She raises her brow at me, waiting with such command in her eyes that I decide to tell her.
“Twenty-five,” I admit, grinning at her skeptical look. “If you must know, I’m twenty-five years old?—”
“A child. You can think of me as your big sister,” she says with a sniff.
“Not a chance,” I say automatically, because we’d havebigproblems if I found my actual sister as attractive as I find Aurora.
“I’m an excellent older sister?—”
“Not to me, you’re not,” I cut her off. “And do I look like a child?”
I don’t. I know I don’t. And she knows it too, I see with satisfaction, because her eyes dart briefly over me, and she pauses a beat too long before she answers.
“You do,” she says, tilting her chin up in defiance. “But you get dressed and come to work for your big kid job, and we’re all proud of you for that?—”
“All right.” Amusement bubbles in my chest, only faintly tinged with discontent at the truth in her words. I snatch the bundle of letters from her while she snickers. “Let’s talk about something else, please. Letters—what kind of letters?” I say.
Her expression fades into something more serious. “I don’t know.” She says this grudgingly, and I find myself wondering what it costs her to say those three words—I don’t know.She pushes them out with reluctance, like they’re a symbol of defeat.
“Of course you don’t,” I say, leaning comfortably against the doorframe. “Why would you?”
“They look old,” she says, more businesslike now.
I hold the bundle of letters up, squinting at them. The twine is frayed, the scrawled writing faded.
“My grandfather,” I say, looking at the name.
“What?”
“My grandfather,” I say again. I point to the address. “I don’t recognize this address. But this is my grandfather, Goddard Drake. AndHenson”—I tap the surname scrawled in the upper corner of the envelope—“that’s my grandmother’s maiden name.These must be from before they were married.” I thumb through the rest of the stack without removing the twine, and I find that the rest of the letters are the same—they appear to be communication back and forth between my grandparents, written when they were still dating.
“Wow,” Aurora says, stepping closer to look down at the letters in my hand. “That’s pretty cool.”
I glance up at her. “Should we open them?”
She raises one brow skeptically at me as she nods at the bundle. “Those seem personal,” she says.
“Suit yourself,” I say with a shrug. Then I slide the twine off and tuck it in my pocket. The envelopes have all been opened already, so I slide the first letter out with gentle hands. Then I look expectantly at Aurora, who’s still standing close and watching me.
“Well?” I say. “Didn’t you say this was too personal?” I wave one hand at her. “Turn around.”
She rolls her eyes but does as I say, turning to face the paneled wood wall of the study, and I grin when I hear her muttering under her breath.
I wait a few seconds, not even unfolding the paper before I gasp loudly. “Unbelievable,” I say in a dramatic voice. “What a positivelyscandalousletter?—”
“You’re absurd,” she cuts me off, speaking over her shoulder. I can’t see her face, but I can picture her expression perfectly. Then she stomps back to the desk, her head held high.
My smile is still lingering over my lips when I actually read the letter—out loud, my words directed at her.
“My dearest Goddard—and you are my dearest,”I begin, giving my best attempt at a female voice and striding slowly toward Aurora,“only I wish you would write to me sooner because I miss you when you are not with me, you know, and my mother frets that you have changed your mind and won’tmarry me after all and that they were just pretty words you spoke—she is glad to be rid of me, you know, because she loves me in the way one loves an extra mouth to feed.”
Aurora turns around and frowns at me. “Must you behave like a child?”
“Shh,” I say. “Don’t interrupt.” Then I continue reading the letter.“My days of late have been filled with worries about Mama’s health,”I go on,“as she says she is fine, but she coughs so horribly. The doctor says she needs fresh air, only I don’t know how he thinks that will help, as she has been breathing air her whole life and still seems to cough. She rests often and I’m glad for it. I can cook and clean and whatever else needs doing—you know I’m good at all those. I tell her when we are married my sisters will have to take care of her, and where will she be then? But she says all will be well and tells me to write to you more often so you don’t forget about me.”
“Ridiculous,” Aurora mutters under her breath, but I also notice her hands have stilled, and her body has turned more fully toward mine as she listens. So I continue:
“I’d best be off now because it’s late and my eyes are tired and tomorrow I will wake dreadfully early, because our curtains have torn and the sun streams in just in my eyes as soon as it appears over the horizon, but you know I shall dream of you tonight and every night until we are reunited—Your love forever and always.”
