Chapter 12: Birdie's Letter

Birdie let me sleep on her couch until noon.

When I woke, she was sitting in the armchair across from me with a cold cup of tea and an envelope in her lap.

"You went to him," she said.

"I went to him."

"And?"

"I hit him. Twice."

"Good."

"Then I kissed him."

I put the heel of my hand to my eyes. "Then it got worse."

"Worse how?"

"I still want him, Birdie."

She didn't tell me that was wrong.

She only held out the envelope.

It was old and soft, the flap yellowed, and across the front in blocky pencil capitals was written:

MARA.

My throat went tight.

"Your daddy gave this to me three weeks before the end," Birdie said. "I was to hand it over when you'd found out. Not before."

"He knew I'd find out?"

"Honey, your daddy knew everything about everyone. He was a groundskeeper. You'd be amazed what a man sees from a mower."

I tore the flap with shaking fingers.

The letter was short, one page, in the same careful hand as the note in my pocket.

My Mara,

If you are reading this, you know about the pool house. I imagine you are angry, and you should be. I was.

I'd like you to hear the rest before you decide what to do about it.

Ramsay Branwell was a scared boy standing outside that fire, and he is a good man now.

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