“She thinks you got your hands on the letters she wrote before she left New York—one to me and one to Teddy—and that through some clever sleight of hand, you made sure the letter she wrote to Teddy ended up in my hands rather than his. I told her she’d been watching too many movies and that no one was clever enough to pull off what she was talking about.”
Corinne sniffs dismissively. “And does she say why I might have done such a heinous thing to my own sister?”
“Jealousy,” Hemi replies simply.
“Jealousy?” The word seems to astonish Corinne. “Me, jealous of her?”
She laughs then, a shrill, grating peal that suddenly brings all her scornful words flooding back. How she never wanted to be a wife or have a houseful of children. How she was tired of dancing to everyone else’s tune. How it was my turn to do my duty.
“But you were jealous,” I remind her, feeling a strange calm flood through me, an understanding that’s been far too long in coming. “I used to think it was about what Father wanted, about being obedient to him. But it was more than that. You resented the fact that I wouldn’t just roll over and marry Teddy, the way you did with George. You hated me for believing I deserved to make my own choices. You wanted me to be as unhappy as you were. And you knew I would be with Teddy.”
Corinne’s expression has turned brittle, her careful denial suddenly fallen away, replaced with an almost venomous glee. “And what if I did? Why shouldn’t I resent you? When I was never allowed choices and only ever expected to do what other people wanted? You talk about being clever. What do you—either of you—know about being clever?” She glares at us now with overbright eyes. “You go sneaking off to some seedy apartment and think no one will know what you’re up to. I knew! And you, Mr. Garret, you may have managed to bring us down with your disgusting little story, but that wasn’t what you really wanted, was it?” She pauses, jabbing a finger at me. “She was what you were really after. My pretty little sister. Well, I took care of that, didn’t I?” She beams, triumphant at last as she whips her head around to look at Hemi. “Who’s clever now, paperboy?”
Hemi catches my eye with the barest of nods. “I do beg your pardon, Corinne. It seems I underestimated you.”
“You most certainly did.” She aims her sickly-sweet smile at me then. “And you—you silly fool—you certainly helped.” She tips her head back, sending a fresh peal of laughter into the air. “You should never have left me alone with your letters, sister dear. It didn’t take long to figure out you were planning to run off with the Brit. There was a problem earlier that day, though, wasn’t there? A missed appointment of some kind? Hence, your note asking him to wait. What I didn’t know was how you planned to get the note to him. I knew you must have a plan, or why write it at all, so I kept an eye out. And who should I catch slipping down the back stairs with his coat under his arm but my little sneak of a son. How lucky for me that you chose such an inept spy.”
She smiles then, clearly pleased with herself. “I followed him to the kitchen and saw him take a pair of envelopes from beneath his shirt and slip them into his coat pocket. Poor clumsy boy, I nearly scared him to death when I came up behind him. I scolded him for having his good shoes on. It had rained earlier and everything was muddy. I took his coat and ordered him upstairs to change his shoes, then told him to put on a scarf while he was at it. I needed to make sure I’d have enough time to get the envelopes open.”
The last part, delivered so casually—as if she’s discussing how to remove a wine stain from a blouse—is faintly shocking. “How do you happen to know how to open sealed envelopes?”
She looks at me, plainly amused. “What a silly question. But then you’ve never been married, so I suppose you’re to be excused. It’s easily done when the envelope is freshly sealed, which these were. A few seconds over the teakettle, a carefully applied letter opener—or in this case, a butter knife—and it’s done. Initially, I only meant to read them, to learn the extent of your plans, but after reading what you wrote to Teddy, I had a better idea. I knew how it would read to the paperboy. He’d think he’d been given the push. So I swapped them and put the envelopes back into Dickey’s coat. Voilà!”
She’s so proud of her resourcefulness, like a bank robber bragging about pulling off the perfect heist. Hearing it sickens me, but there are still things I need to know. “What happened to the other letter?”
“You mean the one he was supposed to get?” Her gaze flicks to Hemi and she shrugs. “I wrapped it up with the potato peelings from dinner and tossed it into the compost can.”
Compost. The thought makes me vaguely queasy. My words—words meant for Hemi—decaying, liquefying, seeping into the dark earth. I slide my eyes to Hemi, vindicated at last, but there’s no joy in the moment, no sense of relief or absolution. Only a fresh sense of loss and a terrible reminder of what was stolen from me. From us.
“And Teddy’s envelope?” I ask dully. “What happened to it?”
“I resealed it, empty, and slipped it back into Dickey’s coat. I assume he got it, though I can’t say for certain. Lord knows what he thought when he opened the thing. And poor Dickey never had a clue.” She’s smiling again, a sharp, vicious little smile. “Happy?”
“Am I happy?” I stare at her, incredulous. It’s as if some part of her, the warm-blooded part, is missing, and I wonder that we can be related at all. “You’ve broken my heart all over again, Corinne. Reminded me how close I came to the life I wanted—and how it felt to lose it. But I’m glad it’s over, glad to be finished with you and this house, glad to hear they’ll pull it down the moment you’re gone. I’m going now. I won’t be back.”
Hemi and I are nearly to the door when she calls my name. I turn, surprised to see her slumped in her chair now, as if all the air has gone out of her. “Go into the closet,” she says flatly. “There’s a box there with some things in it. Take them with you.”
My first reaction is to keep walking, to get as far away from her as possible—as quickly as possible—but something new has crept into her voice, a blend of resignation and defeat. Against my will, I find myself experiencing a pang of sympathy for the sister I know I’ll never see again. Grudgingly, I do as she asks.
In the closet, near the back, I find an old hatbox. I open it right there, feeling my breath catch as I lift the lid. Her things. My mother’s things. The silver-backed hairbrush that used to sit on her dressing table, a pearl-and-diamond broach, a strand of garnet beads, a packet of old letters postmarked from France—and at the bottom, a brown leather album with my mother’s initials embossed in faded gold.
The leather is dry and scarred, the spine completely split, with a pair of large rubber bands employed to secure the pages that have come loose over the years. The sight of it stirs so many memories, beautiful and bittersweet, and for a moment, I’m certain I can hear her, smell her, feel her all around me. Maman.