Two People Writing One Letter

Daniel Mercer owned a woodworking shop outside Philadelphia.

He was married. He had two grown daughters. In a photograph on the business website, he stood beside a cabinet with one hand tucked into his pocket and an expression I recognized before I understood why.

My mother used to smile like that when she thought she looked foolish in photographs.

I stared at the screen until the words beneath his name stopped making sense.

"We shouldn't just arrive," I said.

Alessandro sat across from me in his study.

"No."

"Or call while he's at work."

"I agree."

"You agree with me suspiciously often now."

"I can stop if it would be helpful."

I turned the laptop toward him.

"He has a whole life. What if he's happy not knowing?"

"Then he should be allowed to tell us that."

He was right. I disliked how comforting I found that.

The boxes had contained records identifying Eleanor Santoro as the mother of three children: Isabella, Margaret, and Daniel. Daniel had been adopted after Eleanor's death, too young to remember either sister.

The genealogist's file held an address from years earlier. Marco had found the current business without intruding further.

Everything beyond that was a choice.

"I think we should write," I said.

Alessandro reached for a sheet of paper.

His first attempt began with the phrase regarding a matter of biological relationship.

I took the pen away.

"We're trying to meet my uncle, not collect a debt."

"I was establishing context."

"You frightened me in the first line, and I already know the context."

He leaned back, folding his arms.

"Please demonstrate."

My version contained three apologies before I reached my mother's name.

He tapped the page.

"You have done nothing to him yet."

"Yet?"

"If we send both versions, he may develop a legitimate grievance."

I laughed.

He took the paper and turned it over.

"Let's begin with your name."

We worked until Teresa knocked on the door and informed us that Sophie had fallen asleep waiting for me to explain whether rabbits could eat spaghetti.

I jumped up.

"Why didn't she come get me?"

"Because she found a blanket, and apparently you were busy with Mr. Alessandro."

Teresa said it mildly. Her expression was another matter.

I gathered my papers too quickly.

"We'll finish tomorrow," I said.

Alessandro stood.

"Clara."

I looked back.

He handed me the draft I had forgotten.

Our fingers touched.

Nothing dramatic happened. No thunder, no sudden confession. Just the warm side of his hand against mine and the unsettling knowledge that I wanted him to notice it, too.

His fingers stayed still for half a second before he released the page.

I went upstairs thinking about that half second.

The next night, he came to the small sitting room above the carriage house.

I opened the door holding one of Sophie's socks.

He looked at it.

"Should I come back?"

"Only if you know where its partner is."

"I'm afraid that is beyond my resources."

I stepped aside.

He had brought a folder and a bottle of sparkling water. Somehow the sparkling water made me more nervous than flowers would have.

Our little room looked different with him in it. The sofa was smaller, the ceiling lower, the laundry on the chair much more noticeable.

I moved a stack of pajamas.

"You can sit."

"Thank you."

Sophie appeared in the bedroom doorway.

"You came to our house."

"I did."

"Do you want to see my bed?"

"Sophie, it's bedtime."

"That's why it's available."

Alessandro glanced at me. I lost the argument before either of us spoke.

She showed him Button's pillow, the paper stars over her bed, and the photograph album in the drawer.

Then she opened it to my mother's picture.

"That's how I knew," she told him.

He crouched beside her.

"You were very observant."

"Mommy says that when I find things I'm not supposed to touch."

He nodded gravely. "It can be a complicated skill."

She was asleep ten minutes later.

I found him at the tiny kitchen counter pouring water into two mismatched glasses.

"She likes you," I said.

"She's made several announcements to that effect."

"She doesn't usually let people see where Button sleeps."

He looked toward the bedroom door.

"I'll bear that in mind."

We finished the letter at my little table.

We told Daniel about the records, about Isabella and Margaret, and about me. We explained that both his sisters had died. That sentence took longer than all the others.

I didn't want him to open an invitation and find two funerals waiting inside it.

Alessandro read it aloud, then let me change the wording until it sounded like something I could have said in person.

At the end I wrote that he owed us nothing. The photographs were his to see if he wanted them. So was the choice.

I signed my name.

"Should you sign it, too?"

He shook his head.

"I'll be here if you need me. The letter should come from you."

I looked at him across the table.

"What if he says no?"

"Then it will hurt."

The honesty made my throat tighten.

"You are terrible at reassuring people."

"Would a lie help?"

"Probably not."

He moved his glass aside.

"If he says no, you won't have done anything wrong by asking."

That was better.

Much better.

I leaned forward to put the letter in its envelope. He reached for the flap at the same moment.

Our hands met again.

This time neither of us withdrew immediately.

He looked at me.

I could see the faint line beside his mouth, the dark lashes that seemed entirely unfair on a man who already had so much else going for him.

"Clara," he said softly.

From the bedroom, Sophie coughed.

I moved first.

"I should check on her."

"Of course."

When I returned, he had put on his jacket.

I walked him to the door with the envelope in my hand.

"Thank you for coming here."

His gaze moved past me, toward the small lamp and the toys lined up beneath the window.

"I liked it here."

I stood in the doorway long after he had gone.

We mailed the letter the following morning.

Waiting made the days strangely full. I listened for delivery vans. Sophie asked whether Daniel would be tall. Alessandro began asking about preschool at breakfast as though he had always wanted detailed information about finger paint.

One afternoon, she drew a family picture.

She put me beside herself, then added a towering black-haired figure.

"Why is Mr. Alessandro standing there?" I asked.

She frowned at me.

"Because I want him there."

Later I found the drawing on his desk, propped against a heavy brass clock.

He came in while I was looking at it.

"She gave it to me," he said.

"You could have put it in a drawer."

"I could have."

I looked up.

For once there was no child between us, no photograph to discuss, no letter requiring another sentence.

"Do you want us there, too?" I asked.

He looked at the picture, then at me.

"Yes, Clara," he said. "I do."