Chapter 10: Walter's Letter

My father's study smelled of cedar and cold pipe smoke, though he had not lit one in six years.

I stood in the middle of the rug on Thursday night with my hands at my sides and did not touch the desk.

"He left you something," Winslow said from the doorway. "I've kept it in my safe for four years."

"Why now?"

"His note on the envelope said, 'If she leaves him.'"

He held it out.

A cream envelope, soft at the corners, my name on it in my father's small upright hand.

I sat in his leather chair and opened it with the thumb of my good hand.

One page, folded in thirds.

Rhi,

If Winslow is handing you this, you've left Darrell Gaines, and I'm sorry I wasn't alive to be rude about it in person.

I met him twice.

He shook my hand with his eyes on my watch. He asked what the foundation held, and called it "a lot of dormant money."

I didn't say a word because you were happy. I told myself that happiness was yours to spend.

I was wrong about one thing.

I thought you'd stop paying for him when he stopped being kind. You won't. You'll give him a year, then another one.

So here is my permission, which you never needed. Take it all back. Take it with both hands, in front of whoever's watching.

And if Winslow is the man handing you this, ask him what he told me at your twenty-ninth birthday.

Love, Dad

I read it twice.

The second time the words ran together, and I put my fist against my mouth.

"I'm sorry," Winslow said, behind me. "I should have given it to you the night of the gala."

"No."

I wiped my face with my wrist.

"No. You gave it to me tonight. Tonight I'm ready."

"Rhiannon."

"He knew," I said, and I laughed, wet and shaky. "He saw it from the first handshake. And he still let me."

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