âI have some roses for you,â Charley said, holding the bouquet out to Edith.
Unfortunately, she had a potted plant in her hands, so there was no way she could accept them.
Charley pulled his arm back. âIâll just hold them for you.â
âThank you. Theyâre lovely,â she said.
âNot as lovely as you.â
âThatâs so kind.â
Charley took a deep breath and made his dive. âItâs not kind. I want to marry you,â he said, all in a rush so he could breathe again.
âMarry me? Marry me?â
âI know itâs unexpected,â Charley said, âbut I just had toââ
âItâs very gallant of you, but thereâs no need. I donât feel bad at all anymore.â
âYou think Iâm proposing to make you feel better?â
âThatâs why youâre so special,â Edith said before she turned and walked up the street.
Charley had no idea what to do now.
The disturbing letter was safely hidden in the pocket of Edith Hargroveâs apron. It had arrived along with the rest of her mail in Dry Creek, Montana, early last week, but it had not seemed right to stack a letter like that with the regular mail on the sideboard in her dining room. It wasnât a bill or a reminder for an appointment or even a notice from Social Security. So she kept it close to her, as though this might in some way tell her more about the woman whoâd had the astonishing nerve to send it.
Edith had read the letter so many times she could almost feel the texture of the paper against her fingers even when she wasnât holding it. She kept wondering if sheâd overlooked some clue.
She was still thinking about it as she sat on a stool on her front porch waiting for her recently married daughter, Doris June, to cut her hair. The morning was overcast and a bit chilly. It was quiet in the small town of Dry Creek. Edith shifted on the stool and heard the faint crinkle of paper in her pocket.
She couldnât tell anyone about the letter, of course. The scented envelope had been hand-addressed to Mr. Harold Hargrove, her deceased husband. At first, Edith thought it was one of those letters that had been lost in the mail for a decade. Sheâd heard about letters like that and, since Harold had been dead for fifteen years, it seemed like that was the only possible explanation. But this letter had been postmarked in Los Angeles just a few days before she received it.
There was no return address. Edith considered giving the envelope back to the post office without opening it until she remembered the days when she could barely afford to buy a stamp. Anyone who paid to mail a letter deserved to have it read by someone, even if it was just the intended manâs widow. After all these years, Edith doubted there was anything in a letter that could disquiet her anyway.
She hadnât counted on unfolding that piece of scented white stationery and seeing the womanâs signature at the bottomâJasmine Hunter. Edith had felt her breath stop for a moment when she first saw the name. It was causing her to stiffen up even now just remembering it.
âYouâre sure youâre okay with this?â Doris June asked as she wrapped an old dish towel around her motherâs shoulders. The towel would keep the trimmed hairs off both of them. âYou can change your mind, you know. Youâve never wanted me to cut your hair in the fall before. You always say youâre too busy to do it and that youâll wait until the snow flies.â
Dead leaves were scattered all over Edithâs front lawn, but snow was weeks, maybe months, away.
Edith forced herself to relax. âI canât run around looking like a scarecrow just because the weather hasnât turned.â
Doris June gave her mother a startled look. âYour hair never looks that bad.â
Edith glanced up and gave her daughter a reassuring smile. The letter had definitely put her on edge. She thought she could still smell that envelope even though it was tucked away in her apron.
She hadnât recognized the scent at first. But of course it was jasmine, the strong, mysterious scent that seemed to go with a sophisticated woman in a way that Edithâs simple rose water never could. Sheâd avoided the perfume even before sheâd heard about Jasmine Hunter, the woman Harold hadâwhat could she say?âslept with, succumbed to, maybe even loved some forty years ago.