The sunroom at Clara’s house was cool and dark, smelling faintly of the lavender sachets she kept in her linen closets to keep the dampness away. Clara had gone into the kitchen to squeeze lemons for iced tea, leaving me alone with the quiet hum of the window air conditioner.
In the corner of the room sat her writing desk, a heavy walnut piece that had belonged to our grandmother. I knew Clara kept all her correspondence there, filed away in neat, cardboard boxes with the years written in her precise hand.
I stepped quietly across the braided rug, keeping my eyes on the kitchen door where the sound of metal spoons clinking against glass echoed down the hall.
I lifted the heavy walnut lid of the desk. The dry brass hinges gave a tiny, sharp squeak that made my breath catch in my throat, but I did not stop. Inside, the correspondence was organized in tight bundles tied with faded green string.
My fingers moved quickly past the church bulletins and the old utility bills, searching for the folder marked 1971.
Near the back of the drawer, tucked behind a stack of old land tax receipts, I found a small bundle labeled 1971.
