Chapter 8: Eleven Letters

The house in Lake Forest had a gravel drive, and Elsie knew every stone of it.

Pauline's driver took them up it slowly.

Darius followed in his own car, and he parked behind them and said nothing.

The front door opened before she reached it.

A nurse in a cardigan stood in the hall, and past her, in the sunroom, an old man sat in a wing chair with a blanket over his knees.

He was thinner than she remembered. His white hair had gone thin, too.

"Arthur," Pauline called, softly. "She's here."

His head turned slowly toward the door.

His right hand lay still on the arm of the chair, and his left lifted a little.

"Elsie," he said.

It came out thick and slow, with a long space between the two syllables.

She had braced herself for anger, and she had braced herself for distance.

She had not braced herself for him to look so glad.

"Hi, Dad," she said.

She crossed the sunroom, and she did not know when she started crying.

He took her hand in his good one and held it against his cheek.

"You came," he said.

"I'm sorry I took so long."

"No. No." He shook his head with effort. "I was a hard man. I said hard things. The fault was mine."

Pauline touched Elsie's shoulder.

"I'll bring tea," she whispered. "I'll leave you three to talk."

She slipped out, and the nurse followed her, and the door closed.

Elsie wiped her face and pulled the stroller closer.

"Dad. These are your grandchildren."

Arthur looked down.

His mouth worked for a moment before any sound came out.

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