Too Late, Don Russo: His Pregnant Wife Signed First novel · Chapter 12 of 24

Chapter 12: The Cards

Don took the stack out of my hands and looked at the top envelope.

"Those aren't mine to have," I said. "They're yours."

"I never saw them."

"They were in your desk."

"Marco handled my mail." His voice was strange. "I told him to. I told him to throw away anything that wasn't business."

He slid his thumb under the flap of the top one.

The glue was dry and gave at once.

Inside was a Christmas card with a lighthouse on it.

Three lines were written in Bea's careful blue hand.

Dear Don, the guest room is made up and I will not bother you with talk. Come for a weekend, bring nothing. She misses you more than she says. Bea.

Don read it twice, standing with his hand over his mouth.

He opened the second one.

Same lighthouse, different year.

He opened the third.

He read all three while I waited, then laid them side by side on the desk with their corners lined up.

"Three Christmases," he said.

"Three Christmases."

"She sent me three invitations."

"And you came to none of them."

"I never knew."

"You never asked either."

My voice cracked on the last word, and I let it.

I had been saving this sentence for three years and it came out in one piece.

"Every Christmas, I stood at the kitchen window and told myself you were busy. I told myself you'd come the next year. I never once said it out loud, because I didn't want to hear you say you didn't want to."

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