THE LETTER KEEPER

hes of gold and red appearing among the green, and James sat quietly in the passenger seat, taking in the landscape of his childhood with eyes that seemed to be memorizing ev

u came back. She never stopped believing you would, you know." "Margaret told me. I wish I'd known." "You should have known. A mother's love doesn't just disappear because you have a fight." Mrs. Patterson had a spare key to Eleanor's house-she'd been keeping an eye on the place for the estate lawyer-and she led them across the yard and up the front steps. The key stuck in the lock, and James had to help her work it free, his hands shaking slightly as he turned the handle and pushed open the door he hadn't walked through in fifteen years. The house smelled of dust and neglect, but underneath that, Margaret could detect something else-the lingering scent of the woman who had lived there, a combination of lavender sachets and the lemon oil she'd used on the furniture. The rooms were mostly empty; the estate sale had taken care of most of Eleanor's belongings. But there were still traces of her life everywhere: family photos on the mantelpiece, a few books left on the built-in shelves, her reading glasses on the kitchen windowsill. James moved through the house slowly, touching surfaces with the tips of his fingers as if he were trying to absorb the memory of the place through his skin. In the living room, he stopped in front of a photo Margaret hadn't noticed before-a family portrait that must have been taken when James was in his twenties. Eleanor and Robert sat on a couch, with James standing behind them, his hands on his father's shoulders. They were all smiling, and James in the photo looked happy and unguarded in a way that made Margaret's heart ache for the years that had been lost. "She kept this out," he said wonderingly. "After everything that happened, she kept this photo where she could see it every day." They climbed the stairs to the second floor, James's breathing becoming more labored with the effort. There were three bedrooms-the master bedroom where Eleanor had slept, a small room that had served as her office, and at the end of the hall, a room with the door closed. James paused outside that door, his hand on the knob. "This was mine," he