Page 166

I turn my hand beneath Emma’s and catch her fingers. “What stopped you?”

Nora traces the edge of the photograph with her thumb. “Writing to you meant explaining who I am and how I knew Celeste. Most of what connected us came from stories she kept private because they belonged to women who trusted her, and I couldn’t decide how much I had the right to tell you.”

Emma leans forward slightly. “You thought telling him would betray her confidence.”

“At first.” Nora pushes the photograph toward me before reaching for her coffee. “Years passed, and I kept thinking about the girls. Celeste had their pictures everywhere, and she talked about the women she hoped they’d grow into. Meanwhile, I had a box in my house filled with pieces of their mother.” Her fingers tighten around the mug. “Eventually, keeping all of it started feeling worse than sending it.”

I look at the photograph between us. “So you sent it anonymously.”

“I told myself I was giving you the choice. If the things meant enough for you to investigate, you’d find the trail Celeste left behind. If they didn’t, I wouldn’t force myself into your family with stories you hadn’t asked for.”

“The handwriting?”

Nora’s face tightens. “That was where I crossed the line. I copied a note Celeste wrote me because I thought you’d recognize it and understand the package really came from somebody who knew her.” She shakes her head. “After I sent it, I realized I’d made it look like something impossible. I’m sorry.”

I turn the photograph beneath my fingers taking a moment to absorb that. “Copying Celeste’s handwriting was a terrible way to get my attention.”

“I realized that about ten minutes after I mailed it.” Nora pulls a face at the photograph. “By then, my options were limited.”

“Effective, though.”

Her mouth twists. “Unfortunately.”

Emma slides the photograph closer to Nora. “Why this one?”

Nora looks down at the women standing outside Haven House, and her thumb passes over Celeste’s face. “Because that was the year she saved my life. My marriage had been bad for a long time before I understood how bad. By the time I tried to leave, my husband controlled our money and watched where I went closely enough that getting out took planning.”

Emma stays beside me and Nora pulls the photograph closer.

“I reached Haven House with thirty-eight dollars, two bags of clothes, and bruises under my sleeves. I was terrified he’d find me, and I was almost as scared that somebody would decide I hadn’t suffered enough to deserve being there.”

She taps Celeste’s face in the photograph.

“Your wife showed up three days later carrying groceries. She didn’t ask me to explain everything,” Nora continues. “That mattered more than you probably understand. Everybody needed information because they were trying to help, but every question made me feel like I had to prove what happened. Celeste came in with food and asked whether I liked chocolate.”

I can see her doing it.

Nora smiles at the memory. “I told her I hated dark chocolate, and she looked offended because she’d bought six bars of it. The next week she turned up with milk chocolate and told me she’d corrected her mistake.”

Emma runs one finger along the bottom of the photograph. “She sounds amazing.”

Nora reaches for the next folder. “She was.” She continues, explaining how Celeste became involved once Haven House started helping her rebuild.

When the housing program found Nora an apartment but she couldn’t afford the deposit, Celeste paid it through the Family Transition Fund. When Nora’s husband challenged every legal step, Celeste found an attorney through the Archer project and covered the costs nobody else could.

“I thought the legal project was paying,” Nora says. “I didn’t learn until much later that she helped fundraise for half the cases they couldn’t afford to take.”

I set my coffee down. “She helped half the cases?”

“During the period I was there.” Nora pushes her chair back and heads toward the next room. “And Haven House was only one place she helped.”

Nora gets up and returns with a storage box, placing it on the table between us before removing folders filled with old letters, receipts, photographs, and cards.

Nora opens the first folder.

“This woman is Patricia.” She taps a picture of a dark haired mother standing beside two children. “Her husband emptied their bank accounts when she left. Celeste helped cover seven months of rent while Patricia trained for a new job.”

Nora turns another photograph toward us, then another. Each photograph connects to an entry from the notebooks we’ve spent months examining, except Nora’s folders give context to Celeste’s stripped down notes: Apartment approved. Legal sorted. School starts Monday. Doing better.