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It took every ounce of energy to draw her next breath.
The only world Tess knew was the one her mom created.
What was her world without its creator?
Theydidn’t need anyone else.
Except now she was alone.
Alone.
News of the car accident had stopped her world on its axis. From two to just one, Tess had been halved. Her life was half gone.
What to do next? Her well of inner strength was parched; her knees ached to buckle. It was a test. Collapsing into her grief would be the easy option. Easy didn’t mean right.
Giving up in that pivotal moment meant never getting back up again.
It was a choice. Every step she took was a choice, every decision. Tess wouldn’t fall down, she’d stand tall. Even when it was hard, they had to keep going, like Anne taught her.
Pushing away from the door, Tess strode to the stairs, beset by a new determination. Her mom had said “soon.” For her, soon was that minute.
There were rules about leaving an abode for the last time. Clear rules. They couldn’t leave anything behind. Nothing that could identify them.
First thing was laundry. The beds had to be stripped, towels collected, and everything was put through the highest temperature cycle in the washer.
In her mom’s room, she threw the comforter off the end of the bed and flipped over a pillow. Something fluttered to the floor. What was…? Folded paper. She tossed the pillow onto the bed and bent down to pick it up.
The words on the crinkled paper took her breath. “It’s a love letter.”
Sinking onto the floor, she read on. With each new word, her intrigue grew. It didn’t have a name at the beginning and was signed with only an H.
Tess read the words before the final letter, “Forever yours.”
Running her thumb over the sentiment, the blurred watermark beneath could only be the circle of a fallen teardrop. Who was H? Who was he writing to? It stood to reason that her mother was the recipient, except her name didn’t appear.
“Even after all these years. You’re the only one, C.”
C? Anne didn’t begin with a C. Who was the letter for?
Other odd references perplexed her.
“I wanted you to have a fresh start, to have a chance at a real normal life. Crazy, right? I stole any chance you had for that after ML’s.”
“I fantasize about Miami, about how it was when our eyes met, when you took my hand.”
While the letter wasn’t quite written in code, it wasn’t explicit either… Well, no, it was explicit in a different way, intimately explicit.
“Just your touch got me hard, I don’t know how you did that, how you still do. You’ve mesmerized me. I am yours, Angel.”
The paper wasn’t new. Without an envelope, it was impossible to tell which of their many addresses it had been sent to. Damn. A postmark would’ve narrowed down the date of receipt too.
“Even after all these years…” the sender had written.
How many years? And why pick up contact again?
Pouncing onto her knees, Tess set the letter on the nightstand and opened the top drawer. Without knowing exactly what she was looking for, her hands ran through makeup and medications. Nothing unusual jumped out, so she checked the other drawers.
An envelope, or semi-finished response, would give her a better chance at figuring out the mysterious H. It didn’t make sense. Anne wasn’t a letter writer. They weren’t allowed to have computers or phones, other than the occasional burner for work purposes. Limiting their use of technology was one of her mother’s strictest rules.
