For twenty-four years, I had believed she forgot me.
Now she was telling me she carried proof of our friendship through every stage of her life.
I looked toward her.
“Why?”
Mara's eyes filled.
She laughed weakly.
“Because you were the first person who made me feel like everything might be all right.”
I couldn't speak.
She continued.
“When my mother was sick, everybody kept telling me to be brave. To help Anna. To stop worrying my father.”
Her voice trembled.
“But you let me be scared.”
I remembered the apple tree.
The blue birdhouse.
The afternoon she cried against my shoulder.
My throat tightened.
“Mara.”
She shook her head gently.
“Let me finish.”
I nodded.
She looked toward the photograph.
“After we moved, I wrote to you.”
I felt cold.
“What?”
“Letters.”
She swallowed.
“At first every week. Then every month.”
I stared.
“I never got them.”
“I know.”
She looked up.
Tears slipped down her cheeks.
“For years, I thought you didn't want to answer.”
My hands began trembling.
“I waited.”
She nodded.
“I know.”
I stared.
“How?”
She opened her handbag again.
This time, she removed a small envelope.
Inside was a letter written in careful, fading handwriting.
She handed it to me.
I recognized the name at the bottom.
Elliot Quinn.
Her father.
I looked toward her.
“What's this?”
“Read it.”
The letter was dated April 2005.
Three years after the summer we spent together.
I unfolded it.
Dear Mrs. Whitmore,
That was my grandmother's surname.
I continued.
I'm writing because Mara still asks about Caleb. I know it's been difficult for everyone since we left Millbrook, but I hope you can help me find a way for the children to exchange letters.
My hands tightened.
Rebecca's health has improved enough that we're beginning to make plans again. Mara has grown into a remarkable young girl, and she still carries the key Caleb gave her.
I stopped reading.
My throat felt tight.
Mara watched quietly.