Chapter 9 - A Letter from a Dead Man
At the very bottom of the box,
taped to the underside of the velvet,
was a single,
sealed envelope.
It wasn't a document or a transcript.
It was a letter,
addressed simply to My Dearest Sarah.
I opened it with trembling hands,
ignoring the chaos of Daniel and Emily packing our lives into boxes.
The paper was yellowed,
as if he had written it years ago and kept it waiting.
Sarah,
it began.
*By the time you read this,
the world will seem like a place you don't recognize.*
*You will think I was a liar,
and in many ways,
I was.*
But I never lied about the way I felt when I saw you standing at the garden gate.
I never lied about the peace I found in your arms.
*The farm was my penance,
and you were my salvation.*
I spent forty-one years trying to wash the blood off my hands in the dirt of our fields.
I hope the corn grew tall enough to hide the man I used to be.
*Please,
take the money and go to the place we always talked about in Italy.*
The villa with the lemon trees and the view of the sea.
*I’ve already bought it for you,
in a name you’ll recognize from your favorite book.*
Live the life I couldn't give you because I was too busy keeping the world from breaking.
*Forgive me for the secrets,
but know that every secret was a shield I held between you and the dark.*
*I love you,
now and forever.*
Your Richard.
I pressed the letter to my heart,
the scent of him—old paper,
tobacco,
and rosemary—clinging to the fibers.
He hadn't been a stranger after all.
The farmer was real,
even if he was a mask.
The love was real,
even if it was a sanctuary.
I looked at Daniel,
who was standing by the door,
the dark mahogany box under his arm.
"Are you ready,
Mom?"
he asked.
I looked at the house one last time,
at the empty chair and the navy-blue napkin.
"Yes,"
I said,
May you like
my voice finally steady.
"I'm ready to go home."
