Morton was aware that Juliette was looking at him, waiting for him to speak. But he was too absorbed trying to follow the disparate threads of thought the letter had instantly generated. He tried to slow his mind, picking up one thread at a time. There was the clear sense that even after two years of having his letters ignored, Jack was still fond of Margaret. For him, it had been more than a youthful, quickly forgotten holiday romance. Of all the people in Jack’s life, he had chosen Margaret in whom to confide. Then there were questions of who had intercepted the letters, and why had his adoptive father kept them all these years? Why not have just destroyed them? The main thread, though, was the mystery of what Jack had discovered about his father. Morton slackened in his seat, feeling his insides tighten as possible scenarios scurried through his mind, each of them corroding the fantasy life that he had created for his biological family.
‘Read the next one,’ he instructed.
Juliette tore it open and read. ‘27th June 1976. Dear Margaret, Well, my silent English friend, since my last letter things have gone from bad to worse. Friday I got into a terrible row with dad and we ended up yelling at each other. I blurted out what I knew about his past. He beat me real bad and I ended up in hospital. I’ve got a broken nose and I’m pretty bruised up. Margaret, I wish you would write me back—I could sure use your advice right now. Dad told Mom I got beat up at school, so she’s being nice at the moment—I wonder whose side she would take, though if she knew the truth… I don’t know what to do next, now that I’ve blown the lid off it—Dad and I aren’t even talking—he only speaks to me when Mom’s around. I don’t know how much more I can take of it. What should I do, Margaret? I wish I could just get on a plane and head back to you in Folkestone. Do you miss me at all? If you get this, Margaret, I sure would appreciate a response. Yours, Jack xx’
Juliette lowered the letter and stared at him. ‘Wow. That was pretty intense. I wonder what your dad found out that was so bad? Maybe he found out that his father was having an affair? Or had had an affair in the past? What do you think?’
He heard Juliette speaking but the words were not connecting with his mind, quickly lost as the mystery deepened. ‘Read the last one,’ he said.
She picked up the final envelope, tore into it and briefly scanned the contents. ‘It’s a short one,’ she said, before beginning to read. ‘30th December 1976. Dear Margaret, This is probably the last time you’ll hear from me. Dad’s dead. There was a big fire on Christmas Eve—our place is now a pile of ash and Mom and my sister are living with a neighbor. They blame me, so I’m staying with a friend from college. He’s lending me everything—I have nothing left. The truth is out, it’s all over. I don’t know what to do. Except I need to leave town. I hope you have a good life, Margaret and maybe one day we’ll meet again. Yours, Jack xx’
The colourful, fairy-tale life that Morton had in his mind’s eye for his real family suddenly became monochrome and tarnished. Nobody was smiling. There was just deep anguish. His image of the perfect family started to disintegrate before his eyes.
‘Well…’ Juliette began. But she had no words, either. She could see it for what it was.
‘I’m shocked,’ Morton stammered. ‘What on earth could my father have discovered that was so bad?’ Their eyes met. ‘I’ve just opened Pandora’s Box and don’t have a clue what to do next.’
Juliette smiled. ‘You’ll do what you always do, you’ll do your research and you’ll find the answers—no matter how tricky it is.’
Morton sighed, trying not to lose his patience. She didn’t understand. Besides which, she wasn’t listening anyway. She was engrossed in her mobile. ‘There’s only so much I can do online,’ he complained. ‘And I’ve done it; I can’t do any more.’
He breathed out slowly, attempting to padlock the lid on his mind’s meanderings. Closing his eyes, he drew small circles on his temples with his index fingers. Another migraine was coming.
When, eventually, he opened his eyes, he found Juliette’s mobile staring up at him from between his elbows. He looked up at her face, not understanding. ‘What?’
She nodded at the phone.
He picked it up, trying not to squint at the screen’s brightness. ‘I don’t understand,’ he said. It was an email. Some kind of confirmation. His fingers spliced across the screen and the word Boston jumped out at him.
‘It was going to be a surprise,’ Juliette said.
Then it made sense. It was a flight confirmation. Two passengers. Three weeks. In and out of Boston, Massachusetts.
‘Our honeymoon,’ she explained with a grin.
He slid back his chair and pulled her into an embrace. He wanted to say thank you, but the words,
