Chapter Thirty-Eight
The Hidden Truth
Nora knelt down and tried to lift the floorboard with her fingers, but it stubbornly refused to move. Undeterred, she got up, rummaged through her bag, and eventually settled on her hairbrush as a makeshift lever. Sliding the brush handle beneath the board, she coaxed it upward just enough to slip her hand underneath and pry it the rest of the way. Hidden under the board lay an old Clark’s shoebox in a thick layer of dust and cobwebs, its exterior marked by the stains of time and speckled with mold. Nora carefully retrieved it and set it on the floor.
A jolt of excitement pulsed through her as she imagined what might be inside the box. Money or jewels or perhaps old forgotten love letters? Just before she lifted the lid, the thought struck her that maybe she should wait and open it with Alistair. It couldbe just what she needed to break the lingering tension and awkwardness from the previous night. Resisting the urge to open the box, Nora set it aside and made her way to the dresser where she changed into fresh clothes, tidied her hair, and applied a touch of makeup. She wanted to look put together, not like the hot mess from the prior night.
Descending the stairs with the box tucked under her arm, Nora found the lower floor deserted. Then she heard the noises coming from the bathroom that made it obvious the whisky was making an unwelcome reappearance. Opting to hold off on revealing the box until Alistair was feeling better, Nora busied herself in the kitchen. She decided that breakfast and a cup of tea would be the best remedy for his hangover, and it might help ease the embarrassment from last night. Plus, she could use a bit of the hangover remedy herself.
By the time Alistair emerged from the bathroom, Nora had whipped up grilled breakfast sandwiches of bacon, eggs, and cheese, and had boiled a pot of water for tea.
“Oh, God, what is that smell?” he said, wrinkling his nose as he came limping over to the island and sat down. He looked a bit pale, and his hair was sticking up at odd angles, but Nora thought he was still quite cute. However cute she thought him to be, it didn’t ease the tension in the room between them, which was thick enough to cut with a knife. Nora’s stomach churned as she looked away from him, pretending to be busy cooking. “Only my dad’s famous bacon, egg, and grilled cheese breakfast sandwich. The best cure for a hangover is extra greasy food, you know,” she responded, trying to cut the tension with a light joke while keeping her eyes anywhere but on him.
“Well, it seems that you Yanks have something in common with us over here then. However, I’m not sure this is going to beata Scottish breakfast,” he said in his customary snarky tone. Nora turned around and forced a smile, handing him a plate with the sandwich on it along with a cup of strong English breakfast tea.
Now it was Alistair’s turn to regard the food with skepticism. She watched him look at it, his face still pale and his eyes bloodshot.
“Try it. I promise it will help,” Nora encouraged, nudging his plate gently.
“Okay, but for your sake, I hope it doesn’t come back up because I barely made it to the bathroom this morning.”
He took a tentative bite, chewing slowly.
“Not bad, but it can’t beat my mum’s full Scottish breakfast,” he said after nearly polishing off the whole thing.
“How’s your toe?” she asked, mustering the courage to bring up the previous night.
“Sore,” he replied, taking a prolonged sip of tea and deliberately avoiding eye contact.
Nora swallowed hard. She could sense the discomfort in his gaze, realizing from his expression that he was grappling with regret over last night. The air around them hung heavy with unease, and a wave of embarrassment washed over her, as she turned away, hoping to shield her wounded pride from him.
“What’s this?” Alistair asked, his curiosity interrupted her attempt to compose herself.
Taking a deep breath, she turned to face him again, just as he pulled the shoebox closer. “Oh, funny story. You know that floorboard that cut your toe? This morning I saw something in the crack and pulled up the board. Lying underneath, in a cluster of cobwebs and dust, was this box.”
“What’s in it?” he asked.
“I don’t know. Thought we could open it together,” shereplied. As soon as the words left her mouth, regret washed over her—what was she thinking? “Together” sounded desperate.
To her surprise, Alistair met her eyes and smiled, momentarily easing the tension. Nora couldn’t help but look at his lips as they curled up, remembering the way they had felt against her the night before. A warmth crawled up her chest and into her face, turning her cheeks a light shade of pink as the memory lingered.
“Go ahead, open it,” Alistair urged, snapping her out of it as he pushed the box toward her. Nora walked over, took a seat on the stool beside him, and carefully removed the box’s lid. Inside the old, worn cardboard box lay a stack of letters.
“What is it?” he asked, peering into the box curiously.
“Letters. Lots and lots of very old letters.”
“No way. Must be the old owners of the house stashed them away.”
Nora picked one up and inspected it. Addressed to Marjorie MacDonald, it was postmarked 14/12/1943. Nora’s heart raced at the name. Marjorie had been mentioned on the back of the photograph of her grandmother sitting on the stone wall, the one labeledNew Year’s trip to Marjorie’s. She was a MacDonald and must have been one of Colin’s relatives. Eagerly, she pulled the aged paper from its shell and began reading aloud.
Dear Marjorie,
I hope this letter finds you well and enjoying the small delights of the season. I wish I could be home with you to spend the holidays instead of being cooped up here in this stuffy old hospital. The only thing that is getting me through these long, arduous days is an American nurse named Edith. She is very kind and has been reading to me from Cora’s book, as I am still not able to read from theblasted concussion I sustained after being shot. Forgive me for keeping this letter short as my mate Tim is writing it for me. It’s hard to do much of anything academic these days but with each passing hour I am growing stronger.
I thank my lucky stars for your foresight and urging me to take the book with me when I left for the war since this little red book has saved my life in more ways than you will ever know. Please send me any information you have gathered while I have been away, and I will do my best to cipher whatever else I can.
Do have an extra mince pie for me and a mulled cider on Christmas Day. I promise that once I regain my health, I will make the journey back home to see you. Until then, my dear sister, stay safe and use what you have been given to do so.
