I flagged the waitress down and asked her for another glass of wine and a phone book, if she could scare one up. She came back with both, and I thanked her. Inside I found a dozen or more listings for Finley, none of which were preceded by Marion. There was one R. M. Finley, though, so I filed that away for future reference. I knew more than a few people who went around signing their middle name instead of their given first. It was worth a shot. And later, I might even call a few of the other Finleys to see if there were any relations. Perhaps she’d married, or died. I closed the heavy book and pushed it away.

There should have been more letters, but I didn’t see any. I gathered my findings up in a pile and went to put them back the way I’d found them, when a stray bit of coarse paper fell loose. It was another envelope, made of cheap paper with nasty yellow gum to seal it. A grimy smudge of a thumbprint made a dark shadow across the place where the return address should have been written.

I opened it and found nothing except another canceled check from Eliza. But all the rest had come from her in heavy white stationery, mailed with fancy stamps boasting pictures of flowers and birds. The postmark on this one was strange as well.

“Highlands Hammock, Fla.”

Surely it was an error. Someone else’s envelope, Tatie’s check. Bureaucracies make mistakes all the time. The handwriting on the front looked like hers, though; I lifted another envelope to compare, and yes, the script matched up. I supposed she must have taken a trip, or at least I hoped so. Macon’s only a few hours away, but it’s a good six hours to the Florida state line from Chattanooga. Heaven knew how far south I’d have to go to catch her. Highlands Hammock. I’d have to look it up on a map.

Before I rose to leave, I went back to the first, most revealing item in the folder.

A’s letter to Pine Breeze loomed beige and brittle before me. I read it for the umpteenth time, still amazed—still bewildered by a fact the letter made abundantly clear.

Leslie had wanted to be there.

I paid for my wine and left a good tip, even though the waitress hadn’t been terribly helpful. At least she hadn’t gotten in the way, and lately I felt even that much deserved to be rewarded.

The digital clock on my car’s dashboard read 11:14 when I pulled into the driveway of the Signal Mountain house I still called home.