When You Were Older

My darling Clara,

I have started this letter four times. The first three made me sound much braver than I am, so I have thrown them away.

Clara rested the page against the table.

She could hear Rebecca saying it: irritated with herself, unwilling to let anyone else point out the flaw first.

Lorenzo moved his chair back.

"I can wait outside."

"Stay. I might need you to tell me if I throw something expensive."

He glanced at the framed print on the wall.

"Avoid the glass."

She laughed once, then returned to the letter.

Rebecca described meeting Julian at the house. He had borrowed her pen and returned it three days later attached to a drawing of her looking furious. She had kept the drawing and bought another pen.

They had loved each other. That part, Rebecca insisted, had been real.

So had Julian's uncertainty about leaving his father's world, and her own fear of becoming someone whose child could be used to settle a family disagreement.

Your grandfather didn't shout when he learned about you. I had prepared for shouting. Instead he spoke about money, arrangements, what would be practical. He made it sound as if the most important things about your future were matters that could be agreed over a desk.

I was proud. I was frightened. I made leaving feel like the only choice a good mother could make.

Clara turned the page.

Julian had attended her birth. Eleanor had been there too, bringing so many flowers that Rebecca had demanded someone take them home.

There was a detail about Julian arriving at the wrong entrance and being sent around the hospital in the rain. Another about Eleanor helping Rebecca wash her face because her hands were shaking.

When your father held you, you stopped crying. He was so pleased with himself that the nurse told him not to get used to it.

Clara covered her mouth.

She had been held. That shouldn't have mattered as much as it did. Yet a small, stubborn part of her had imagined that she had entered the world unwanted by half of it.

The letter gave her one ordinary minute back.

Then it moved beyond that minute.

Rebecca and Julian had tried to make a home together. They had argued about money and work and Matteo's influence. Their separations had become longer. Later, after the trouble with Voss, leaving Long Island had felt necessary.

Rebecca had known Julian might come looking. For a while she had wanted him to. Then she had become afraid of what would happen if he did, and more afraid of what it meant that he hadn't.

I did not know about the paintings. If he watched you grow up, he did not tell me. But I knew he wasn't dead. I knew he had loved you at the beginning. I let your questions become harder than my courage, and that was wrong.

Clara put down the letter.

"She knew I thought he might be dead."

Lorenzo said nothing.

"I said it once. I was twelve. I asked if that was why she couldn't talk about him. She said it was complicated."

She pushed her chair back and stood.

The conference room felt too warm. She walked to the window, then back again.

"I took care of her," she said. "When she was sick, I took care of everything. I was old enough for that."

Her voice rose, and she didn't lower it.

"I was old enough to hear doctors and call pharmacies and figure out the rent. But apparently I was never old enough to know his name."

Lorenzo waited until she looked at him.

"You should have been told."

She gripped the back of her chair.

"I love her."

"I know."

"I don't know what to do with both."

He glanced toward the report about Eleanor's accident.

"You may have to keep both for a while."

Clara sat down and finished reading.

Rebecca didn't ask for instant forgiveness. She asked Clara not to mistake secrecy for proof that her life had been shameful.

You were the best thing that happened to me. I should have understood that you deserved a history as well as a home.

The final lines were crowded near the bottom of the page.

I keep thinking we have time for a better conversation. I am beginning to understand that time doesn't wait for me to find the right words. If I cannot say this to you, I hope these words reach you anyway.

All my love,

Mom.

Clara folded the letter carefully.

For the first time since Rebecca's death, she felt the urge to argue with her without also wanting to apologize for it.

It was a strange relief.

Lydia returned with water and asked whether they wanted to stop for the day.

"There's one other matter," she added when Clara shook her head. "Matteo left instructions concerning provision for Rebecca's daughter. Now that you've come forward, we can review the supporting papers with you. It won't be resolved this afternoon."

Clara looked at Lorenzo.

He appeared as surprised as she was.

"What sort of provision?" she asked.

"Funds he set aside. We'll need to explain the position and confirm the necessary details before you make any decisions."

There was no sudden cheque across the table. Clara was grateful for that, too.

Among the papers was a note in Matteo's hand. He had regretted the way he spoke to Rebecca. He had sent word through Adella that he was willing to see them. When no answer came, he had let the matter rest.

A line at the end said: If she asks what she was to me, she was my granddaughter. I was too slow to deserve the word.

Clara read it twice.

"Does everyone in your family write down things they should say aloud?"

Lorenzo took the page from her.

"Apparently."

She looked at him until he met her eyes.

"Don't do that to Mia. If she asks you something, answer her. Even if it's awkward."

"I will."

"And don't promise because I'm upset."

"I'm promising because you're right."

On the drive home, Clara asked about Portland. Lorenzo knew the cemetery and the name of the friend who had handled Julian's arrangements.

"I'd like to go," she said.

"I'll arrange—"

He stopped himself.

Clara watched the road.

"I'll book it. But I might need someone to watch Mia for the day."

"If you want me to."

She nodded.

"I do. And when I come back, I might want to talk."

Lorenzo rested his hands on his knees.

"Then I'll be here."