Chapter 4: The Envelope
I didn't open it that night.
David didn't ask me to.
Catherine said goodnight quietly and went back inside, and David walked me to the edge of the harbor where the boats rocked against their moorings and the water was black and silver under the lights.
We didn't speak for a long time.
"I owe you an apology," he finally said.
"For what, specifically?"
"For the scarf.
For the restaurant.
For letting you believe this week was simpler than it was."
"Was any of it real?"
He turned to look at me.
"All of it."
I believed him.
That was the complicated part.
Standing there with an unopened envelope in my coat pocket and a story I hadn't expected, I still believed him.
And I wasn't sure whether that made me wise or foolish.
"I fly home tomorrow morning," I said.
"I know."
"So whatever is in this envelope—" I touched my pocket.
"It would have to matter enough to change that."
He nodded slowly.
"I know that too."
I went back to my hotel.
I set the envelope on the small table by the window.
I looked at it for a long time.
Then I made myself a cup of tea from the little kettle on the dresser, sat down in the chair by the glass, and watched the lights of Valletta until the tea went cold.
Then I opened it.
Inside was a single folded page.
Handwritten.
Dated three days earlier — the morning after our ferry to Gozo.
*Eleanor,*
*I am not good at saying things out loud that matter.
My sister will tell you this is the understatement of the century.*
*What I want you to know is this: I did not plan any of this.
I came to Valletta because Catherine told me to stop disappearing into myself.
I was going to walk around for a few days, eat well, and go home.*
*Then you walked into me with your map upside down.*
*I have been trying to find the right moment to tell you about Ruth.
There is no right moment.
There is only the truth, which is that I loved her, and I lost her, and for two years I told myself that was a good enough reason to stop.*
*You have made me wonder if it is.*
*I am not asking you to stay.
I am not asking you for anything.
I am only asking you to know that this week was not nothing to me.
You are not nothing to me.*
*Whatever you decide tomorrow morning — I understand.*
*— David*
I read it twice.
Then I folded it carefully and put it back in the envelope.
Outside, Valletta was going quiet.
The last of the restaurant lights were dimming along the harbor.
A cat moved along the top of a stone wall and disappeared.
I thought about my husband, Thomas.
About the twenty-nine years we had.
About the way grief had slowly rearranged every room in my life until I barely recognized the floor plan.
I thought about my daughter asking me when I had last done something just because it made me happy.
I thought about the scarf.
Pale blue.
Worn at the edges.
I thought about Ruth, who had come back to Malta and run out of time.
I picked up my phone.
It was nearly midnight.
My daughter would be awake — she always stayed up late.
She answered on the second ring.
"Mom?
Is everything okay?"
"Yes," I said.
"I just needed to hear your voice."
"You sound strange.
Good strange, I think.
What happened?"
I looked at the envelope on the table.
"I met someone."
A pause.
Then, carefully: "Tell me."
So I did.
All of it.
The map, the coffee, the ferry, the courtyard, the scarf, the letter.
She listened without interrupting, which was unusual for her, and when I finished there was a long quiet on the line.
"Mom," she said finally.
"I know."
"What are you going to do?"
I looked out the window at the harbor.
A light was still on in the restaurant.
One small warm square against the dark.
"I don't know yet," I said.
"Do you want to know?"
"Yes," I said.
"I think I do."
She was quiet for a moment.
Then: "Your flight is at nine."
"Yes."
"That gives you—" A pause while she calculated.
"About seven hours."
I almost smiled.
"Are you telling me to go back?"
"I'm telling you," she said, "that you made yourself a promise before you got on that plane.
And I don't think you've finished keeping it yet."
May you like
I sat with that for a moment.
Then I put on my coat.
