“Dad—”
At that moment, Bella says, “Shh. It’s on.”
My dad has a “friend”?
Great.
Friend is code for girlfriend. The question is, who is it?
I feel the headache return and my stomach flip. The reality is, even my dad has a friend.
Don’t get me wrong, I’m happy for him. Nobody is more deserving than him. But…
What about me?
CHAPTERTWENTY-ONE
LOU
I’m staringdown at the large manilla envelope that just arrived by registered mail.
Have I told you how much I hate large envelopes that arrive by registered mail?
No?
Well, I do. Nothing good comes by registered mail because it means you have to sign for it, providing proof that you received the thing, even though you don’t know what the hell you’re signing for. That’s beside the point, I guess. The point is nothing good can come of it. It’s not like there’s going to be a letter in this envelope that tells me I won a sweepstakes. I never enter those things. Or the lottery.
I don’t have that kind of luck.
Or any luck.
No, the only things that come like that are things such as jury duty notices and letters from the mother that left you one night while you slept.
“What’s that?” My dad sits down at the table in front of me, sipping his coffee.
“A registered letter.”
Dad grumbles. “What’d you do?”
“Nothing.”
“You did somethin’.”
“No. I didn’t.”
“Nothin’ good comes registered mail.”
Well sometimes good things come registered mail, but Dad doesn’t know about the other one I received just a few days ago. That one had no return address on it. What it did have was my coin. The one I found in the Little house. Except it was no longer a coin, it was a necklace. Someone, I’m guessing Chase, had it turned into a necklace. And they didn’t just drill a hole into it, they made a gold ring that fits around the coin and a delicate chain that hangs from that. Probably a better solution than mine—the hole.
I’ve been wearing it ever since, even though the memories hurt. Dad hasn’t noticed. Bella hasn’t either and I’m afraid to tell her. Bill saw it and asked me about it. I told him I found it in the house and decided to wear it. When he told me he was an avid numismatist, I smiled and nodded. Then, because I couldn’t stand it, I asked him what the heck a numis-whatchamacallit was.
“I collect coins.” He pointed to the one around my neck. “May I?”
“Sure.” I was happy to let him look at it because I knew nothing about it. “I figure it’s just an old English coin. Malcolm Little was from England, after all.”
Bill got closer. “Well, it could be English. Perhaps Saxon.”
I shrugged because that word meant nothing to me. “Well, whatever it is, it’s pretty neat. It’ll be my memento after I sell the house.”
