go through my things."
Whitney simply stared in stunned silence. Her mother was shaking with anger, her face flushed as her fingers clenched into a fist around the letter.
"Understand this right now." Anne's voice had dropped, but it was hard and tight as she continued. "I will not tolerate this kind of intrusion. In the future you will stay out of my desk, out of my.. .my personal things."
The strength in the older woman's voice had dwindled with the final words and an instant later Anne turned and walked out of the room.
Whitney stood and stared in bewilderment at the empty doorway. She had never, not once in her life, seen her mother lose her temper. It left her feeling oddly displaced, as though she had stepped into Alice's Wonderland where ordinary things were suddenly extraordinary, where nothing did what it was supposed to do. She felt as though she had been bitten by a butterfly.
* * *
Later, after Whitney had showered and changed into a blue silk jumpsuit, she curled up in the window seat in her bedroom and stared out the window, a confused frown adding small grooves to her brow.
Even now, after she'd had time to think, the scene with her mother had a surreal quality about it. Every motion and emotion seemed strangely exaggerated and out of place. Why did her mother suddenly object to Whitney using her desk? Menopause was already behind Anne Grant, but could there be some other physical problem, one that her mother was hiding from Whitney?
No, Whitney told herself, it wasn't about the desk. It was the letter. The change in her mother had taken place when Whitney mentioned the letter from her father.
Leaning her forehead against the glass, she replayed the scene in her mind. She had already admitted to herself that she'd been wrong to read the letter. Letters were personal things, especially a letter from a loved one. But the more Whitney thought about it, the less she was inclined to believe her mother's outburst had been sparked by an invasion of her privacy. For one brief moment, as she'd stared at the letter, Anne Grant had looked afraid.
It was only moments later that Whitney saw her mother leave the house and take the path that led to the main house. As she watched the older woman disappear from sight, Whitney chewed on her lip in indecision. Then she stood up abruptly and left her bedroom.
Downstairs, Whitney returned to the study and began once again to search through the drawers of her mother's desk. This time she unfolded every scrap of papa. She looked in every cubbyhole and between the pages of Anne's appointment book.
Whitney wasn't sure what was driving her; she wasn't even sure what she was looking for, but she knew she couldn't stop until she had some answers.
And that was why, when she left the study, she went upstairs to her mother's bedroom.
As she searched through her mother's personal things, in the bureau, the nightstand and the closet, guilt nagged at Whitney, but the guilt wasn't strong enough to overcome her need to know.
She found nothing in her mother's bedroom. Absolutely nothing. No letters, no mementos, no photos. Frowning in frustration, she wandered into the adjoining bathroom, stopping abruptly as the smell of smoke reached her.
It wasn't tobacco smoke—Anne Harcourt Grant would never do anything so unladylike—more of a charred or burned smoke. Something had been burning in the bathroom. And it had been burning recently enough that the smell still lingered in the air.
Whitney found the evidence, still warm, in a brass wastebasket.
Dropping to her knees beside it, she began to sift through the mound of ash, her fingers trembling with a growing sense of urgency.
She found two scraps of paper in the remains. On one, in her father's distinctive hand, were the words "please, love." The other piece was the top half of an envelope with the return address still intact: 1132 Quintan Street, Dallas, Texas. The postmark showed it had been sent only seven years earlier.
For a
Whitney simply stared in stunned silence. Her mother was shaking with anger, her face flushed as her fingers clenched into a fist around the letter.
"Understand this right now." Anne's voice had dropped, but it was hard and tight as she continued. "I will not tolerate this kind of intrusion. In the future you will stay out of my desk, out of my.. .my personal things."
The strength in the older woman's voice had dwindled with the final words and an instant later Anne turned and walked out of the room.
Whitney stood and stared in bewilderment at the empty doorway. She had never, not once in her life, seen her mother lose her temper. It left her feeling oddly displaced, as though she had stepped into Alice's Wonderland where ordinary things were suddenly extraordinary, where nothing did what it was supposed to do. She felt as though she had been bitten by a butterfly.
* * *
Later, after Whitney had showered and changed into a blue silk jumpsuit, she curled up in the window seat in her bedroom and stared out the window, a confused frown adding small grooves to her brow.
Even now, after she'd had time to think, the scene with her mother had a surreal quality about it. Every motion and emotion seemed strangely exaggerated and out of place. Why did her mother suddenly object to Whitney using her desk? Menopause was already behind Anne Grant, but could there be some other physical problem, one that her mother was hiding from Whitney?
No, Whitney told herself, it wasn't about the desk. It was the letter. The change in her mother had taken place when Whitney mentioned the letter from her father.
Leaning her forehead against the glass, she replayed the scene in her mind. She had already admitted to herself that she'd been wrong to read the letter. Letters were personal things, especially a letter from a loved one. But the more Whitney thought about it, the less she was inclined to believe her mother's outburst had been sparked by an invasion of her privacy. For one brief moment, as she'd stared at the letter, Anne Grant had looked afraid.
It was only moments later that Whitney saw her mother leave the house and take the path that led to the main house. As she watched the older woman disappear from sight, Whitney chewed on her lip in indecision. Then she stood up abruptly and left her bedroom.
Downstairs, Whitney returned to the study and began once again to search through the drawers of her mother's desk. This time she unfolded every scrap of papa. She looked in every cubbyhole and between the pages of Anne's appointment book.
Whitney wasn't sure what was driving her; she wasn't even sure what she was looking for, but she knew she couldn't stop until she had some answers.
And that was why, when she left the study, she went upstairs to her mother's bedroom.
As she searched through her mother's personal things, in the bureau, the nightstand and the closet, guilt nagged at Whitney, but the guilt wasn't strong enough to overcome her need to know.
She found nothing in her mother's bedroom. Absolutely nothing. No letters, no mementos, no photos. Frowning in frustration, she wandered into the adjoining bathroom, stopping abruptly as the smell of smoke reached her.
It wasn't tobacco smoke—Anne Harcourt Grant would never do anything so unladylike—more of a charred or burned smoke. Something had been burning in the bathroom. And it had been burning recently enough that the smell still lingered in the air.
Whitney found the evidence, still warm, in a brass wastebasket.
Dropping to her knees beside it, she began to sift through the mound of ash, her fingers trembling with a growing sense of urgency.
She found two scraps of paper in the remains. On one, in her father's distinctive hand, were the words "please, love." The other piece was the top half of an envelope with the return address still intact: 1132 Quintan Street, Dallas, Texas. The postmark showed it had been sent only seven years earlier.
For a
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