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We spend the next half an hour or so ripping open boxes and sifting through them listlessly until Weston opens one and says, “Ohmygod. Petra? I think you need to take a look at this.”
Thirty-Six
Weston
Petra is holdingup a pair of clunky chartreuse high heels, muttering to herself with a disgusted look on her face. “Who would ever wear these butt-ugly things?”
I guess the tone of my voice jarred her. Her head jerks in my direction and she drops the stupid shoes back into their box. She’s right; they are butt-ugly. She stands and rushes over to my side in the back corner of the storage unit.
I have a handful of envelopes in my hand, and the box in front of me has many more of them. They are made of thick, expensive paper stock and addressed with neat handwriting to Petra Feeney at a post office box. Our eyes are riveted to the return address, however. Each of them is from Jameson Harvey at a Chicago address. Turning them over, we see that they are all unopened.
Petra drops to her knees and begins pawing through the letters, exclaiming, “The postmarks on some of these are almost as old as I am.” She looks at me with wide, troubled eyes. “What the heck, Weston? I’ve never seen these before in my life. Whywouldn’t my mom have shown them to me? And whoisJameson Harvey? Why would he spend years writing to me?”
“I have no idea, sweetheart. Just add mail theft to another of her crimes. Are you going to open them? Maybe you’ll get some answers.”
“I’m afraid to.” Her hands are shaking.
This has to be one of the biggest shocks of her life, I’m sure, so I think fast. “I have an idea then. We only have about five more boxes to open, so let’s take a peek in those and see if there’s anything else that’s remotely interesting. Then we’ll go find a place to stay, grab some lunch, and you can relax in a comfortable room and open them. There’s no reason to sit in this unit any longer than we have to. It’s awfully chilly in here anyway.”
“Yeah, okay. That sounds good. You grab those, and I’ll poke around in these.” She scoots two boxes toward me.
Within five minutes, we’ve determined that the remaining boxes are more of the detritus that Maggie Feeney didn’t care about. It’s a wonder she paid a nickel to store most of this stuff. There is just no understanding that woman. I do a quick search on my phone and find a Hilton that has a restaurant and won’t break the bank. I book a room, we lock up the unit, and we head over to the hotel. It’s out of the shady neighborhood, and that makes me breathe more easily.
We check into the room, deposit our bags and the box of letters, wash our hands, and head to the restaurant. Petra absentmindedly orders a burger and fries like she can’t be bothered to make a weightier decision about what to eat. I’m not even sure she’s all that fond of burgers or fries, so I order a grilled salmon salad. When the meals come, she looks at my food with poorly disguised envy, so I trade plates with her. “I thought so,” I tell her with a grin.
“Weston, you are the best. And you’re like a mind reader. What did I ever do to deserve you and Callum?”
“You’re you, and that’s enough. Besides, I love burgers. I’ll just slide this thick slab of raw onion off of it before I chow down though. I’m hoping to get lucky tonight, and I don’t want stinky breath.” She giggles softly at my silliness. “Enjoy your salmon.”
“Are you sure? You ordered it.”
“Absolutely. Let’s eat up so we can unravel the truth. You must be curious to know what’s in those letters.”
“What if they change everything I’ve ever believed?”
“My guess is they… ah… probably will.” I let that sink in for a beat as her eyes widen. “You’ll probably be confronted with a new reality, but you’ll have Callum and me to help you navigate it. Just remember thatnothingin those letters reflects on you because you didn’t write them, and you also didn’t hide them.”
Once we get back to the room, I send a text to Callum letting him know the gist of what’s going on and that we’ll be here overnight. His response is quick, so I assume he’s teaching.
Callum: Wow. Call me later. Miss you.
Weston: Will do. Miss you too.
I look up from my phone to see that Petra is taking photos of the box of letters. Then she arranges a bunch of them on the desk to show that they’ve never been opened. “Good idea,” I tell her.
Petra then sorts the letters into order from the oldest to the newest and takes another photo. We finally get comfortable, and she takes a deep breath. “Here goes nothing.”
She borrowed a knife from the restaurant to use as a letter opener and slips it under the flap, making a neat slice in the top of the envelope. The letter inside is the same heavy stock of fine quality paper. It’s just a short note, but it comes out with a crisp fifty-dollar bill tucked inside.
Dearest Petra,
I know you’re too young to read this, so hopefully your mommy will read it to you. Happy third birthday, Sweetie. I wish I could be there on your special day. Just remember your daddy loves you very much, and I miss you terribly. Your mommy is supposed to start a savings account for you, but go ahead and spend a little now on something fun.
Love,
Daddy
Petra’s eyesfill with tears as she stares at me. “Weston,” she whispers. “Ihavea father! I want to go see him. The return address is local.” She looks pleadingly at me, and it breaks my heart. “Why would my mom keep me from him all this time? Why would he stay away from me? He says he loves me.” Her voice breaks with a sob.
