Bad Heiress Day. Allie PleiterЧитать онлайн книгу.
have no idea why he’d do this? Hide this from you?”
“Not one. Not a one.” Darcy stuffed an entire graham cracker in her mouth.
“Well, at least now I understand why you weren’t in any hurry to open that box. You’ve got a license to be gun-shy on this one.”
“Tell me about it.”
“You know, Dar,” said Kate, pulling up one knee to sit facing Darcy on the bench, “you’re forgetting something.”
Darcy turned to look at her friend.
“What if the why is in the letter?” she offered. “What if it’s not a time bomb, but an explanation? Mr. Lawyer Guy said you were to open the box shortly after your dad’s death, right?”
Darcy nodded, her brain straining to put the pieces together. What if there was some kind of reasoning, some explanation in the letter? Darcy wasn’t sure she was ready to see it. But another part of her began to give in to the curiosity. Knowing why would help the coping process a lot more than chocolate graham crackers.
“You know what?” Kate offered suddenly with a smirk. “I was wrong. We don’t have enough chocolate to deal with this. It’s gonna take a whole gallon of Graeter’s mint chocolate chip to cope with this baby.” She began gathering up the food and wrappers. “And on the way, you can tell me what Jack said about all this.”
Chapter 2
The Twelfth of Never
“Four more spoonfuls and then I’ll open it. I’ll save the rest of my ice cream sundae for the aftermath.” Darcy was feeling better bit by bit.
Kate counted down Darcy’s spoonfuls and added a drumroll to the last one for effect. There, in the front seat of Kate’s car in Graeter’s Ice Cream Parlor parking lot, she took a deep breath and pulled the lid from the box.
Kate was right. It did look ordinary. She didn’t know if she expected some hand to come out and grab her like something from The Addams Family, but it looked tame enough. She started with something safe, like the coins.
“Gold,” Darcy said as she pulled one from the wax paper envelope that held it. “From Africa. At least I think it’s gold—it’s heavy enough. I’ll have to take them someplace to have them appraised. Dad told me he got these when I was born.” There were four of them, two pairs of different kinds. Okay, safe enough. Nothing shocking there. Good. She laid them gently back into the box.
The first Bible was soft and worn, the aged leather flaking off a bit in her hands. It was a woman’s bible, with swirly lettering stamped on the elegant beige of the cover. Her mother’s. Darcy realized she’d never seen her mother with it. She imagined it tucked in a nightstand drawer next to a velvet jewelry box and hankies.
Mom. Her death in 1982 seemed like ages ago now. As a shy seventeen-year-old, it had been so hard for Darcy to come to grips with the automobile accident that had taken her mom’s life. Actually, it hadn’t taken her life, just made her give up on the life she had until it ebbed right out of her.
Maimed.
Darcy had always thought that was an odd choice of words for people to use. Her mother’s left hand looked just as it always had, but it was rendered lifeless. Limp and useless. Her mother had survived all the other bumps and bruises, and had lived for years after the accident, but never gave a hint of ever recovering. Or even wanting to. Clara Hartwell had been a violinist, and life without a left hand didn’t seem worth living. “But it’s just a hand,” Darcy remembered thinking, even arguing with her mother.
All arguments, all pleading, all encouragement had proved as useless as Clara’s fingers. It had been a hideous, awful time.
“Mom’s,” Darcy offered to Kate, surprised by the lump in her throat when she spoke. “I’ve never seen it before.” She ran her hands through the impossibly thin pages, fingered the faded red ribbons that were meant to mark pages. Each ribbon left a pale-pink line on the page it had sat in over the years. Darcy ran her fingers across the monogram gracing the bottom corner before she laid it back in the box.
She recognized the second Bible. Hard-bound, it was tattered and dirty. This was the small Bible her dad talked about carrying through the war. The one he carried for years until he wore it clean out and Darcy gave him a new one for his birthday. Thumbing through it, Darcy saw hundreds of tiny scrawled notes in the margins. Names of people. Question marks and exclamation points with arrows to particular verses. “Harry—forgive him” was one, with an arrow to a passage in Luke which read “But he who hath forgiven little loves little.”
Darcy looked up. “Dad’s.”
Kate said nothing. There wasn’t anything for her to say, really. Except maybe “So, open the letter.” Darcy was glad she didn’t say it.
There it was. Sitting in the corner of the box. Small and thick, with “Darcy” in her father’s handwriting on the front. His handwriting the way it used to be, before his letters got sloppy and shaky from weak hands. This penmanship was strong and careful.
Darcy felt Kate’s hand on her shoulder. “You know, if you want to be alone, I could go get more ice cream or something. Maybe you need to do this in private.”
Darcy swallowed hard. “No. I think I need you here. I’m not going to read it aloud or anything—at least not yet, but I don’t think I want to do this by myself. You just sit over there and polish off that fudge, okay?”
“Got it.”
“Okay. I’m gonna do this.”
“I’m right here, kiddo.”
Darcy counted to five and then slid her finger under the back flap. The paper was still strong, the seal still solid. Darcy guessed it was written about two years ago. Just about when her dad’s diagnosis was finalized.
She pulled up the flap and slid the papers out. Five sheets—filled on both sides—appeared. Small, stationery-size—the kind nobody used much anymore because it didn’t fit into computers, and who even wrote letters anymore?
Unfolding the pages carefully, she let her eyes travel up the lines of dark-blue ink until they hit those fateful words: “Dear Darcy,”
All right then, here we go.
Darcy read the letter.
Dear Darcy,
I’ve been wondering, as I sit down to write this letter, just how upset you will be when you read this. If you’re holding this paper, it means I’m gone now, and you’ve been to see Jacob. And you’ve learned the one piece of my life I’ve kept from you. And, I assume you’re not happy to learn I kept such a thing from you. I had reasons, and you will learn them before this letter is done.
I’m not feeling sick yet, but I know I will be. I know, too, that you will have been there, for you’re that kind of person. They tell me the end won’t be pretty, but I will step out in the faith that I have in you and thank you now for sticking by me when it got messy. I wonder if I will have even known, when it is time, everything you have done on my behalf. If I didn’t, and somehow didn’t recognize or acknowledge your care in the end, forgive me. I know it now, and I’ll take these lucid moments to thank you. The words hardly seem sufficient for what I can only imagine is coming, but I have no others.
Darcy’s chest heaved in a sob. How she had longed for that last, clear, look of acknowledgment from her dad in those final hours. It had never come. He was far away and already lost to her and looking frightened. She ached from his death all over again. For the body now reduced to ashes, the spirit long since left. She forced herself to continue reading:
I worry about you now. I’d have never said it before, but I worry about you and Jack through all this. The strain is sure to be huge. Jack’s so independent, and our tiny family is about to become as dependent as it gets. Know that I have prayed for you and Jack and your marriage. And I will