Evelyn’s hands folded over one another. The pearl bracelet slid toward her wrist.
Clara sat very still.
The truth had not surprised her. Not completely. She had known Evelyn was hiding things. She had not known how many lies had been built on top of one another until there was no room left for kindness to breathe.
Brooke turned toward Clara.
“You let her tell me that?”
“I tried to speak with you.”
“When?”
“Several times.”
“You never called me.”
“I called the number your mother gave me.”
Brooke looked at Evelyn again.
Evelyn’s eyes shone, but no tears fell. “I didn’t want her to take you from me.”
The sentence landed differently from the others.
Brooke’s face changed.
“What does that mean?”
Evelyn looked toward the hallway. “Your grandmother left something for you.”
No one moved.
Clara’s gaze sharpened. “That is not what we agreed.”
“You promised me you would give her the letter.”
“I promised I would give it to her when she was ready to hear it.”
“She is hearing it now.”
“Not like this.”
“Then when?” Evelyn demanded. “When you have finished turning her against me?”
Clara rose slowly from her chair.
Her knees ached. She rested one hand on the table until the room settled around her. Marcus stood immediately, but she gave him a small gesture to stay where he was.
“I never turned Brooke against you,” Clara said. “You brought her anger into this house yourself.”
Brooke’s eyes flicked toward the floor, where the keys lay beneath the table.
“What letter?”
Clara looked at Evelyn for a long moment. Then she walked toward the narrow cabinet beside the fireplace.
The room smelled of cinnamon, cold ash, and the roast nobody wanted anymore. Clara opened the cabinet and removed a blue metal box. Its paint was chipped along the edges. She carried it back and set it on the table.
Evelyn gripped the arms of her chair.
Brooke watched Clara unlock the box.
Inside lay an envelope, a small brass key, three bank statements, and a faded photograph of two young women standing beside a bus station. One was Clara, slim and solemn in a wool coat. The other was Evelyn, laughing with one hand raised against the sun.
Brooke picked up the photograph.
“You were friends?”
“Before you were born,” Clara said.
Evelyn looked away.
Clara took out the envelope. The paper had yellowed, and the handwriting on the front trembled in dark blue ink.
For Brooke, when she is old enough to choose what kind of woman she will be.
Brooke’s thumb traced the words without opening it.
