Chapter 7: The Seven With No Bar

The reception ended at ten, and I went upstairs alone.

Luca's mother had given us two bedrooms with a door between them.

I had asked for that, and she had agreed with a small, sad nod.

Mine faced the ocean.

Someone had turned down the bed and set white lilies on the dresser.

On the pillow lay a cream envelope.

It had no stamp and no name.

I opened it standing up.

Inside was a letter on thick Brooklyn stationery, and the first line made my skin go cold.

My dearest G. I know what you're doing.

I know you married the invalid to punish me.

Come home after the ceremony and I'll forgive you.

It was signed C.

It was dated three weeks ago.

I read it twice, with the lilies sweet in my nose and the surf outside.

Then I went to the window and held the page to the light.

Cesare Albano had a habit I knew from two years of his handwriting on grocery lists and birthday cards.

He crossed his sevens with a short bar.

The date on this letter said the seventh, and the seven had no bar.

The ink was also a shade too black.

It had been written this week by someone who knew how Cesare wrote, and who wanted the page to be found.

If the cousin had found it, he would have read it aloud at breakfast.

If Luca's mother had found it, I would have been the bride who arrived with another man's letter.

I sat down on the edge of the bed and laughed once, quietly.

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