Chapter 43
— The Letter
Months passed. The seasons changed, and the garden changed with them. The leaves on the big tree turned and fell, and then new leaves came, small and bright. Poppy's curls grew longer, past her ears now, soft and golden-brown, bouncing when she ran and curling at the ends when she laughed. She started a new year at school, and she came home with stories about her teacher and her friends, and she read the storybook to herself now, sounding out the words slowly, her finger following the lines.
Life settled into a good, ordinary rhythm. I worked in my carpentry workshop during the day, making tables and chairs and shelves for people in Asheville, and I came home in the evening to Poppy and Dolores and the smell of supper. Elspeth and Maisie visited often, and the girls played in the garden, and the house was full of laughter again. It felt as if we had finally found our way back to a life that was simple and true.
Then, on a gray Tuesday morning in late autumn, a letter arrived. It came in the ordinary post, with the other mail, a plain white envelope with my name written on the front in handwriting I recognized at once. My hands went still when I saw it. I stood in the hallway, holding the envelope, and for a moment I did not move. Dolores was in the kitchen, and Poppy was at school, and the house was quiet, and the letter felt heavier than paper should feel.
It was from Veronica. I knew before I opened it, before I read a single word inside, because I knew that handwriting, and I knew that there was only one reason she would write to me now, after all these months of silence. I carried the envelope into my study and set it down on the desk, beside Meredith's notebook and the drawer where the bracelet lay. I did not open it right away. I sat down and looked at it, and I thought about everything that had happened since the night she had taken Poppy upstairs.
I thought about the courtroom, and about the judge's voice, and about the no-contact order that had been put in place to keep Poppy safe. I thought about the nights I had stayed awake, listening to Poppy breathe, wondering if she would ever feel safe again. I thought about the storybook, and the garden, and the curls growing back, one soft curl at a time. I thought about how hard we had worked to build a life that was calm and safe, and how a single envelope could bring the past back into the room, even after months of quiet.
I did not feel angry when I looked at the letter. I felt something quieter than anger, something like weariness, and like sadness for a person who had made terrible choices and who now had to live with them. I picked up the envelope and turned it over in my hands. It was sealed neatly, and the paper was thick and good, the kind of paper she had always liked. I thought about whether to open it at all. Part of me wanted to throw it away unopened, to keep the past outside the house. Another part of me knew that I needed to know what it said, if only so that I could put it away properly and move on.
In the end, I opened it. I used a letter opener from the desk, and I slid it under the flap carefully, and I took out a single sheet of paper, folded in thirds. I unfolded it slowly and laid it flat on the desk. The handwriting was neat and careful, as if she had written it many times and then copied it out cleanly. I read the first line, and then I stopped, because I knew that whatever came next, I would need to read it with a clear head and a steady heart, not in a rush, not with Poppy about to come home from school. I folded the letter back up, put it in its envelope, and set it in the desk drawer, on top of Meredith's notebook, where it would wait until I was ready. Then I went into the kitchen and made a cup of tea, and I sat by the window and watched the garden, and I waited for Poppy to come home.
While I waited, I thought about the long road that had led to this quiet morning. I thought about the hearing, and about Oliver's steady voice, and about Rosalind and Elspeth and Dolores standing up to tell the truth. I thought about the garden in summer, and the storybook, and the way Poppy's curls had come back, soft and bright. None of that had been easy, and none of it had happened by accident. A letter could not change any of that.
When Poppy came home from school that afternoon, she ran in with her school bag bouncing on her back, full of news about her teacher and her friends, and I listened to every word, and I did not mention the letter. There would be time for that later, after she was asleep, when the house was quiet. For now, she needed her father to be present, to hear about her day, to help her with her homework at the kitchen table, to read her the storybook before bed. The letter could wait in the drawer. Poppy could not wait. She was six years old, and her day mattered more than any envelope, no matter whose handwriting was on the front.