Four days after I left the hospital, a courier delivered a cream-colored box. I thought of Clara's last words: *I'll have something sent to you.* I had repeated them through every hour of my recovery.
Maybe she had written a letter. Maybe she was willing to talk.
My hands were still clumsy from blood loss, and I struggled with the ribbon. Inside, on a bed of satin, lay a wedding invitation.
Silver calligraphy crossed the heavy card.
*Julian Thorne & Clara Vance invite you to celebrate their marriage.*
Only the formal invitation lay under the satin.
I read the date twice.
On the date printed on the card, I wore a black suit and went. I couldn't make myself enter the church.
Instead, I waited beneath an old oak in the gardens of the reception estate overlooking the Hudson, far enough
