Chapter 23: Thirty White Bushes

I opened my grandmother's envelope at the kitchen table on East 74th Street, with Bruce across from me and the lamp turned low.

The letter was one page.

Her slant crossed it in blue ink, and it smelled faintly of lemon polish.

My dear Livia,

If your father has not opened this, then I was right about him, and I am sorry.

I did not stop him because I couldn't prove it.

I could only watch.

I have given your trust a second door.

I have asked a man named Bruce Rayne for a promise.

He owed me four million dollars and not one thing more.

You will be angry with him. Be angry. He can bear it.

Marry when you like and who you like, in the clothes you like.

I only ask one thing.

The roses along the back wall of the garden are for you.

I planted thirty bushes the summer before I got sick.

They bloom white in November, when nothing else will.

Walk toward your husband through them.

Tell Bruce he was right to wait.

All my love, always,

Nonna

I read it twice.

Then I put it flat on the table and covered my mouth with my hand.

"She planted them for me," I said.

"Yes."

"You knew?"

"No." He sounded as surprised as I felt. "I only knew about the codicil. I didn't know about the garden."

I got up.

I took the back door key from its hook.

It hadn't turned in three years, and it stuck.

The garden behind the townhouse was a long strip of frozen grass between brick walls, with a pear tree in the corner and a pair of stone benches.

I had been in it every summer of my life.

I had not been in it since her funeral.

The night was clear and cold, and there was frost on the benches.

Bruce came out behind me and turned on the lantern by the door.