Blue Sky Hill [04] Dandelion Summer by Lisa Wingate

Author:Lisa Wingate [Wingate, Lisa]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: Fiction, Family Life
ISBN: 0451233271
Google: M75krqYnaVYC
Amazon: B004Y3HT1W
Publisher: NAL
Published: 2011-07-05T05:00:00+00:00

Chapter 15

J. Norman Alvord

I left the envelope unopened until we reached home. I wasn’t certain why, other than the knowledge that the mere act of traveling across town with Epiphany at the wheel was excitement enough. I had the sense that the envelope contained something of significance—a life-altering bit of history that shouldn’t be discovered while clinging to the seat by my fingernails as the car threaded through rush-hour traffic. Epiphany didn’t argue the matter greatly. She was busy trying to deliver us home in one piece.

At slightly after five thirty we reached my house, having both perhaps sacrificed a year or more of life span. I was never so relieved to be pulling into my own driveway.

Safely back in the house, I sank into my chair, sliding my fingers along the crease of the plain brown envelope. The paper was crisp, somewhat aged in feel. The envelope had a pliability to the edges and a stiffness farther in, indicating that whatever was inside hadn’t been intended for this particular package.

“Open it!” Dropping to her knees, Epiphany squirmed into the narrow space beside my chair. “I risked my life for that thing. It better not be last year’s Christmas card.”

I examined the crease again, partially just to torment her, but there was also a sense of foreboding in me. If my mother had chosen to hide whatever knowledge this envelope contained, perhaps there was a good reason. “Now, that would make both of us look foolish, wouldn’t it? All this running around for a Christmas card.”

“Well, hey, at least I know how to drive in rush-hour traffic now, right?” Epiphany’s hands flipped through the air, mobile exclamation points.

“I presume you’re using that term loosely.”

She blew a raspberry at me. “I got us back here. Open the stupid envelope.”

I slid a finger under the flap, and the glue popped free quickly. Inside was a single sheet of floral stationery folded around a newspaper clipping.

“What is it?” Epiphany leaned close, her chin touching my arm. “What’s it say?”

My hands shook as I unfolded the paper. At the top, my name had been written in shaky cursive, and beneath that, the single paragraph of writing ran downhill, the scrawl labored, crooked, almost illegible. I lifted it closer to my face, trying to make out the words. In my mind, I heard the voice from my childhood, Frances’s voice.

Norman, I fear I cannot take this secret to my grave. Please know that I believe your mother had your best interests at heart. I suspect that to her dying breath she would have told you that you were always hers, but you came to her at five years old, following a trauma of some sort. You dreamed often of a house fire. I believe you had or may yet have siblings. A woman who helped with parties in your mother’s Houston circle, Aldamae, may have known something of this. She was a colored woman from Groveland. She came to the back door late one night and spoke privately with your mother.

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