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“Dang! That pup is part pony!” He took a step back to fully appreciate the dog’s size. “I have something for you,” Winslow reached under his jacket, pulled out a large folded envelope, and handed it to her. “It was delivered to my place… Some folks write their ones funny, you see… Makes ’em look like sevens. I’d opened it before I saw it wasn’t for me, I’m afraid. Mrs. Winslow wanted to send it back, but I figured it was worth checking if there was a Miss Benton at number 211—which it seems there is.”
Theo looked at the envelope. It was large, but thin, torn open on one end. “There is indeed. Thank you, Mr. Winslow. It was very kind of you to bring it by.”
“It’s no trouble at all, Miss Benton.”
Theo turned the envelope over to read the return name and address. She froze. Dan Murdoch.
“That’s a pretty sweet ride you’ve got.” Burt Winslow looked over at the Mercedes parked in the driveway.
“Ride?…Oh, that’s Mac’s car…” Theo tried to keep her voice from shaking. “When did you say this was delivered, Mr. Winslow?”
“I can’t rightly say for sure. Mrs. Winslow and I got back from visiting the kids in Virginia the day before yesterday… There was a pile of mail waiting for us. Not as much as there would have been once, mind you. Folks don’t really send letters anymore—a dying art. Anyways, we’d been in Virginia for ten days.”
“Oh…”
“I’m sorry…was it urgent?”
Theo forced a smile. “I don’t think so.”
“Well, I should let you get back to your day.”
Theo thanked him for his trouble and his kindness. She invited him in for a hot drink because he’d obviously walked from number 277, and it was snowing, but to her relief he declined.
“Mrs. Winslow will start to fret if I stay out too long in this weather.”
Theo waited till he was out of the front gate before she shut the door and reached into the envelope.
It began, for want of a better term, as a love letter. Dan wrote of the day they’d set out to visit the Stull Cemetery and had spent together instead. His words made her blush, and they made her lonely. And then he wrote about Underneath, which he’d read in one sitting through the night because he couldn’t bring himself to leave it. He told her how much he admired it and how honored he would be to send it to a friend of his who was with the Sandra Djikstra Literary Agency in California.
Theo dabbed at the letter with her shirt, blotting tears and ink. She read it over.
Another knock at the door. She checked quickly. Mac Etheridge, shaking the snow from his hair with a bag in each hand: a bulging plastic one from India Palace and a smaller brown paper bag. Theo opened the door. His smile faded as he saw her face.
“What’s happened?” he said, alarmed. “Did he come back?”
Theo shook her head.
“Are you okay, Theo?”
“Yes…come in. You must be frozen…”
“I think our dinner might be… We might have to reheat it.” He followed her into the kitchen and placed the bags on the bench.
“Is there something I can do?” he asked.
“No…I’ll just put it all in the microwave.”
He leant back against the old pantry cupboard, his arms folded. “I meant about whatever has upset you. Just say if it’s none of my business.”
Theo swallowed. A moment to decide to trust Mac Etheridge, and she told him about Burt Winslow and the letter he’d delivered.
Mac was a little alarmed that she had opened the door, all things considered.
“It was an old man on his own…and I had Horse.”
“He might have been armed, Theo.”
“ You’re right. I should have been more careful.”
