A Letter for Annie Read Free

little else could have.
    Moving to the first box, she unpacked multicolored scraps of upholstery material and stacked them beneath the table. In a second carton she located shears, scissors, spools of thread, braiding and her large button box. She arranged these items neatly on the left, then pulled a piece of cranberry floral material from the fabric pile and spread it across the surface, visualizing the exact way she wanted to cut it to transform it into a satin-lined tote. For the first time since Carmen’s call, she felt the coils of tension ease.
    Keeping busy was the answer. Between caring for Geneva and burying herself in work, there would be no time to think, to remember.
    At the sound of a light tap on the door, she said, “Come in.”
    Carmen waited with a tray. “Breakfast, Annie? Your tia, she is still sleeping.”
    With the first whiff of blueberry scones and coffee, Annie realized she was ravenous. “Thank you, Carmen.” She moved across the room and took the tray. “But I don’t need to be waited on.”
    “Maybe just for today.” In the woman’s eyes, Annie read understanding.
    Annie set down the tray. “Will you call me when Geneva is awake?”
    “ Sí. Your visit, it is bringing her joy.”
    “What have her doctors said?”
    Carmen shook her head. “Better to ask her. It is not for me to tell.”
    “I need the truth.”
    “She is strong. She is not afraid of that truth.” Carmen nodded at the tray. “If you want more, come to the kitchen.”
    “Thank you.” Annie closed the door behind Carmen, then sat with her breakfast in a chintz-covered armchair. The scone was buttery and delicious and the coffee strong and hot. Neither, however, filled the empty place within her.
     

    L ATER THAT MORNING when Annie entered the living room, Geneva looked up and smiled. “Good morning, petunia.” She gestured toward the bay window. “Nice day for ducks.”
    “Typical Oregon.” Taking the chair across from heraunt’s, she noticed that Geneva was wearing a colorful Moroccan-style caftan. “How are you? Did you eat your breakfast?”
    Geneva gave a dismissive wave of her hand. “I’d rather not dwell on my health, but I did eat a poached egg.”
    Annie tried to match her aunt’s bantering tone. “And that’s a cause for celebration?”
    “Bells, whistles and firecrackers.” Geneva cocked her head, studying Annie. “Did you sleep well?”
    “Fine,” Annie lied. No point mentioning the hours she’d lain awake listening to the wind and wishing Geneva still felt like trotting around the globe gathering information and anecdotes for her travel books.
    “I don’t believe you.” Her aunt hesitated. “Everything must seem strange to you. The town, the cottage—” she gestured airily “—and me. No wonder. I feel strange to myself. I keep thinking I can run upstairs, walk on the beach, drive a car.” She sighed. “I guess I should be thankful I’m still breathing, because we have work to do.”
    “Work?”
    “See that chest over there by the piano? Bring it to me.”
    Annie pushed the heavy container across the floor to Geneva, who leaned over and, with effort, opened the lid. Inside were sheafs of paper, along with photo albums.
    “This, my dear niece, is Greer family memorabilia. You are my only descendant, and I don’t want our history to die with me.”
    Annie picked up a packet of letters tied with binding twine. “You’re the only Greer I really know. I havesketchy memories of my father, but I was only five when he died. It’s as if he’s the star of a long-ago movie that I can scarcely remember, no matter how hard I try to rewind.”
    “We can’t bring him back, but we can certainly flesh out some of those memories and more. If nothing else, Greers have always been unique individuals. Look at me. I’ve been to six continents, had lovers on three—”
    “Auntie G.!”
    “Don’t look so shocked. Just because I never married doesn’t mean I didn’t have good times.