As for the other Claudine, my Claudine, her trial was even quicker than Claudine Longet’s. We briefly had to go back, both called as witnesses. They had it expedited so it was in mid-January. Aspen didn’t need another high-profile murder on its hands and they wanted it over as soon as possible. This time I walked up the steps to the courthouse thinking about Thomas. I guess that’s because he was holding my hand. His testimony was on day one and by day two Claudine had taken a plea deal. She’ll be spending the rest of her life in prison but I think she gets nice sheets and like a window or something.

Calhoun + Calhoun was dissolved. I heard Jules now teaches yoga in Vail, and the other agents went to work for Steve.

Turns out, I did end up buying a house from him. Montague House. I had it torn down and gave the property to the Aspen Valley Land Trust on the condition they always keep it undeveloped. It was the right thing to do, especially since Thomas told me about the aspen trees. How they live and grow as communities. They have an interconnected root system and are technically the world’s biggest living organism. They all need each other to survive. Now they’ll have more room.

I also put up a plaque dedicating the land to Thomas’s mom and dad. I wish I had gotten the chance to meet them. What a love story. The way she describes their romance in the letter—so epic. My favorite part is the postscript at the end, the way she tries to end it on a lighter note, let her son know that life is made up of all the little beautiful things, not just the huge overshadowing tragedies.

That seems right.

P.S. A few other important facts about your father: he couldn’t care less about skiing, ate his steak rare and his hash browns burnt, loved avocado, ordered his eggs poached, dipped his french fries in mayo, drank his coffee black, liked long walks, never chewed gum, put hot sauce on his pineapple, made a killer grilled cheese, beat everyone he ever knew at horseshoes, played cards like a pro, was excellent at Scrabble, would take giant gasps when he laughed hard, and had a very small, uncharacteristic sneeze. He was perfect. Like you.

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

© JUDE DOMSKI

Trish Harnetiaux is a playwright whose work has been published by Samuel French. She has received fellowships from MacDowell, Yaddo, and the Millay Colony. This is her first novel. She is originally from Washington State and currently lives in Brooklyn, New York, which means she is partial to hard rain, volcanic ash, and artisan flea markets.

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