Page 79 of Key West Homecoming

She cried for her father, whom she remembered in only a few scattered pieces, and for the seven-year-old boy whose initials were carved into the porch railing outside. The tears were for her mother and grandmother. And somewhere in all that grief, she cried for herself.

“Grandma.”

She said it again.

“Grandma.”

Then she closed her eyes.

“I’m here.”

When the crying finally stopped, it was still light outside.

Emma kept both hands on the pages and looked through the window at the herb garden. She waited for whatever was supposed to come next, but there was no sudden peace and nothing inside her felt magically repaired.

She did feel different.

Something she had carried tightly for a very long time had loosened, and for now that was enough.

Emma wiped her face with the back of her wrist, folded the letter along its original creases and slipped it carefully into the envelope. She left one hand resting on it for another minute before standing.

Then she went outside to the east side of the porch, about a foot from the corner. She got down on one knee and ran her fingers along the underside of the railing. She found the letters almost immediately.

D.K.

The initials were small and uneven, cut into the wood by a seven-year-old boy with a jackknife and enough confidence to believe his mark should stay there.

David Kendrick.

Her father.

Emma ran one finger over the letters. She pictured him kneeling in this same spot while Gloria made lunch in the kitchen or worked in the garden. He had been a child here before he was her father, and Gloria had known exactly where those initials were for more than fifty years. She had left them there because they made her smile.

Emma stayed beside the porch with her hand against the wood until it grew warm beneath her fingers.

Then she stood, brushed off her knees and went around the cottage to find Jake.

Jake was near the back fence, coiling the hose over one arm. He looked up when he saw her.

“Hey.” He took one look at her face and set the hose down.

Emma knew her eyes were red. She had cried too hard and too long to hide it, and she didn’t have the energy to try.

Jake crossed the garden.

“Come sit down.”

He led her to the bench beneath the lignum vitae and sat at the other end. He looked out at the garden instead of at her, and Emma was grateful that he didn’t ask what the letter said or whether she was all right.

After a while, she spoke.

“My father carved his initials into the porch railing when he was seven. My grandmother told me where to find them in the letter, and they’re still there.”

Jake nodded.

“I’ve been living here three years, and I never knew that.”

“No one did except Gloria, I guess. He was seven. He probably thought he was getting away with something.”