Her Last Letter (11 page)

Wolfgang raised his eyebrows. “Hadn’t thought of that.” He flexed an arm. “I’ll have to add a few extra reps to the workout.”

We turned our heads at the jingle of a small bell. The dining room table was now set with an elaborate array of food.

Linda leaned in toward me. “The bell is his idea, Renard, the cook. But I guess it’s better than yelling
-hey, come and get it.”
She shrugged.

On the table were platters of turkey, sliced ham, and roast beef, along with bowls of bean salads and tossed salads, asparagus and squash, twice baked potatoes and au gratin. And Linda was pleased to inform us that she had four different desserts out in the kitchen, so we’d better save some room.

Wolfgang pulled out a chair for Linda, and Trevor did the same for me. We toasted to the holiday season and almost forgot to say grace until I spoke up.

“Oh, yes,” said Linda. “Wolfgang, would you do it, please?”

“Me?”

“Yes, you.”

“Okay.” He bowed his head. “Thanks, God, for the really great food. And … and all the other stuff. Amen.”

Linda turned to stare at him.

“What?” he said.

“It’s okay. Next time I won’t ask. Let’s try that again.” We bowed our heads once more. “Thank you, dear Lord, for the bounty we are about to receive, and our many blessings. We pray for those less fortunate, that they too might enjoy this day, and we humbly ask that you feed the hearts and souls of those who need your guidance, and lead them to the path of righteousness in your name’s sake.…”

Finally, she finished the prayer and smiled.

After dinner and a round of desserts, we sat at the table drinking coffee. Wolfgang leaned forward on his elbows and addressed Trevor. “So, what are you and Gwyn doing over Christmas?”

“I don’t know. Skiing, maybe. I’d like to do a little of that.”

“Downhill?”

“Yeah, what else?”

“Sometime I’m going to take you out in the backcountry with me, ski the deep powder. You don’t know what you’re missing.”

“Sounds like too much work. What do I want to walk uphill for when I can take a chairlift?”

“You don’t have to walk uphill. I like to do it that way, but you don’t have to.”

“What do you mean?”

“Snowmobile. You take three guys, one drives and carries another guy uphill. You take turns.”

“You’ve done that?”

“Sure, but I’d rather climb. You can ski a lot of powder if you use a snowmobile, and I know where the powder just hangs around for days waiting for tracks.”

“I don’t know. I’m a decent skier. But I’m not sure I’d enjoy it that much.”

“Oh, you should go,” said Linda. “You’d love it. I’ve gone out with him … not on a snowmobile. I like to use my telemark skis and skins. Gwyn does it.”

“Yes,” I said, “but Trevor just learned to ski a few years ago. He hasn’t had a chance to ski much powder-”

“Now wait a minute,” Trevor said. “I could handle it, no problem. I’m just not sure it’s something I want to try. But hey, I might go out there with you, at least once I do a little downhill skiing and get the legs in shape.”

Wolfgang smiled widely. “Then we’ll do it.”

The conversation turned to talk of the good old days. Linda spoke of how the family used to go sledding when we were kids and the fun we’d have. “Gwyn would scare me half to death. She’d get me on that sled and we’d fly down so fast that when I finally tumbled off I flipped over at least three times. She’d never let me go in front and steer.”

“You didn’t want to go in front and steer,” I said.

“Well, you were the oldest. And the daredevil. Gwyn’s quite the athlete.”

“I’m okay.”

“You’re a lot better than okay,” she said.

“Yes, she is,” said Trevor. “She’s a much better skier than I am. No contest.”

“Well, then,” said Wolfgang, “maybe you should join us too.” He motioned at me with his coffee cup. “In the backcountry.”

Linda laughed. “Wolfgang, she goes out in the backcountry all the time in the winter, and she hikes in the summer. She hikes all over the place taking her pictures. She hikes, she skis, and she can handle a snowmobile better than most guys. You don’t know Gwyn.”

“Oh,” he said. “Well, I guess I don’t.”

“Shows how much you listen when I talk.”

“So, sounds like the whole family was into sports,” Wolfgang said.

“Not exactly,” said Linda. “Dad liked to snowshoe sometimes, when he wasn’t working, and that wasn’t much. Mom, she mainly stayed in the house. She liked to cook and do her embroidery. She could do sports, but she wasn’t that interested, I guess.”

