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For a split second, the image of a uniformed Rough-Rider flashed before my eyes. Like before, the image was so transparent, the hearth behind it showed clearly.
Then the air exploded with light. With a deafening boom, the mantle compartment fell open.
“Now what?”
“Wild guess, but…” Weaving on my feet, I managed an unsteady smile. “I think Mateo approves.”
“You saw another…?”
“Yeah.”
He went white.
“Why don’t you check the—”
“Yeah.” He snapped his neck left, then right. As the vertebrae clicked into place, he took a deep breath and approached the open compartment.
“See anything?”
“Nothing inside, but…” He tugged at something. “A paper’s wedged between the drawer and mantle.” He half closed the drawer, releasing the tension, and a faded photo slid out.
“What is it?”
“Looks like a bride in a wedding gown.” He handed over the vintage photo. “Think this is Marianna?”
Except for a water spot, the picture was well preserved. I recognized the familiar scrawl on the back: March sixth, eighteen-ninety-eight. “Must be—that’s when she married Mateo.”
“What a shame. It’s water damaged.”
“Or is that a teardrop?” I fingered the image, intuitively connecting. The face was ghostly pale, and the dark eyes, peering from beneath the wedding veil, seemed to pierce time. I’ve seen this face, but where?
The young woman in a Gibson Girl hairdo wore a lacy gown with puffy sleeves, a frilly bodice, a high collar, and…my cameo. I gasped.
“What?”
“That’s the image I saw in the mirror and my dream the night Rosie gave me the brooch.” I spun toward him. “And to answer your question, yes. It is.”
He cocked his head. “What is…?”
“You wondered if the lawsuit’s hostility was worth it. It is.”
“How can you be sure?”
“Mateo revealed this picture right after you asked. This is his answer, proof he and Marianna appreciate you resolving what they couldn’t.”
****
Two weeks later, I walked back from the mailbox, fingering through the bills and junk mail, when Cody’s handwriting jumped off an envelope. My first impulse was to trash the letter. Then curiosity prevailed.
Maeve, I want to apologize for being a jerk the other night. I wasn’t myself. In fact, I haven’t been myself for months—not since the IED blast killed two of my buddies.
The DWI was my wake-up call. Thanks to my commander’s reprimand, I’ve started cognitive behavioral therapy for PTSD, and it’s like I’ve opened Pandora’s box. I realize now that I hurt you, and you deserve to know why. It wasn’t you, and it wasn’t us. It was entirely my fault. I tried so hard to avoid reliving the trauma that I pushed away all emotions, including my feelings for you.
I denied loving you until I drove you away, and for that, I can never forgive myself. I’m so sorry I broke our engagement and hope one day you’ll forgive me.
Yours always,
Cody
