He had brought home a glass dolphin for her and a silver bracelet for me.
I still owned the bracelet.
“Sit down,” David said.
“No.”
“Eleanor, please.”
“You told me you had never been to this restaurant.”
“I know.”
“The waiter knew your name.”
“I’ve been here several times.”
“How many?”
“Seven.”
My throat tightened.
“Why?”
He reached inside his jacket.
I stepped back again.
“It’s only an envelope.”
He placed it on the table instead of handing it to me.
My name was written across the front.
Not in David’s handwriting.
In Michael’s.
I knew every curve.
Every impatient stroke.
He always made the final letter of my name too large.
Eleanor.
My husband had written that envelope.
My knees weakened.
Clara pulled out a chair.
This time, I sat.
“Where did you get that?”
David lowered himself across from me.
“After Ruth died, I found a box hidden behind the lining of an old suitcase.”
