Chương 2 - The Envelope With Eleanor’s Name On It
Christmas morning arrived beneath a blanket of snow.
Boston woke slowly.
Traffic moved carefully along icy streets.
Church bells rang across the city.
Families gathered around decorated trees.
Inside Eleanor Whitmore's penthouse, however, everything was silent.
Except for the faint sound of Penny laughing.
Eleanor had invited Jerome and Penny to breakfast after the restaurant closed.
She told herself it was because the roads were dangerous.
That was only partly true.
The larger reason was the silver key.
Eleanor had spent half the night thinking about it.
She remembered the crest.
She remembered Robert.
She remembered a silver box he once kept inside his study desk.
She had not seen it since the accident.
At eight thirty in the morning, Jerome entered the dining room carrying Penny’s backpack.
He looked profoundly uncomfortable.
“I don't know if this is appropriate.”
Eleanor smiled.
“Neither do I.”
Penny was already sitting at the table.
She had discovered the Christmas tree.
Her mouth hung open.
“Mrs. Whitmore, this tree is insane.”
Eleanor smiled.
“Thank you.”
“I mean that in a good way.”
“I assumed.”
Penny ran her fingers over an ornament.
“Is this real?”
“Yes.”
“How much?”
Jerome groaned.
“Penny.”
“What?”
“Don't ask wealthy strangers how much their Christmas decorations cost.”
Eleanor chuckled.
“You may ask.”
Penny looked pleased.
“How much?”
“About twelve thousand dollars.”
Penny nearly dropped the ornament.
“You spent twelve thousand dollars on one Christmas ball?”
“Technically, it's an antique German glass ornament.”
“That is still crazy.”
Eleanor laughed.
The sound surprised even her.
She had forgotten how easy it was.
Breakfast continued with pancakes, eggs, fresh fruit, and too much maple syrup.
Jerome barely ate.
He kept watching Eleanor.
Finally she said, “You don't trust me.”
He looked at her.
“No.”
She nodded.
“Good.”
He seemed surprised.
“Good?”
“Yes. A father who trusts every stranger around his child is irresponsible.”
Jerome relaxed slightly.
“I've learned that money doesn't always make people kind.”
Eleanor looked down.
“That is perhaps the truest thing anyone has said to me in years.”
After breakfast, Eleanor asked Penny about her mother.
The little girl described Claire with the kind of affection that broke Eleanor's heart.
“She loved books.”
“So did Robert.”
“She used to read stories when Dad worked late.”
“What happened to her?”
“Cancer.”
Eleanor's expression tightened.
She knew how cruel illness could be.
Jerome spoke softly.
“She fought for eighteen months.”
“Was she aware she was dying?”
“Yes.”
“Did she leave anything?”
Jerome nodded.
“Letters.”
“Do you have them?”
“Some.”
“May I see them?”
He hesitated.
Then he opened Penny's backpack.
Inside was a small blue envelope.
“Claire told me not to open this until Penny turned ten.”
“How old is she?”
“Eight.”
“Then why bring it?”
Jerome looked embarrassed.
“Because after she died, Penny started asking questions about her family.”
He handed Eleanor the envelope.
On the front was a name.
ELEANOR.
Nothing else.
Eleanor's hands went cold.
“Where did she get this?”
Jerome shook his head.
“I don't know.”
Eleanor opened it.
Inside was a letter written in Claire's handwriting.
Dear Eleanor,
If you are reading this, then I was unable to tell you the truth myself.
I am sorry.
I know you may hate me.
I know you may think I betrayed you.
But I made the choices I made because I believed I was protecting someone you loved.
Someone who was worth protecting even if you never knew she existed.
Eleanor read the line twice.
Her vision blurred.
She continued.
Robert knew.
The letter stopped there.
Eleanor looked up.
“Robert knew what?”
Jerome's face tightened.
“I don't know.”
She read on.
Ask him about the Whitmore family trust.
Ask him about the night in 2002.
Ask him why James was never told about the child.
Eleanor dropped the letter.
James.
A child.
Her mind raced.
James had married in 2004.
His wife had no child mentioned publicly.
Could there have been another child?
A daughter?
Eleanor looked at Penny.
Penny was coloring a Christmas stocking.
She had a small scar above her eyebrow.
Eleanor suddenly noticed the shape of her eyes.
Hazel.
Just like Robert.
She looked at Jerome.
“Who was Claire to my son?”
Jerome's face went pale.
“She wasn't.”
“Then why does she mention James?”
Jerome stood.
“I think you need to ask him.”
“Why are you protecting him?”
“I'm not.”
“Yes, you are.”
Jerome was silent.
Finally he said, “Because Claire asked me to.”
“Why?”
“She said your family had people who would hurt anyone who got too close to certain information.”
Eleanor stared at him.
“My family?”
“Yes.”
She wanted to dismiss it as paranoia.
But the silver key sat beside her hand.
And she recognized the handwriting.
Robert's.
She knew it because he had designed the crest himself.
That afternoon, Eleanor summoned her attorney.
Then her private investigator.
Then her foundation's chief financial officer.
She gave them one instruction.
“Find everything related to the Whitmore family trust from 2002 through 2005.”
The investigator looked startled.
“Mrs. Whitmore, that's almost twenty-four years ago.”
“Then you have twenty-four years of documents to search.”
By sunset, the first problem emerged.
The trust records were incomplete.
Several files had disappeared.
Not misplaced.
Removed.
Someone had deliberately taken them.
The second problem appeared an hour later.
A security log from 2003 showed that a junior accountant named Claire Bennett had accessed the private trust archives several times.
Eleanor stared at the name.
Claire.
The woman who became Penny's mother.
Then came the final discovery.
One transaction showed that a secret Whitmore family account had transferred money every month for eighteen months to an anonymous beneficiary.
The payments stopped in 2004.
The beneficiary name was simply:
P.C.
Eleanor's heart hammered.
“Penny Carter.”
The investigator looked at her.
“That's possible.”
“No.”
Eleanor pointed at the document.
“It's not possible.”
She whispered the words she had spent decades refusing to say.
“It's family.”
That night Eleanor called Seattle.
James answered.
Silence filled the line.
Eleven years.
Eleven years since he had heard his mother's voice.
“Mom?”
Eleanor closed her eyes.
“I need you to come home.”
“What happened?”
“I met a little girl.”
Silence.
Then James asked the one question that made Eleanor's blood run cold.
“What is her name?”
“Penny Carter.”
The line went completely silent.
“James?”
When he finally spoke, his voice sounded broken.
“Where did you meet her?”
“In Boston.”
“Does she have a silver key?”
Eleanor stopped breathing.
“How do you know?”
May you like
James whispered,
“Because I gave one to her mother.”