“She liked to cross-country ski sometimes,” I said. “She’d take me out.”

“Yes, but I think only because she knew you liked it,” said Linda, “and you didn’t go far.”

Linda put her hands on the table and pushed herself up. “More coffee anyone? Renard’s gone home, so we’re on our own. How about more dessert?”

Trevor patted his stomach. “No can do.”

I watched Linda leave the room, then turned toward Wolfgang. “So, where is your family now?”

“What’s left of them are in Washington, Washington state, that is. My parents are gone, died a long time ago.”

“What happened to them?”

“They were killed … in an accident.”

“An accident?” I asked.

“They were buried in an avalanche in British Columbia. Bodies didn’t turn up until spring.”

“My God,” said Trevor, sitting up straighter.

Wolfgang shrugged. “I was three years old. I barely remember them.”

“So who raised you?” I asked as Linda reentered with the coffeepot and a tray of desserts.

“An uncle,” he said. “I hear from him from time to time. Still lives in Washington, same house, same everything.”

Linda began pouring coffee, squinting her eyes and frowning at me. “Enough of this depressing conversation,” she said. “It’s snowing outside.” She dipped her head toward the dining room window.

“Well, Aspen is open,” said Trevor. “I checked. And Vail too, not as much snow though. Did I tell you Gwyn and I bought new skis?”

“What kind?” asked Wolfgang.

Linda motioned for me to follow her back to the kitchen, then glanced around the corner once we’d reached it. “What were you doing out there? Don’t ask Wolfgang a bunch of questions about his past.”

“Why not?”

“Because when you do it, it sounds like you’re grilling him for information. And don’t think he doesn’t notice.”

“I was just asking.”

“Well, don’t. We’ll know what we need to know soon enough. Here, take this.” She handed me clean forks and napkins and pushed me toward the dining room.

“Now wait just a minute,” I said. “Why didn’t you tell me you were going to Hawaii? You could have told me upstairs.”

“There wasn’t time. And I only found out this morning.”

“And you knew I wouldn’t like it. And you’re right, I don’t.”

“Well, I like it.”

“What are you thinking, Linda? It’s an incredibly bad idea. What if something happens? You’ll be so far away.”

“What difference does that make? Something could happen here too. Oh, don’t worry about it. I’ll be fine. Come on, we can’t stay in here. It will look suspicious. And, please, don’t ask any more questions.”

Later on, Linda tried to convince the guys to watch a special remake of
A Christmas Carol
, but Wolfgang just laughed and turned on the football game. Linda and I made popcorn. I tried to enjoy the game, but couldn’t concentrate on any of it, including the halftime show, my usual favorite. Trevor kept glancing over at me and it made me uncomfortable. I tried to smile and pretend to be enjoying myself, but I had the feeling I wasn’t very convincing.

By the time we drove home, it was dark out, and snowing harder. We sat in silence watching the snowflakes whip across the road in the glare of the headlights. Suddenly, Trevor reached across for my hand. I almost pulled it back, but managed to stop myself.

“What’s the matter, Gwyn?” He squeezed my fingers gently.

“Nothing. I’m just tired.”

“Of me?”

I swung my head to face him. “No. No. Why would you say that?”

“Oh, I don’t know. Maybe because you never look at me. Maybe because you’re stiff as a board when I touch you. I catch you looking at me like you hate me. Things like that.”

“No. I told you. I’m just tired.”

“So, it’s not me? Because if it is, I’d really like to know. I can’t take this much longer.”

I looked away.

“Gwyn, if it really isn’t me that’s upsetting you, maybe you should see that woman again, that therapist. Maybe you really should.”

“I have started seeing her again.”

“Is this about your sister? Is that what it is, the holidays, and you’re thinking about her?”

“I guess so.”

His shoulders slumped and I could almost see the tension drain from his body. “You should have told me. You can’t keep these things from me. We’re a couple. We need to share what’s bothering each other. We can’t allow problems to grow, not if our marriage is going to work.”

I wasn’t sure how to respond to that, and I still didn’t trust him, so I didn’t say anything.

“I want our marriage to work,” he said. “I want you to tell me when things I do bother you, even things that have nothing to do with me. Can you do that?”

