The sealed envelope trembled in the little girl’s hand.
Evelyn Hartman stared at her own name written across the front in slanted blue ink she had once known better than her own signature.
Not printed.
Not typed.
Written.
EVELYN HARTMAN.The restaurant remained frozen around them.
Le Jardin, usually a temple of polished restraint, had become something far stranger. Forks hovered above plates. Waiters stood motionless beside white-linen tables. A wineglass near the window reflected the chandelier light like a captured star, forgotten in a guest’s hand.
Michael Hartman slowly rose from his chair.
“Mother,” he said carefully, “what is going on?”
Evelyn did not answer.
She could not.
Her eyes remained fixed on the handwriting.
Thirteen years.
Thirteen years since she had seen it.
Thirteen years since the last letter had arrived.
Thirteen years since she had torn that letter in half without reading past the first line because rage was easier than grief, and pride was easier than admitting she had loved someone enough to be wounded by her.
The little girl lifted the envelope higher.
