Chapter 4: The Cedar Box
The scent of dried lavender and yellowed parchment drifted up from the interior of the box, carrying the unmistakable fragrance of a forgotten era. I sat down in the leather armchair, the brass lamp throwing a tight circle of amber light over the contents. There were sepia-toned photographs of a younger me with hair down to my waist, laughing on the rocky shore of Maine. There was the dried boutonniere of white carnation from our engagement party. And beneath a folded linen handkerchief lay a stack of thick cotton envelopes tied with a faded red ribbon.
I untied the ribbon with slow, deliberate movements, my thumb tracing the handwriting on the uppermost envelope. The script was bold, slanted, and entirely unmistakable—the same hand that had carved Forever Yours into the silver band now resting in my pocket.
Thomas had written these letters during the spring of 1968, but according to my father at the time, they had never been mailed. They had been found in his workshop drawer after the boat was wrecked. My father had handed them to me with pity in his eyes, telling me to burn them so I could start fresh. I hadn't burned them. Instead, I had locked them away, burying them beneath layers of domesticity and dutiful silence.
I pulled out the first letter, unfolding the brittle paper.
Eleanor,
If you are reading this, something has gone terribly wrong. My father’s debts are deeper than we thought, and the men he borrowed from are not the kind who wait for probate court. If I don't leave tonight, they will come after you too. Don't look for me. Let them think the sea took me. I will come back for you when the ledger is clear. Even if it takes fifty years.
My breath hitched in my throat. The room seemed to tilt slightly, the dark bookshelves dissolving into a blur of brown and gold. It hadn't been an accident. The wreckage of the boat, the sudden disappearance, the closed-casket memorial service where my father had wept real tears over an empty wooden box—it had all been an elaborate, desperate escape plan designed by a terrified twenty-two-year-old boy trying to save my life from loan sharks and county criminals.
And he had kept his word. Fifty years later, to the day, he had come back.
A sharp, metallic rap echoed through the quiet library.
I froze, the letter trembling in my fingers. The sound came not from the heavy oak door leading to the main hallway, but from the French windows opening out onto the side garden.
May you like
Tap. Tap. Tap.
Slowly, deliberately, I laid the letter down on the green felt desk, stood up from the chair, and walked across the Persian rug toward the dark glass panes.
