, with colorful furniture and seating vignettes filling the painted concrete floors. A door set at the back of the dividing wall led to the workshop, which took up the garage's right side. On pleasant days, like this one, Sandra would raise the garage door to enjoy the salty breeze as she worked.

Sandra picked at the splinter in her finger, allowing herself a moment of self-pity. She thought about her divorce and the man she now mentally referred to as That Asshole. Purchasing the run-down property and nurturing it back had provided a way to channel her hurt into something positive. However, the project had churned through most of the settlement. “But hey,” she muttered sarcastically to herself, “at least I’m living the dream.”

And now, because of the pandemic, she might lose it all again. It wasn't fair. Standing in front of the open door, she just wanted to let out a primal scream. She pictured the startled faces of the drivers passing by with their windows rolled down and Bonnie's elfin face peering out from the new age shop next door.

Sandra adored Bonnie at first sight. She had been painting ceilings in the shop one evening when Bonnie strode through the raised door. A canvas bag tossed over her tanned shoulder held a liter of wine, two plastic cups, and a clamshell package of grocery-store sushi. “I have been watching you bust your ass for the past 2 months. It’s time we get to know each other,” she had announced in a way that left no room for dispute. They sat on the canvas drop cloth, drinking and trading stories well into the night and keeping neighbors awake with their raucous laughter. By the time they parted, they were sisters.

Sandra turned from her thoughts and back to her work. Like most mornings, she was alone in the workshop until noon, listening for the ding that meant a customer had entered the showroom. Andy, a student she had hired from the Ringling School of Art, would be in later to watch the store.

Sighing, she put on the gloves and knelt in front of the dresser. It was solid wood, a heavy and primitive piece. The fact that it was well-used and had a little water damage did not bother her. In fact, she loved the way it wore its history, but some of the drawer fronts were beyond repair. Fortunately, the little center door with its unique gingerbread trim was intact. New plan, she thought to herself. Lets remove the drawers on either side and make open shelves. It’ll be a kick-ass media stand.

She began pulling out the drawers. Each gave a little squeak of protest as wood rubbed against wood. There were no glides or rollers, just a series of wooden runners on either side upon which the drawers rested.

Setting the drawers aside, she picked up a hammer and used it to gently pry one of the runners from the inside of the dresser wall. The thick strip of wood started to come away, but although the glue was brittle with age, something in the back was preventing it from separating. She twisted her body for better leverage while reaching in, her head now underneath the dresser top. Straining within the small space, she inserted the hammer's claw into the crack between the runner and the side of the dresser and again exerted pressure. The runner released suddenly, clattering to the ground, and the peen of the hammer bounced off her forehead as she bumped the dresser top in a failed attempt to retreat.

The dresser shuddered loudly from the impact. “Dammit!” She took off the gloves and felt her head and forehead for signs of blood or lacerations. Satisfied that she was intact, notwithstanding the swelling that was sure to follow, Sandra glowered at the inanimate piece. Her brain slowly registered a sound heard during contact, not from inside her echoing head but rather a clatter from behind the little cabinet door.

She knew the dresser was empty because she had cleaned it thoroughly, inside and out. Sandra had a fear of spiders, made worse when one had once crawled out of a piece she was working on, up her arm and under the rolled-up sleeve of her work shirt. She had danced around the workshop, stripping down to her tank-top and shrieking so loudly that Bonnie sprinted over from next door in a cloud of patchouli incense. She had found Sandra angrily stomping on her chambray shirt as it lay in the sawdust. Bonnie convulsed in laughter as Sandra breathlessly explained the arachnid's stealthy attack. "Oh my god! Stop! You’re making me pee my pants!"

The spider was never found. Bonnie later purchased a life-size rubber tarantula. Sandra would sometimes discover it lying in wait somewhere after Bonnie visited. More than once, its unexpected presence had caused her to scream involuntarily.

Shaking away the dull ringing in her head, Sandra gingerly opened the little door and peered inside. A thin sheet of wood, the width of the cabinet, lay wedged between the two sides. A false back to the small storage area had shaken loose, revealing a hidden compartment beyond.

She carefully removed the loose piece. Uneasiness prevented her from shoving her bare hand into the dark reaches in the back. She went to her workbench and came back with a small flashlight.

The beam reflected off tin sheeting that lined the secret space, which was about 4" deep. The bottom of the cabinet did not continue all the way to the back. The compartment appeared to drop down behind the lower drawer underneath. Her flashlight picked up something flat and black. She carefully reached in, grabbed the object, and pulled it out.

It was a small black notepad, approximately 3 ½" x 5 ½". “What have we here?” Sandra whispered to herself as she flipped it open. The pages were ivory ruled, and there were dollar amounts listed in a feminine hand. Dates were entered to the left of each modest deposit, or occasional small withdrawal, with a running balance on the right. Sandra realized the notebook represented the distant dreams of a woman from the past, dreams she had felt the need to hide. As Sandra held the notepad, she felt a gentle warm breeze caressing her shoulder, and the pages fluttered to a final entry dated September 8, 1960. Decades of quiet frugality had brought the balance to $20,000.00.

Who were you? What happened to you? Sandra gently laid the notebook on top of the dresser and picked up the flashlight again. The pad had been resting on something she could not see because it was below the level of the bottom of the cabinet. She felt her staccato heartbeats as the flashlight again illuminated the inside of the storage space.

She could only get her head inside. The space was too narrow for her shoulders, and the hand holding the flashlight was pressed tight to her face. “Shit!” She realized she would have to blindly reach into the darkness to find what lay in the bottom. Withdrawing again, she turned off the flashlight, set it down, and put one of the gloves back on.

She reached in, moving her hand along the cabinet bottom until it found the space beyond, then down. The leather glove blunted her sense of touch, but she grasped something that felt like a packet and slowly withdrew her arm.

It was a manila envelope, folded around its contents. Shaking off the glove, Sandra unsealed the top, peeked inside, then dove her hand in to pull out a loose wad of bills.

She gasped and started to dump the contents onto the dresser, then remembered the workshop was open to the outside world. Laying down her prize, she rushed to lower the garage door before returning to the dresser and the envelope.

She quickly counted the money- $5000.00. Sandra did not even put the glove back on before retrieving the three remaining packets from the hiding spot. She carefully opened each, counted, and confirmed that they were identical to the first.

“Holy Shit! Twenty Thousand Dollars!” she screamed out loud, then clapped her hand over her mouth as she glanced around the empty workshop.

Giggling and clutching the money to her chest, she raced to the phone on the workbench and punched its illuminated face. Sandra bounced impatiently as she waited for the familiar voice message on the other end to finish. "Bonnie, you are not going to believe what I just found!" she shrieked. "We are going to celebrate tonight, girl!"

Then, still pressing the cash and the phone to her pounding chest, she leaned back against the workbench. Lifting her eyes, Sandra whispered “Thank you!” to the unknown woman's spirit who had reached across the years to share her secret. Sandra was going to be ok.