“Yes.”
“Then I’d say this one belongs in either the bad or the ugly category. I suppose they sent it to worry you or throw you off your game.”
Genevieve looked to her father. “Dad?”
“Maybe this is their idea of humor,” he suggested. “They could view this as a prank.”
“It’s just that I don’t ever get letters about you two. This is a first.”
“You receive mail via your publisher, right?” Dad crumbled bacon on top of his eggs, as if he’d forgotten that’s not how he ate his eggs and bacon. He always took bites of eggs, then bites of bacon, then bites of eggs.
“Right.”
“And do they screen the letters for you?” he asked.
“Yes.” She received so much correspondence that she hadn’t been able to keep up with it personally in years. “The publicity team typically passes along the funniest, most heartwarming, and most encouraging of the letters. They file the critical and complaining letters.”
“Then why didn’t they simply file this one?” Mom asked.
“Because it’s unusual. It’s not garden-variety praise or criticism. It’s creepy and vaguely threatening.” When Genevieve had first read it, while standing inside her publisher’s suite of offices, a stone of foreboding had lodged in her chest.
“It’s fiction,” Mom said firmly.
“Are you sure?” Genevieve asked.
“Of course,” she answered. “Judson? Is there anything you think we should do? In response to the letter?”
Her father was famous for his reasonable disposition and cool head. In every circle he was a part of, and certainly within the circle of this family, the members looked to him for advice.
“No,” Dad said. “I don’t think we should do anything in response to this other than ignore it.”
It takes one skilled faker to recognize another, and Genevieve’s instincts were telling her that the letter had the thrust of truth behind it. The stone of foreboding doubled in size.
As soon as Dad finished his meal, he carried his plate and glass to the sink. “I wish I could stay longer, but duty calls.” He gave Mom a kiss, then squeezed Genevieve’s shoulder. “I’m glad you’re home, honey girl.” His nickname for Natasha was cupcake. Hers, honey girl. “I’ll see you later today.”
“Bye, Dad.”
He let himself out the back door, and Mom rose to refill their coffee mugs.
Genevieve watched her dad’s silver BMW back down the driveway. Growing up in the Woodward house, when female tempers had flared, offenses had been nursed, or tears had been shed, Dad had retreated to his home office to read about Mercer University football, watch replays of football games, or listen to sports talk shows about the southern football conference.
As a boy, he’d hated playing the sports that his own father had encouraged him to try. But from his seat within the ranks of theband, he’d discovered that he lovedwatchingthe sport of football. His voracious brain reveled in the numbers, stats, and strategy of the game.
“Isn’t this a moment to treasure?” Mom scooted her chair next to Genevieve’s and clasped her hand. “The two of us having a beautiful breakfast together?” She smiled with heavy sentimentality. Moisture gathered in her eyes.
“A moment to treasure,” Genevieve said.
“God is good.”
“Very.”
“Last night was so scary, not knowing where you were. Terrifying. I cried all night.”
“Why don’t you head to bed? I can run errands for you today.”
“Not just yet. I want the two of us to have a long talk first.” Mom patted her hand.
By “long talk,” she meant a long, long, long,longtalk dotted with laughter, tears, worry, and probing questions. Psychoanalysis. Reflection.
