I didn’t have a timeline to complete the boxes of letters. Good thing, because there was no way we would have made it. That afternoon bled into the night. Harper came home, stopping to look at the boxes and the new table.

“I’ll tell you some other time,” Catherine said. “Have you eaten?”

She hadn’t. Catherine fed her, then me, and Harper went upstairs.

“You were telling me about the subway.” Catherine tapped the letter in question. Half a page of the most boring narration in the world. She sat in her chair and put her hands in her lap.

“It’s a little dry. We can skip it.”

“Nope.”

I told her what was in the letter, as far as I could remember, expanding on it as necessary, and she told me about her life at the same time. She’d sold the paintings off the walls to bail Trudy out of jail for a DUI. She’d posted bond for half the town at some point or another.

When we realized it had gotten too dark to read my writing, we turned on the lights, laughing at the obvious solution. Morning came and went. We ate sandwiches and drank homemade iced tea.

We were tired, but we couldn’t stop. She was fascinating, creative, driven to keep the people she loved above water. The table was crisscrossed with photographs and paper scraps when we got to the point when Errol Dannon went off to college. She beamed, eyes glittering with tears.

“He was having such a hard time with math in eighth grade. He thought he was dumb, but he wasn’t. And when he went to Duke, he said it was because I drove Harper to tutor him that he made it.” She sniffed, wiping away a tear.

My handkerchief was damp, but I used it to wipe her eyes.

“Thanks.” She shook off the sobs. “I think we should take a break.”

I tipped the box. A single envelope slid along the bottom. “There’s one more.” I handed it to her.

“This one’s in good shape,” she said, flipping to the front. Her brows knit. “No postmark? No stamp?”

“Might have been stuck in another envelope?”

She shrugged and opened it. When she unfolded the page, two tickets fell out. I put my elbows on my knees, leaning as close to her as I could without crowding her.

“What is this?”

“Read it.”

She met my gaze for a second, then went back to the page and read.

---

Dear Catherine,

This time, I’ll come with you wherever you want to go.

I’ll stay where you want to stay.

I am at your service from this point on.

All my love,

Christopher.

---

That was the shortest letter yet. She looked on the back of the crisp, white page. Blank.

She picked up the tickets and read them. “The Sistine Chapel?”

“You like paintings on the ceiling. Figured it was a good place to start.”

She was still confused. “The date—”

“Enough time for me to get you an expedited passport.” I reached over to wipe her eyes again, but she took the handkerchief and dabbed her eyes herself. “The tickets… it’s just one thing. There’s more. Paris is beautiful.”

“I don’t know,” she squeaked.

“What don’t you know?”

“They need me.” She swung her hand toward the front door as if the entire population of Barrington could fit through it.

“Let them decide that.”

“This is my home.”

“You can still let me take you to Europe.”

Her head was bent over the last letter. A teardrop fell on the paper with a heavy tick. She rubbed it into a gray streak.

“Catherine.”

“I don’t know how I feel.”

“You don’t have to.”

She swallowed thickly. “I’m tired of crying.” She sniffed, not looking up. “But I keep doing it. It’s like a habit. I keep thinking everything’s just going to be bad forever. And I think because if things got good, no one would need me. I wouldn’t have a purpose. I’d be just…” She looked up, past me, to the ceiling, the morning light, the bare walls. “Nothing. Useless.”

I gathered her hands in mine. “Your work in the world isn’t done.”

She tightened her fingers around mine. We sat like that for a long time. I’m not a praying man, but I prayed. For me. For her. For the possibility of an us.

It was her decision. I’d already made one for us. It was her turn.

The effort involved in shutting up was monumental.

Her hands loosened, but I didn’t let go. I wouldn’t. Not until she spoke.

“So…” She cleared her throat when the word caught, looking at me with eyes clear of sadness. “Is it cold in Rome this time of year?”

“You’ll go?”

“I’d love to go. I’d love to be with you.”

I leapt off the chair and held her. “Thank you,” I said into her neck.

She laughed. It wasn’t a reaction to something funny. No. It went on too long for that. It was a laugh I couldn’t kiss through, though I tried. She laughed because she was happy, and I laughed with her.

I’d replaced her tears with laughter. I’d done much without her, and I’d done much for her. But I hadn’t achieved anything until I turned her sadness into joy.