“Okay. I’ll get this back to you.”
Brian smirked at the card. “Yeah, I’m worried about that.”
Ford went upstairs, into the bedroom where Cilla was pulling her hair back into a tail. “I’m set,” she told him. “I’m going to go over while you’re getting dressed, take another look at a couple things before we go.”
“Brian just came by.”
“Oh, did he look at the new property already?”
“No, next week, he said. He brought this.” Ford held up the card.
“Is that… Of course it is. I didn’t expect him to find something so fast. Wow.” She pressed a hand to her belly. “Big mystery could be solved. It makes me a little nervous.”
“Do you want me to go check it out, then just tell you?”
She dropped her hand. “What am I? A weenie?”
“No, you’re not.”
“Then let’s do it.”
“They’re in my office.”
She went in with him, watched him take the book off the shelf, then set it on the counter for her to open.
“I keep thinking how she chose Gatsby. The rich, shining life, the glitter and then ennui, romance, betrayal, ultimate tragedy. She was so unhappy. I dreamed of her again not long ago. I didn’t tell you. One of my Janet and Cilla dreams. Forest Lawn. They’re both buried there. Her and Johnnie. I only went there once. Her grave was literally covered with flowers. It made me sad to look at it. All those flowers, brought by strangers, fading in the sun.”
“You planted them for her here instead. And even when they fade, they come back new. Year after year.”
“I like to think that would matter to her. My personal tribute.” She opened the book, took the stack of letters out. “I’ll open this,” she said, choosing one. “You open that.”
Ford took out the card. He’d expected a happy picture of a baby, or a sentimental one of a mother and child. Instead he found Andrew Morrow’s initials on heavy, cream-colored stock. “Pretty formal,” he commented, and opened the card.
Congratulations to my lovely daughter-in-law on the birth of her son. I hope these roses bring you pleasure. They’re only a small token of my great pride. Another generation of Morrows is born with Brian Andrew.
Affectionately, Drew
Cilla laid the letter beside the card.
My Dear. My Darling.
There are no words to express my sorrow, my sympathy, my grief for you. I wish I could hold you, could comfort you now with more than words on a page. Know that I’m with you in my heart, that my thoughts are full of you. No mother should have to suffer the loss of her child, and then be forced to grieve in so public a manner.
I know you loved your Johnnie beyond measure. If there can be comfort now, take it in knowing he felt that love every day of his short life.
Only Yours
“Is that fitting, is that fate?” Cilla said quietly. “That I’d choose the loss of a son to compare to the birth of another? It’s a kind letter,” she continued. “They’re both kind notes, and both strangely distant, so carefully worded, I think. When each occasion should have filled the page with emotions and intimacies. The tone, the structure. They could be from the same person.”
“The writing’s similar. Not… well, not exactly exact. See the S’s in the card? When he starts a word-son, small-with an S, it’s in curvy print. In the letter-sorry, sympathy-traditional lowercase cursive.”
"But the uppercase T’s are written the same way, and the Y’s. The slant of the writing. It’s very close. And they were written years apart.”
“My and my in both really look like the same hand, and the uppercase I’s, but the uppercase D’s, not so much.” Ford knew he looked with an artist’s eye, and wasn’t sure if that was a plus or a minus. “Then again, in the card, that’s a signature. Some people write the first letter of their signature differently than they might a word. I don’t know, Cilla.”
“Results, inconclusive. I don’t suppose you know any handwriting experts.”
“We could find one.” He looked up, into her eyes. “Do you want to go that route?”
“No. Maybe. I don’t know. Damn it. No easy answers.”
“Maybe we could get our hands on a sample closer to when the letters were written. I can ask Brian to try for that.”
“Let’s just put it away for now.” She folded the letter, slipped it back into the envelope. “We know one thing after this. It wasn’t Hennessy. I’d forgotten about the letter after Johnnie’s death. No way, even if he was crazy in love, would he have written that after the accident. Not when he was with his own son in the hospital.”
“You’re right.”
“So, if I had a list, I’d be able to cross a name off. That’s something. I guess it’s going to have to be enough for now. At least for now.”
Ford closed the book, put it back on the shelf. He turned to her, took her hand. “What do you say we go buy a grill?”
“I’d say that’s exactly what I want to do.”
But he left the monogrammed note on his desk when he went to dress. He could find a graphologist. Someone outside Virginia to whom the name Andrew Morrow meant nothing. And he could see where that led.
CILLA’S PLEASURE WHEN her walnut flooring finally arrived Tuesday morning hit a major roadblock before noon when her tile layer stormed over to her work area beside the barn.
“Hi, Stan. You’re not scheduled until Thursday. Are…”
She found herself backpedaling quickly as she caught the murderous look in his eye. "Hey, hey, what’s the problem?”
“You think you can treat people that way? You think you can talk to people that way?”
“What? What?” He backed her right up into the side of the barn. Too shocked at seeing the usually affable Stan with a vein throbbing in the center of his forehead, Cilla held up her hands as much in defense as a gesture of peace.
“You think ’cause you come from money and got yourself on TV you’re better than the rest of us?”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about. Where-”
“You got some nerve, goddamn it, calling my wife, talking to her like that.”
“I never-”
“You got a problem with my work, you talk to me. You got that? Don’t you go calling my house and yelling at my wife.”
“Stan, I’ve never spoken to your wife.”
“You calling her a liar now?” He shoved his face into hers, so close she could taste his rage.
“I’m not calling her anything.” Alarm lumped at the base of Cilla’s throat, so she spaced her words carefully. “I don’t know her, and I don’t know what the hell you’re talking about.”
“I come home and she’s so upset she can barely talk. Started crying. The only reason I didn’t come straight over here last night is she begged me not to, and I didn’t want to leave her when she was in that state. She’s got hypertension, and you go setting her off ’cause you decide you don’t like my work.”
“And I’m telling you, I never called your house, I never spoke to your wife, and I’m not dissatisfied with your work. In fact, the opposite. Or why in God’s name did I contract you to lay the floor in my kitchen?”
“You tell me, goddamn it.”
“Well, I can’t!” she shouted back at him. “What time was I supposed to have made this call?”
“About ten o’clock last night, you know damn well. I get home about ten-thirty, and she’s lying down, flushed and shaking because you screamed at her like a crazy woman.”
“Have you ever heard me scream like a crazy woman? I was at Ford’s last night at ten o’clock. I nodded off in front of the TV. Ask him. Jesus, Stan, you’ve been working here off and on for months now. You should know I don’t handle things that way.”
“Said it was you. Cilla McGowan.” But puzzlement began to show through the temper. “You told Kay she was a stupid hick, just like most of the people around here. How I couldn’t lay tile for shit, and you were going to make sure word got out. When I lost work, I’d have nobody to blame but my own lazy ass. How maybe you’d sue me over the crap job I did for you.”