Chapter 24: The Card

I sent Santino Carraro a card at ten past six on Friday, and he did not laugh.

I had chosen the hour on purpose.

The finance floor had emptied out, the way it had on that Monday, and the sun lay low and orange across the glass wall.

The driver carried the envelope upstairs himself.

He had been carrying things for me all week without being told, and he set it on the corner of Santino's desk with a small nod.

Then he went back down and sat in the car.

I stayed at my own desk, forty feet away, and pretended to read.

I heard the envelope tear.

The card was heavy cream stock, and I had picked it at a stationer's in Marblehead on Wednesday.

On the front was a photograph from the wedding.

Phoebe had taken it from the stone steps, at the moment the harbor wind caught my veil.

I was laughing, and Santino was not looking at the camera.

He was looking at me.

Inside, I had written four lines in blue ink, with the pen from the head of the long oak table.

Dear Mr. Carraro.

You asked for a card from the wedding.

I am informing you that no one arranged it. I chose it, and I would choose it again on every day of the week.

Helena.

The silence in the office went on a long time.

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