What We Had to Lose

I brought the envelope home that Sunday after lunch with my parents.

Mom had found the photograph while sorting a box of loose pictures. Dad had found the letter later, tucked into an old folder of household papers in the same attic. Neither had known it existed.

I believed them. Dad wore his reading glasses to hand it over, as if the occasion required formal equipment.

"You don't have to read it now," he said.

I took it to the little bedroom that still contained my high-school desk.

My grandmother's handwriting looked smaller than I remembered.

Emma, my love,

Your mother will tell you I never threw anything away. She will be right, but please don't encourage her.

I laughed and immediately began to cry.

Most of the letter was ordinary. Advice about wearing warm shoes. A memory of my first disastrous cake. An apology that she wouldn't be there to watch me grow into the woman she already knew I could become.

Near the bottom, the handwriting grew uneven.

There are papers with Ruth Bell, the attorney whose card is enclosed. They concern people I helped, and things that were done to keep them afraid. I left instructions for their care. You aren't responsible for fixing what happened, and I hope they never trouble you. But if anyone asks you about old Moretti records, speak to Ruth before you give them anything.

Remember Daniel? The quiet boy who borrowed your colored pencils? He made it out. His brother helped him. I hope Dominic finds his way out too, but that must be his decision.

Take care of yourself with the same stubbornness you use on everybody else.

Love always,

Grandma.

I sat on the bed until the paper stopped trembling.

Downstairs, my parents read the final paragraphs. Dad went very still at the mention of records.

"Do you know what she means?" I asked.

"A little," he said. "There was an accountant. Someone she helped leave Chicago."

Mom looked at him, then at me. "We should talk to the lawyer. Not guess our way into this."

It was Sunday. I left a message with the firm on the card and sent Dominic a photograph of the relevant paragraph.

He called as I was leaving.

"I knew Helen had given Margaret papers," he said. "I didn't know what had become of them."

"Was she in danger because of them?"

"Not by the time she died. Helen was gone. My father believed the copies had been destroyed."

"And you?"

"I hoped they hadn't."

That answer stayed with me. At least he had given it.

The law firm called back Monday. Ruth still practiced, though she worked fewer days. Her assistant asked for a copy of the letter and said Ruth would review the archived file. There was no urgent deadline. I went back to work, and life, inconveniently, kept happening.

So did Dominic.

Over the next five weeks, we learned each other in uneven pieces.

He learned that a canceled dinner didn't mean I had lost interest. I learned that he went silent when worried, then tried to solve things before admitting there was a problem.

He came to my apartment with groceries once and stood outside holding the bags until I finished laughing at his uncertainty.

"You said your fridge was empty."

"It was a statement, Dominic. Not a distress signal."

"Should I take them back?"

"Absolutely not. There's cheese in there."

I went to his home for dinner and discovered a beautiful kitchen, a nearly empty living room, and a balcony where he stood talking to Daniel with his shoes off.

When he passed me the phone, his brother said, "Please tell me he hasn't served you anything he made himself."

"We're ordering."

"Excellent. I like you already."

One night, Dominic arrived late, wound tight from a meeting he wouldn't describe. He kissed me distractedly and reached for his phone before I'd finished speaking.

I took my hand off his shoulder.

He looked up.

"I waited all day to see you," I said. "If you need to work, work. But don't make me sit here pretending I have your attention."

He stared at the screen, then switched the phone off.

"Tell me again."

"You missed the beginning."

"Then start there. I want to hear it."

I did. Later, he lay on my sofa with his head in my lap while I ran my fingers through his hair. When I stopped, his hand found mine and put it back.

That small, unguarded demand nearly broke my heart.

The first time I stayed at his home, I woke before dawn beneath a sheet that smelled of him. His arm lay heavy across my waist. When I moved, he tightened it in his sleep, and I stayed until my alarm went off.

We had ordinary disagreements. He thought I should replace my unreliable car. I thought he should stop answering "fine" when he had a headache bad enough to make him squint. Neither of us won.

I bought a new sketchbook. He caught me drawing him at the kitchen table and refused to look when I hid it.

"Have I earned access yet?"

"Your ears are proving difficult."

"I've been told they're one of my better features."

"By your mother. It doesn't count."

He pulled me between his knees, laughing, and kissed the inside of my wrist.

By the time Adrian contacted me, there was something real to damage.

The message arrived during my lunch break.

Emma, this is Adrian Vale. We met at Bellini's. Before you let Dominic near Margaret's documents, ask him what he knows about Thomas Reed.

My uncle's name stopped me cold.

A second message appeared with a photograph attached: part of a typed instruction, apparently copied from an old file.

Reed granddaughter may hold remaining material. Verify identity and establish contact.

Beneath it was a handwritten date.

Two weeks before I had climbed into Dominic's car.