She found herself thinking about Abigail Adams, managing five children and running a farm single-handedly while her husband worked to found America. Marcie had always admired and honored Abigail. Was it so much trouble to go across the yard to the john? Even if you did have to carry a heavy skillet to ward off wildlife? Or heat your water? What did she need? One thing she knew for a fact: she sure didn’t need an eyebrow wax.
Marcie drifted off to sleep dreaming of Abigail and Ian’s voice. In the morning when she woke, the coffeepot was on the woodstove, which had burned low as usual. There was a note on the table.
Don’t light the Coleman stove unless you’re sure you know how.
And it made her laugh.
Marcie was almost halfway through a novel in which the hero was just about to grab the heroine by the waist, slam her against him and just kiss the stuffing out of her when something occurred to her. Her letters. In addition to those letters she’d written to Ian about Bobby when Ian was still in Iraq, letters he had answered, she’d written him regularly for a couple of years, to general delivery. They’d neither been answered nor returned. What were the chances…？
She dove off the couch and went first to that little tin box where he put his money every night. She noticed he had stopped locking it. It didn’t hold very much—the deed, which she didn’t bother with, a few pictures. She was distracted by the pictures. They were very telling in number and subject. A family picture when Ian was a young teen, fourteen or fifteen. A beautiful picture of Shelly, a black wrap over her shoulders, perhaps a college or sorority picture. A picture of Ian and Bobby wearing BDUs, rifle straps over their shoulders, grinning. One with his dad when he was a bit older, his father unsmiling.
It distracted her from her search. A couple of things about them were telling—there were only a few photos, and they were of the most special people he’d had in his life. They marked his passage, from a boy in what looked like an average, middle-class family, to a young man with an unhappy father, to a marine. Then there came the woman, then the friend. Then…Nothing.
Underneath the photos were his medals. The ones she’d received for Bobby had come in fancy boxes. Ian’s were loose. But at least he hadn’t thrown them away in a fit of anger or depression.
She tucked everything away very carefully and closed the lid, feeling guilty about going through his things. He deserved his privacy, but there were things she wished to understand. So she went to the trunk that held his clothing and slipped her hand slowly down all four sides. She felt something and gently parted the carefully folded clothes to strike oil. A rubber band held about a dozen long white envelopes, all to him, all from her. All sealed. Never opened, yet saved.
She stared at them in wonder. Now whatever could that mean?
And then she heard a motor. At first, assuming it was Ian returning, she replaced the envelopes and closed the trunk. By the time she got to her feet, she realized it wasn’t Ian’s truck, so she went to the door.
Well, she might’ve known. There, in a big, shiny new SUV was Erin Elizabeth Foley. Big sister. She folded her arms across her chest as Erin got out of the car.
Erin took one look at her and froze. She took two steps closer, her mouth agape and said, “Oh my God! What’s wrong with you?”
Completely forgetting about her red face and burned hair, she looked down at herself. She was wearing one of Ian’s shirts and her boots, bare, white legs sticking out between. “The floor is cold. Erin, what are you doing here?”
“I came to see this place, this man. You can’t possibly believe I’m just going to let you continue this insanity without knowing what we’re dealing with? And it’s a good thing I came to get you! Dear God—did he beat you?”
“Beat me? Of course not! And we’re not dealing with anything because this is not your deal! You’re going to spoil everything!”
Erin came closer, bringing the rich scent of Chanel’s Allure with her. She was decked in a tan leather jacket and matching boots with heels—probably Cole Haan, her favorite—and perfectly creased, expensive, chocolate-brown wool pants. She wore thin driving gloves and her strawberry-blond hair fell in perfect waves to her shoulders. There was, of course, gold jewelry and a colorful red, orange and purple Hermes scarf looped around her neck. “What happened to your face?”
Marcie’s hand rose to her cheek. It didn’t hurt so she had all but forgotten. “Oh. I had a little accident with the stove. It was entirely my fault. But I’m fine.”