“Yes, I can do that.”

“Good. I feel better.”

As we continued toward home, I thought back to the night Kelly died. Trevor told the police he’d been working alone in his office that evening, that he’d returned home around nine. Actually, it had been a lot later, more like eleven. I’d fallen asleep, and when I woke up, Trevor was just hanging up his coat. I’d never asked him why he lied. But I knew he hadn’t forgotten the time.

The following day I drove to the cemetery. I didn’t ask Linda if she wanted to join me, probably she wouldn’t anyway, because then she might have to talk about Kelly. And that, it seemed, was something Linda never wanted to do.

A wreath lay on each of the family graves, delivered yesterday and on each major holiday, an arrangement Linda and I had made in case one or both of us were out of town. But I’d brought my own flowers today, a mix of tinted orchids and carnations, and placed a spray on all three graves. The markers had been recently cleared, though a dusting of snow had already begun to obstruct the names. I bent down and wiped the snow away with a gloved hand, starting with my mother.

She’d died one winter morning while Linda and I were visiting friends in the neighborhood. Only Kelly was at home. It appeared Mom had lain down for a nap, something she rarely did, and never woke up. Kelly, nine years old at the time, found her and phoned us. “I can’t wake Mom up,” she’d cried. “I shook her and shook her.”

They determined that our mother had died of an aneurysm, a blood vessel popped in her brain. No reason given … these things just happen.

I knelt near her marker and read the inscription.

Ruth Ann Everett. Beloved wife and mother. Receive her into heaven, oh Lord …

My mother’s friends and relatives had called her Ruthie. In the pictures I’d seen of her as a child, she’d appeared quite happy, always smiling, though I didn’t remember too much of that. To me, she’d seemed subdued and resigned. I could only guess that she’d been lonely, not for us kids, but for my father who was almost never around. When he was, he holed up in his little room, doing his books or talking on the phone … in the house, but not really at home.

My father, Samuel Titus Everett, lay in the grave beside my mother. And it occurred to me, that at least in death, my father was forced to stay near my mother, like it or not. But he had been a good man, a stable provider, and he’d stop what he was doing to listen to his children, though we couldn’t hang out for long before he’d tell us to scoot. He’d amassed a fortune virtually behind our backs, though my mother must have known. We owned the sporting goods store in town, Titus Sports Authority, and there was a catalogue that came out each month, and frequent mention of “the plant,” though none of us girls had ever been there. We did help out often in the store on vacations and holidays to earn our spending money, but we had no idea of the wealth he’d accumulated until he died.

It was obvious he wanted it that way. Our home was modest. We lived modestly. I could only wonder why he’d chosen to live so simply, though in the will, he’d given a clue. “And to my girls I bequeath all my earthly belongings, and urge them to remember that money makes no guarantee of happiness, but instead can usher in a world of woe. Choose wisely your path, and those you keep close to you now. Forgive me the burden I have placed on you.”

He’d sold off the store after the first heart attack, and soon after liquidated the rest, leaving everything in order, as was his way. He died of a second, massive attack, no doubt due to a lifetime of stress, or perhaps, I liked to think, he’d missed our mother more than he’d ever cared to show.

Kelly’s grave was next to my father’s. I stared at it the longest. My dearest baby sister. How would I live my life without her? I couldn’t go a day without thinking about her, without wishing she were still here.

She was born Kelly Alan Everett. The middle name belonged to our paternal grandfather, since Kelly was the hoped-for boy that never materialized. She was a wild little child, tearing through the house, bouncing off the walls, always smiling, especially at me. I carried her around like a favorite doll when she would let me, helped give her baths, played hide and seek, and read her stories. I thought of myself as Kelly’s second mother. She was our baby, and we spoiled her accordingly. I, especially, hated to tell her no.

I looked up from her grave. A frigid wind had picked up, blowing snow around my ankles. I watched as a plastic bag took flight across the cemetery, skipping over and over. I reached down one last time to adjust the flowers, then pulling my coat close, headed back to the Jeep.

A week and a half later on a Saturday, Trevor left for Denver to “motivate the troops,” as he’d put it. He would be away for the weekend, possibly longer depending on how everything worked out. He’d left in a good mood, mainly because I’d fooled him, convinced him he was not the reason for my recent coldness.