“Your wife died six years ago.”
“Yes.”
“And you found this then?”
“Not immediately. I donated most of her clothes, but I kept the suitcase. I found the letters last year.”
“What letters?”
“More than 40.”
The courtyard seemed to tilt.
Clara quietly went inside, leaving David and me alone.
I looked at the envelope.
“Michael wrote to your wife?”
“For years.”
“How many years?”
David’s eyes filled.
“Almost 11.”
I pushed the envelope away.
“No.”
“I wish I were wrong.”
“No. Michael was not unfaithful to me for 11 years.”
David did not argue.
That made me hate him for a moment.
I wanted him to defend my husband.
I wanted him to say the letters had been misunderstood.
That Ruth and Michael had been old friends.
That whatever this was, it had not touched my marriage.
Instead, he said, “They met at a conference in Valletta.”
The trip came back to me.
