July 21, 1954

Marblehead, Massachusetts

It arrives on a bright summer day.

A large manila envelope with the word PRIORITY stamped in two places across the front in red ink. I stare at it, lying atop the scarred leather blotter along with the rest of the day’s mail. The writing on the front is familiar, as is the name of the sender.

I drop into my chair, breathe in, let it out. Even now, with so many years gone, the memories are tricky. Like the ache of a phantom limb, the source of the pain may be gone, but the reminder of what’s been lost, so sudden and so keen, takes me unaware. I sit with that pain a moment, waiting for it to fade.

Afternoon sun spills through the blinds of my study, painting slats of buttery light on the carpet and walls, shelves lined with books and awards, bits of this and that collected over the years. My sanctuary. But today, it seems my past has found me.

I open the envelope and spill the contents onto the desktop. A rectangular parcel in plain brown paper and a small envelope with a note paper-clipped to the outside.

Forwarding to you, per the enclosed letter.

There’s no mistaking Dickey’s careful hand.

My nephew.

We rarely speak these days—the years have made conversation awkward—though we still send cards at the holidays and on birthdays. What would he be sending me?

I tease the single sheet of stationery from its envelope, laying it open on the blotter. Not Dickey’s handwriting here but another’s. Also familiar. Sharp, angular letters, heavily slanted. Letters penned by a ghost.

Dickey,

After all that has passed between myself and your family, you will no doubt think me bold in contacting you. I am keenly aware of the fallout resulting from my connection with your family and am reluctant to put you in the middle once again, only I find there are matters that, after so many years, require clarification. And so I must beg one last favor. I ask that you forward the enclosed package to your aunt, whose whereabouts I have lost track of over the years. I assume the two of you are still in contact, as you were always her favorite, and I recall her entrusting you, on one particular occasion, with a communication of some delicacy. It is this memory that emboldens me to enlist your help now. It is my wish that the package be sent on undisturbed, as the contents are of a private nature, meant for your aunt’s eyes only.

With deepest regards and gratitude,

—H

The room feels small suddenly, airless and close, as I eye the neatly wrapped package. Thirteen years without a word and now, out of nowhere, a clandestine parcel sent via our old go-between. Why now? Why at all?

My hands are clammy as I tear the coarse brown paper. An embossed leather spine appears. A marbled blue cover. A book. The title, lettered in gold, hits me like a fist.

Regretting Belle.

I swallow the ache in my throat, the jagged sensation so fresh it steals my breath. I’ve been numb for so long, so careful not to remember, that I’ve forgotten what it feels like to be sliced open, to bleed. I brace myself as I flip back the cover, then press a hand to my mouth, gulping down a sob. Of course there’s an inscription. You never could pass up the chance to have the last word. What I haven’t prepared for is your voice filling my head as I read the words you’ve scribbled on the title page—a dart aimed squarely at my conscience.

How, Belle? After everything . . . how could you do it?