I sat stunned, cocooned in blankets and astonished at the simple, articulate way Melinda had just opened such a raw part of her soul to me. Her hand was still in mine, gently squeezing my fingers.
“Amber? Did you hear me?
I nodded dully, squeezing back. “You lied," I whispered.
“What?" Melinda sounded shocked, her cool exterior cracking apart.
“You don't stay with the Romantic era for the beauty," I spoke to my lap, avoiding looking at her. “You stay because of her. Because of Rebeca. It's always been about Rebeca."
I don't know why I felt my heart sinking further at that realization. Why did it threaten to break me that Melinda had loved—and still loved—during the course of her long, long life ? A few summer months with Rebeca had transformed her into a grieving monument to the lo
