Abram,
Mr. Fletcher,
If you have the time and inclination, I was hoping I would be most appreciative if you would meet with me extend me the courtesy of meeting today sometime this week for a short conversation about what happened in Chicago two summers ago an important matter.
If you have neither the time nor inclination, I completely understand and wish you nothing but the best, the happiest, and the most fulfilling everything, you deserve it well.
Please don’t hate me.
Love,
Sincerely,
Wishing you the best,
Best Regards, Mona DaVinci (Leo’s sister)
Content with the final version, I placed the letter in an envelope, which I sealed and stuffed in the side pocket of my black cargo pants. Of note, I loved cargo pants. They were my favorite due to the plethora of pockets.
My work uniform consisted of a white button-down shirt and either black, brown, or navy cargo pants. If I needed to look more business casual, I’d wear a suit jacket of a coordinating color over the white shirt. No muss. No fuss. No making myself nuts, wondering what to wear.
In addition to my jacket, gloves, hat, etc., all I’d packed (other than utilitarian swim shorts and a swimming top for the pool, underwear, bras, and wool socks) were black leggings, black snoga pants—like yoga pants, but for the snow—black cargo pants, and black drywear long sleeve shirts. Therefore, picking out an outfit for the truth telling wasn’t an issue.
Walking to the door, I turned and surveyed my room. The bed was a crazy mess, the comforter and blankets a twisted pile in the center as usual. But everything else was tidy. My attention snagged on the other note, the letter I always carried, laying on the side table.
On a whim I didn’t bother examining too closely, I strolled to it, picked it up, and placed it in the pocket at my knee. I always carried the letter, why wouldn’t I carry it now? Turning back to the door, I breathed in through my nose, told myself to be brave, and then slipped out of the room.
It was early enough that I hoped most of the house would still be asleep, but that Lila and Melvin would be up. Discovering which room Abram occupied should be easy, Lila always kept a chart of who was sleeping in which room, no matter the number of guests. Then it would only be a matter of interacting with the others, acting normal, and waiting.
My suspicions proved right. The corridors were quiet, but Lila was up and moving around the kitchen. After exchanging a bit of friendliness, where I asked after her sprained ankle and she asked about my work, Lila relayed the morning’s gossip, like father like daughter, and informed me of a few critical facts:
Number one: I was the second person down for breakfast if you didn’t count her or Melvin.
Number two: Melvin and the nice—but rough-looking—young man named Abram had left about forty-five minutes ago to go clear the slate path and the base area around the garages.
Number three: Leo had been expecting more than the twenty-three guests already present, but these extra people—spouses and significant others—were delayed due to the heavy snow.