The third paper was ripped diagonally, but it didn’t matter as there were only five words on it.

Amy,

I love you.

Nick

The date was six weeks from the first telegram, and if she remembered time correctly, a year before he was released, eleven months before she became engaged to Phil.

For the second time that night she sobbed. Even when he thought she didn’t come, when he believed the worst of her, he’d written of his love.

In her need to survive the agony of abandonment, she had deserted her love for Nick. Her concern about these telegrams should have been buried when she said the words “I do” to Phil; guilt flooded her mouth with leftover acid from the Christmas champagne.

Loud knocks came from beyond the commode stall, from the other side of the bathroom door.

“Amy . . . are you okay?” Phil’s voice sounded muffled, underwater.

She stood and opened the commode door, called out, “I’m fine. I’ll be right out.”

She shuffled to the sink, washed her face, brushed the guilt from her mouth with toothpaste. Then she shoved the letters back into the tampon box—safe. She wondered dully whether the guilt she felt was from not being there for Nick—for abandoning something she would never have left behind—or from her betrayal, meager as she conceived it at that moment, of Phil. She was too tired—too damn tired—to figure it out now.

She opened the bathroom door and almost knocked Phil over.

“Babe, you okay?”

“I think the crab puffs were . . . bad or something. I never want another crab puff again in my life. Ever.” She moaned and fell into bed. “Are Jack and Molly okay?”

“Yes. Molly is sound asleep on top of the bed in her clothes. All that coat-hanging wore her out, I guess.”

“That or the champagne I saw her sneak.”

Phil laughed. “She wasn’t the only one.”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean you . . .”

“It wasn’t the champagne.”

It wasn’t the champagne. It was Nick Lowry—how do you like that?

“Okay, hon.”

“How’s Jack . . . Lisbeth?”

“We got her all set up in the guest room. She’ll drive home in the morning.”

“Hopefully before I get up.”

“Not a lot of love lost between you two.”

Amy didn’t answer, rolled over.

Phil reached over and rubbed the top of her forehead. “Well, it was a great party except for your buddy Rebel spouting his Greenpeace agenda to my boss.”

“His name is Revvy and it wasn’t a Greenpeace agenda. It was . . . God, I do not want to talk about this again.”

“Oh, so now you don’t want to talk about it.” He laughed; she didn’t think he was funny. “It’s all you’ve wanted to talk about for months.”

“Phil, drop it, okay? All you care about is what your boss thinks of you.”