A car eased up the drive.
I moved to the front window and recognized the car… Amy.
She stepped out of it looking composed, as always—soft summer dress with splashes of bright colors, hair swept back, sunglasses perched on her head. If not for the tension in her shoulders, she might have looked like she was stopping by for nothing more serious than tea and gossip.
I opened the door before she could knock.
“Morning,” I said.
She froze mid-step.
Her gaze lifted to my face and her eyes widened.
“Pepper,” she breathed. “What happened to you?”
I stepped aside to let her in. “I was just about to call you and tell you everything so you can make sure the correct version circulates.”
She closed the door behind her, still staring. “You look like you lost a bar fight.”
“I tripped.”
“That doesn’t explain the black eye.”
“I tripped dramatically.”
She followed me into the kitchen, shaking her head.
Mo trotted over and nudged her hand in greeting. Roxie flicked her tail from atop the refrigerator as if unimpressed by human clumsiness.
“I assume this involves Ian,” Amy said carefully.
“It involves gravity, a rug, an elbow, and a cell phone,” I corrected, reaching for another mug. “Tea?”
“Yes. Something calming.”
We settled at the kitchen island counter after giving her a mug of chamomile and refreshing my oolong.
“Start at the beginning,” Amy said.
So, I did.
I told her about reading Aunt Effie’s multipage letter. About getting lost in it. About the line that changed everything. About screaming for Ian. About the spectacular collision that followed.
Amy tried to remain sympathetic.
She failed halfway through and laughed.
“I am a terrible friend,” she said, wiping her eyes. “I shouldn’t be laughing.”
“You absolutely should,” I said. “Better you than the entire town.”
“Too late for that.”
I leaned back slightly. “Here’s the part you don’t repeat.”
Her smile faded into curiosity.
“Uncle Max was a spy in World War II.”
