Page 27
“That’s true, why didn’t you? Seems this Kwame is a big secret all around.”
“No, not a secret at all. I just didn’t think he needed to know something that might upset him.”
The self-serving logic of liars the world over.
“I worried he might read into it more than it is… was.”
“Would he be right to do that?” Taylor asks, summoning the same gentle tone as earlier.
“No… I… to be honest, I’m more preoccupied with this story Kwame is working on than I am with him. The missing Tate kid. And the letters I found.”
As soon as Kwame said Fredonia and the letter M, Simone knew, she just knew, this mysterious waitress was the woman who penned those letters to Poppy she had stumbled upon. Marjorie. This realization and what it could possibly mean made it hard for her to keep a poker face while sitting in that car with Kwame. That wasn’t the only reason, though. There was also the way he looked at her. And the way he said, “So, maybe see you again sometime?” as she got out of his car.
Simone had driven straight to Poppy’s from the reservoir to get those letters. She had to do her daily check-in anyway, a little later than usual, and she wanted to talk to the occupational therapist about a few things while she was there—all noble reasons for a visit. Her less-noble reason was to sneak in the closet while Poppy was distracted doing therapy and gather the letters she’d tucked away when the paramedics had arrived. He hadn’t mentioned them, or what happened that day at all since, so Simone banked on the fact that he’d forgotten all about them in the drama of his fall and his time in the hospital.
Problem was, Simone had no time or privacy to sit down and read them, with prepping for Thanksgiving and then her mom visiting from Detroit for the holiday, which turned into a whole thing because it always does. There was also some part of Simone that was worried about what she might discover from these letters; it seemed a safer bet to wait until getting through the weekend and to rope her best friend into reading them with her.
“So I understand the assignment… we’re going to read these old letters to see if there’s a connection between Wade, Larry, and Marjorie, like some sort of twisted love triangle?” Taylor stuffs a few parmesan truffle fries in her mouth.
Simone didn’t love that Taylor was treating this like a salacious premise for a Lifetime movie and not a sickening tragedy that might hit close to home in a way that Simone won’t even let herself imagine. She can’t go there.
“We’re not going to do anything until you wipe your greasy fingers, and then here…” Simone passes a few folded pages across the table. “Yes, you scan those and I’ll do these.”
“And what are we looking for exactly? Other than proof that Larry was probably a two-timer, which… is not the most surprising thing in the world.”
“I don’t know… I guess I need to know if Poppy was involved somehow with this kid, Wade. Who knows, maybe the letters will mention his name…”
“And then you’ll have an excuse to reach out to Kwame?”
Simone pointedly ignores Taylor and focuses on the papers before her. Yes, this is a massive betrayal of Poppy’s privacy, but she can’t help herself.
She skims the first one. As she’d suspected, it’s a love letter—swoony, and almost embarrassing to read, starting with “Dear Loo-loo.” The saccharine-sweet nickname makes Simone want to throw the pack of papers in a fire and pretend they never even existed. The writing is vaguely formal, in an “old-timey” way, but still thirsty, a sixties version of a Taylor Swift song in neat, tight cursive. I’m sure no poet, so I hope I’m not embarrassing myself too badly with my writing. I much prefer getting to be with you when I can touch you and hold you. But that will have to wait until school begins again. Don’t forget about little old me while you’re at that posh camp of yours, okay? I’m jealous of all the girl counselors there who get to be with you every day. Know that I’m here waiting and thinking of you always. Love, Marj.
Simone knows about this camp, Antler Point. Much like his endless Tate stories, Poppy still tells tall tales of the place right over the Canadian border. He started there when he was seven and attended every summer until he turned eighteen, the last three years as a counselor. It’s where he met Carole during his junior year at Tate, and they got engaged shortly after he graduated. This letter isn’t dated, but Taylor’s right, it seems there was some two-timing going on. Simone can only hope that’s the worst of the transgressions.
“Anything juicy over there?” Taylor asks. “I’m reading a lot about a sick cat named Cocoa. Something tells me little Cocoa didn’t make it.”
“Mine is just a sweet letter from some lovestruck girl writing to Larry while he was at summer camp.”
“If he kept these letters for fifty years, it must have meant something?”
“I guess.”
Simone skims through the pile, scanning one letter, then another and another, until she gets to one that makes her stomach drop.
Larry, the letter begins, which gets Simone’s attention because all the other letters start with “Dear Loo-loo.” But then Simone’s eyes catch on an even more alarming word: expecting.
“What?” Taylor asks, as if she can hear Simone’s pulse revving.
“I can’t believe this. Taylor, I think Poppy might have gotten this Marjorie woman pregnant.”
“Whoa. Seriously?”
“I don’t see any other way to read this.”
Taylor snatches the letter from Simone to see it with her own eyes. When she draws in a deep breath, Simone scooches her chair around the table to read over her shoulder.
None of this is fair, but I’m going to do what you ask and get rid of the baby. I got an appointment with the doc next week. If you can even call him that. But he’s not cheap and I don’t have any money. My sad little tips from the diner aren’t going to cover this and you know I can’t go to anyone else. You said you’d help and I haven’t heard hide or hair from you.
