Look Again - Lisa Scottoline [55]
She went to the cabinet under the sink, got a spray bottle of Windex and a paper towel, and wiped the dust from the top photo. She cleaned all of them, working her way to the end of the stack until she noticed that between two of the photos was a packet of greeting cards, bound by a rubber band. The top one was a fortieth wedding anniversary card, and she took out the packet and rolled off the rubber band. She opened the card, and it was from her father to her mother, the signature simply, Love, Don.
She smiled. That would be her father. He was never big in the elaboration department, and her mother would have been happy just to have the card, on time. Ellen went through the other cards, all saved by her mother, but the last envelope wasn’t a greeting card. It was an envelope of her mother’s stationery, the pale blue of the forget-menots that grew by their sugar maple in the backyard.
Ellen knew what it was, instantly. She had gotten a note like that from her mother, too, written right before she died. The front of the envelope read, To Don. The envelope was still sealed, and she ran her fingertip along the back of the flap, double-checking. Her father had never opened the note.
Ellen didn’t get it. Had he really not opened the note? Didn’t he want to hear the last words of his wife, written after she knew she was going to die? She wasn’t completely surprised, but she slid a nail under the envelope flap, and tugged the note out, its paper thick and heavy. The top flap bore her mother’s embossed monogram, MEG, in a tangle of curlicues, and she opened the note, welling up at the sight of her mother’s handwriting.
Dear Don,
I know that you have always loved me, even if you have forgotten it from time to time. Please know that I understand you, I accept you, and I forgive you.
Love always, Mary
Ellen took the note and went to sit down in the dining room. The house was still and quiet. Oreo Figaro was nowhere in sight. The windows were inky mirrors, the dark sky moonless. For an odd moment she felt as if she were suspended in blackness, connected to nothing in this world, not even Will, asleep upstairs. She held the note in her hand and closed her eyes, feeling its heavy paper beneath her fingers, letting it connect her to her mother through space and time. And at that moment, she knew what her mother would say about Will and Timothy, in that soft voice of hers. It was what she had written to Ellen in her final note.
Follow your heart.
And so there in the quiet room, Ellen finally let herself listen to her heart, which had been trying to tell her something from the moment she first got the card in the mail. Maybe her father thought it was crazy to worry, but inside, she knew better. She couldn’t pretend any longer and she couldn’t live the rest of her life looking over her shoulder. She couldn’t feel like a criminal when a cop pulled her over. She couldn’t hide Will from his friends and neighbors.
So she vowed to follow her heart.
Starting now.
Chapter Forty
Ellen entered the lawyer’s office and took a seat, surrounded by bronze, glass, and crystal awards, like so many blunt instruments. She had met Ron Halpren when she did the series on Will’s adoption, having interviewed him for his expertise on family law, and she counted herself lucky she could call on him on such short notice.
“Thanks for meeting me on a Saturday,” she said, and Ron walked around his cluttered desk and eased into his creaky chair.
“That’s okay, I’m in most Saturday mornings.” Ron had light eyes behind tortoiseshell glasses, a halo of fuzzy gray hair, and a shaggy graying beard to match. His frame was short and pudgy, and he looked like Paddington Bear in his yellow fleece pullover and thick jeans. “Sorry we’re out of coffee. I was supposed to bring it in, but I forgot.”
“No problem, and thanks for accommodating Will.” Ellen gestured to the secretary’s desk outside, where Will was eating vending-machine Fig Newtons and watching a Wizard of Oz DVD on the computer.
“It’s great to see him so