In April, Daniel Crane called me. He was the man who'd bought the Bell Harbor house, and I hadn't heard from him since the sale closed.
"Julia, I hope this isn't a bad time."
"It's fine."
"I've been living in the house for a few months now. I've made some changes. New paint. New kitchen. But there's something I found when I was going through the attic."
"What is it?"
"A box of letters. They look personal. I thought you might want them."
I knew which box. My father had kept his letters in the attic, a lifetime of correspondence with his brother, who had died when I was young. I'd forgotten about them in the chaos of the sale.
"Yes," I said. "I'd like them."
"I can mail them. Or you can come get them. Whatever's easier."
I hesitated. The house was two hours away. I hadn't been back
