The Pursuit of Happiness (2001) by Douglas Kennedy Page B

a glimpse …’

‘Look it, Miss Malone - I saw what I saw, which was nothin’, okay?’

‘Fine, fine,’ I said, wanting to put an end to this Abbot and Costello routine. ‘Send the letter up.’

I stalked off to the bedroom, pulled on a pair of jeans and a sweatshirt, then ran a brush through my tangled hair. The doorbell rang, but when I opened it (keeping the chain on in true New York paranoid style), there was no one there. Just a small envelope at the foot of the door.

I picked it up and shut the door behind me. The envelope was postcard-sized and made of good-quality paper. A greyish-blue paper with a ridged surface that made it exceedingly tactile. My name and address were written on the front. The calligraphy was small, precise. The words By Hand were written in the upper right-hand corner of the envelope.

I opened the envelope with care. As I lifted up the flap, it revealed the top part of a card with an embossed address:

346 West 77th Street
Apt. 2B
New York, New York 10024
(212) 555.0745

My first thought was: that’s close to home. Then I pulled out the card.

It was written in the same precise, controlled handwriting. It was dated yesterday. It read:

Dear Ms Malone,

I was deeply saddened to read of your mother’s death in The New York Times.

Though we’ve not met face-to-face in years, I knew you as a little girl, just as I knew both your parents back then … but sadly fell out of touch with your family after your father died.

I simply wanted to express my condolences to you at what must be a most difficult juncture, and to say that I’m certain someone is watching over you now … as he has been for years.

Yours,

Sara Smythe

I read through the letter again. And again. Sara Smythe? Never heard of her. But what really threw me was the line ‘someone is watching over you now … as he has been for years’.

‘Let me ask you something,’ Meg said, an hour or so later when I woke her up at home to read her this letter. ‘Did she write he with a capital H?’

‘No,’ I said. ‘It was a lower-case h.’

‘Then we’re not dealing with a religious nut here. A big H means the guy upstairs. Mr Almighty. The Alpha and the Omega. Laurel and Hardy.’

‘But you’re sure you never heard Mom or Dad mention a Sara Smythe?’

‘Hey, it wasn’t my marriage - so I wasn’t exactly privy to everybody your parents met. I mean, I doubt if your mom or dad ever knew Karoli Kielsowski.’

‘Who was Karoli … how do you say his name?’

‘Kielsowski. He was a Polish jazz musician I picked up one November night in fifty-one at Birdland. A catastrophe in bed - but good company, and not a bad alto sax player.’

‘I’m not following this …’

‘My point is a simple one. Your dad and I liked each other, but we didn’t live in each other’s pockets. So, for all I know, this Sara Smythe was one of their best friends. Of course, as it was all around forty-five years ago …’

‘Okay, point taken. But what I don’t get is, why did she drop the letter off by hand at my apartment house? I mean, how did she know where I live?’

‘Do you have an unlisted number?’

‘Uh, no.’

‘Well, that answers that question. As to why she dropped it off … I dunno. Maybe she saw the funeral announcement in yesterday’s Times, realized she’d missed the planting, didn’t want to appear overdue with the condolence note, and therefore decided to drop it off on her way to work.’

‘Don’t you think there’s a lot of coincidence at work there?’

‘Sweetheart, you want a hypothesis, I’m giving you a hypothesis.’

‘You think I’m over-reacting?’

‘I think you’re understandably tired and emotional. And you’re blowing this perfectly innocuous card out of all proportion. But hey, if you need to know more, call the dame up. I mean, her phone number’s on the card, right?’

‘I don’t need to call her up.’

‘Then don’t call her up. While you’re at it, promise me you