how she was going to achieve this. If she couldn’t organise it, though, she’d have failed Jack. And herself.
Worst of all, the letter was still in existence. She’d been deliberating and arguing with herself for days, but she still hadn’t been able to destroy it. What was wrong with her? Did she really think she owed something to the letter bearer? And what would happen if she allowed the letter to be delivered? Unfortunately, she could foresee it all. Bonds would be severed. Faith and trust shattered. Could she bear the consequences? Not while she was alive. Giving credence to the letter would negate the purpose of her life’s journey. Jack wouldn’t be here to see it—that at least was reassuring. But did she have a right to rearrange the future by eliminating the letter? Should she display strength, deliver the letter and brave the outcome? No, it was too much at this stage. She couldn’t endure it. Her health was too diminished. It would be distressing and vexatious. She would die without peace of mind and security. And what about all the things she had fought to restore and maintain in her family? The letter would undo everything. It would break the skin of calm that she’d struggled to stretch over them all.
She needed that thing out of her life. Disposed of. And now she couldn’t find it.
Shoving the blanket aside, she levered herself off the couch and began another systematic search of the house—the third such foray in the past half hour. She had checked her suitcase and she was sure it wasn’t there. She’d shifted all the cushions, shaken out her pillowcase, flipped through the magazines, rumpled all her clothes. Perhaps she’d slipped it in among the pile of newspapers stacked by the fireplace. (When was she ever going to get around to lighting a real fire?) But no, she would definitely remember grovelling down there on the floor. And her knees wouldn’t handle it, of that she was certain.
Maybe she’d left it in the kitchen, or perhaps, dear God, she’d thrown it away. In a panic, she jerked the lid off the bin and peered inside. Just a few cans, sticky with baked beans. And a milk carton. Leon had cleared the rubbish this morning. Had he thrown out the letter accidentally? Must she go out in the cold to find it?
On the edge of tears, she scuffed into the bathroom for one last check, and there it was, sitting on the vanity beside the bathroom sink. She snatched it up. Why couldn’t she remember putting it there? Perhaps she had set it down while she was washing her hands.
She carried the envelope into the bedroom and slipped it back into the side pocket of the suitcase. Then she struggled into her nightclothes. The cold here had weakened her, and her joints were stiff. It had become a tremendous effort just to lift her arms. In a nursing home she’d have help. But they’d stick tubes in her at the end. They wouldn’t let her go with dignity. It might please Jan, but it’d be a horrible way to die. And where was Jan anyway? She thought Jan would have visited by now, hell-bent on dragging her out of here.
With the letter safely tucked away, she eased herself into bed. She’d done nothing all afternoon, and yet she was weary. Tonight, she’d get some decent rest.
Sleep came quickly, but she woke sometime after midnight with a hacking cough that raked and barked and wouldn’t stop. Only upright could she control it, so she propped herself with pillows and sat up.
It was a clear night. White light flooded the bedroom, perhaps from a full moon. She prickled alert. Jack might be near. She’d dreamed of him these past nights; whenever she tossed uncomfortably on the edge of consciousness, he seemed to place his brown fingers on her arm as if he was trying to stop her from saying something she shouldn’t.
Part of her knew he was a creation of memory, but his face was so vivid—the prominent bridge of his nose, the speckled blue of his eyes, that slightly jutting chin, the dimple beneath his lower lip, the shadow of whiskers emerging. His lips were marbled with sun cracks and the dry lick of salt. And his eyes asked questions she couldn’t hear, expecting answers she couldn’t voice.
Perhaps if she could reach out and touch him she might feel the texture of his skin, the roughness that