“The waiter greeted you by name.”
“I’ve visited before.”
“How many times?”
David hesitated.
“Seven.”
My throat tightened.
“Why?”
He reached inside his jacket.
I moved back again.
“It’s only an envelope,” he said.
Instead of handing it to me, he placed it on the table.
My name was written across the front.
Not in David’s handwriting.
In Michael’s.
I recognized every curve and hurried stroke.
Michael always made the final letter in my name too large.
Eleanor.
My husband had written that envelope.
My legs weakened.
Clara pulled out a chair, and this time, I sat.
“Where did you get that?”
David lowered himself into the chair across from me.
“After Ruth was gone, I found a box concealed behind the lining of one of her old suitcases.”
“That was six years ago.”
“Yes.”
“And you found this then?”
