Chapter 16: The Sewing Room

On Day 9, at four in the afternoon, I rang the bell of Helen Holloway's brownstone on Beacon Hill.

Nathaniel had parked across the street.

I had told him to stay in the car, and he had looked at the door for a long moment and agreed.

Harrison opened it.

He was in his shirtsleeves with a day of beard on his jaw, and his phone was not in his hand.

"She's at the Grand," he said. "She won't be back until six."

"I came for my grandmother's tin box."

"I know." He stepped aside. "It's upstairs. I found it last night, and I couldn't carry it down. I think I wanted you to be here."

I went in.

The house smelled of lilies and floor wax.

He led me up two flights to a small room with a sewing machine under a window and a tall walnut cabinet against the wall.

"Bottom drawer," Harrison said.

I knelt and pulled it.

My grandmother's box sat on a folded quilt, dented lid up, exactly where it had been put.

I took it into my lap and opened it.

Her handwriting was all there, sixty years of it, the corners of the cards worn soft.

Nothing was missing.

I pressed my hand over my mouth.

Harrison looked away to give me the room.

Under the box, in the same drawer, lay a green leather notebook with a silver pen clipped to its spine.

He saw me see it.

"I read it last night," he said. "The first half."

"What is it?"

"Open it."

I did.

The pages were Helen's looped silver hand, dated in columns.

Fenway dinner. M. cried in car. Seven. Kissed her forehead as instructed, she thanked him.

Christmas, the tag. M. asked once whether it was a mistake. Four. Told G to say it proves she loves him.

Anniversary, symphony. M. said nothing. Nine. Excellent.

I turned the page.

There were four years of them, in a tidy column, with numbers.

"She scored me," I said.

"Yes."

"Like a recipe."

"Sylvie." His voice broke on it. "I'm so sorry. I did every one of those, and I never once wrote it down, and she did."

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