That’s kind of my thing. I’m really good at it.
But I also can’t remember the last time we watched television together or discussed politics or something he’s written. I’m driving home and combing my thoughts for those missed moments when the phone rings.
“Mrs. O’Malley,” I say, using the car’s phone connection so I can remain focused on the road. “How are you?”
It’s been months since I spoke with the woman who sold us our place in New York, but I’m always glad to hear from her.
“I’m not . . .” Her voice breaks. “Bristol, I’m sorry to bother you, but I need to get into the apartment.”
I frown and get off on the exit that takes me home.
“What’s wrong?” I ask. “You sound upset.”
“There’s a letter,” she says, tears soaking the words. “From Patrick.”
My heart stumbles in my chest at the name of her husband who lost a prolonged battle with Alzheimer’s a few months ago.
“Where?” I ask, feeling her urgency reach me across the phone and across the country. “What letter?”
“The home he lived in at the end, the staff found some of his things that had been left in another room. Before he . . .”
She breaks off again and her small sob tears at my heart.
“Go on, Mrs. O’Malley, please.”
“At the end, he lost speech and wasn’t even connected to this world, but he must have had a flash of memory before he died,” she continues with difficulty. “He wrote a note telling me there was one letter I never found. We used to leave letters for each other all over the house, and there’s one I never found.”
“We’ve done significant renovations, Mrs. O’Malley.” I rack my brain for anything we could have unwittingly discarded. “I haven’t seen anything. I’m not sure if it would still be there.”
“Is the tree still in the greenhouse?” she asks, hope pinned to every word. “On the roof?”
“Yes! We haven’t touched the tree.”
“Good,” she breathes. “When I was working on a difficult design, I would go out there to plant flowers. Dig around until things made sense. There was a bed of roses at the base of that tree.”
“There still is,” I assure her.
“He buried it there,” she says tearfully. “It may only say don’t forget the wine for dinner. I don’t care. Any word from him, anything. I’ll take anyth—”
Her words are lost in tears. I allow her space, not knowing where to begin comforting her. I’ve only had a few years married to Grip and I would be inconsolable if he died. She and Patrick were married fifty years.
“I’ll call and let building security know you’re coming,” I say after a few moments. “They have all our codes on file and can get you in.”
“Thank you, Bristol,” she whispers. “Give Grip and the kids my love.”
Grip and the kids.
“I sure will,” I promise with a tearful smile.
* * *
GRIP - Chapter Four
I hear the garage door open and close, followed by the chime of the security system when someone enters the house.
Bristol’s home.
I glance at my watch, noting how late it is. She’s been gone all day. Other than a text telling me she had something come up, I haven’t heard a thing from her. After our conversation this morning, that doesn’t bode well.