Authors: Sally John
“But why now, when I’m not there? Have I been in his way all this time?”
“I can’t say, Sher. I mean, Sheridan. It could be that with you not there to take care of him, he’s had to push himself harder. I can tell it bothers you.” His eyes shimmered green.
“I guess my feelings are easily hurt these days. Anyway, Mercedes called this morning. He had a bad afternoon that went on into the night, the worst she has ever seen. I don’t think he’ll be traveling to Chicago.”
“I’m sorry.”
“Thanks. I called Helena. She doesn’t mind talking to a spy.”
His left brow went up.
“Does tomorrow morning work for you?”
“Sure.”
They sat in silence.
At last he said, “The funeral is going to be tough on you. The crowds, the commotion, the stress. In spite of what I said last night, this might be a time to pull out the old crutch. Do you want me to stay?”
She turned to him. “You can’t stop what you’re doing.”
“I can rearrange some things. Right now, you’re more important.”
She shook her head. “Don’t do that.”
Don’t make me important. Don’t make me care for you.
He touched the edge of her eye with his little finger and wiped the errant tear. “Hey, I’m Gabe the angel. Remember?” He shifted his position subtly until he was on the far corner of the bench, his arms crossed, offering distance instead of a hug.
He understood. She wanted to slip into his arms and snuggle against him as she’d done countless times before. But that was when he was Gabe the angel, the guardian, the comforter, the bad guy–slash–good guy who inexplicably kept her sane when her world crashed.
Now he was Luke the man, the one who cared for her in ways her husband did not. And now she was Sheridan the woman, who could once again stand on her own two feet, who could once again long for the response of a healthy man to her femininity.
It would be best not to be hugged by Luke Traynor.
Chicago
The following morning Sheridan sat with Luke across the table from Helena Van Auken in a coffee shop. They had been there for at least an hour, Luke listening to Helena’s story. At last he was finished with his questions.
“Dear.” Helena patted Sheridan’s hand on the table. Her hair, or some of it, was again in a bun. She wore a floral print skirt with a bright top, this one royal blue. “I am sorry for your loss. Not his death, particularly, but the loss of a relationship. The man created a hole in your life by not being a loving father.”
Sheridan couldn’t have spoken even if she knew what to say. The woman had a knack for touching heartstrings.
“I am sorry Calissa didn’t come, but I understand she is preoccupied today.”
That was putting it mildly. Her sister had spewed harsh words at Sheridan for not postponing the meeting with Helena. She said Sheridan truly was all “princess.” Where was her benevolence now? What happened to her “I’m here for as long as you need me” promise? As usual the little sister had let down the big one, thinking of her own wants.
Sheridan responded to Helena, saying, “Yes. She’s inundated with calls and visitors. But friends and the housekeeper are there helping out. I’ll get back as soon as I can. This business here is time sensitive.”
“I agree. I mean, how long can we . . .” Helena glanced over one shoulder, then the other. Leaning forward, she whispered, “How long can we keep the CIA at our beck and call?”
Luke winked at her. His charm had immediately won her over, of course. “Where would you get that idea?”
Helena shrugged, the picture of innocence. “When Sheridan referred to you as a government official, I just assumed.” She smiled.
He smiled back.
Sheridan put a hand over her mouth to hide a grin. The two of them had been flirting since the first hello.
Helena sighed and pulled an eight-by-ten padded manila envelope from her large handbag. “Well, whoever you are, Luke, it is kind of you to help. I am so grateful that at last the officials are stepping into this mess.”
“I’m not sure I can guarantee any justice, Mrs. Van Auken, but we will do our best to get to the bottom of things.”
“The act of unburdening this information releases me. I hadn’t realized I felt guilt until the girls visited the other day. I’ve known about his shenanigans for years. I should have done something to put a stop to him.”
“Oh, Helena,” Sheridan said. “Don’t take on any guilt. There was absolutely nothing you could have done.”
“Perhaps not while your mother was alive, but later. I could have told someone in Washington what I knew.”
Luke shook his head. “Without proof, it would have gone nowhere. Harrison was an important man.”
“I suppose so.” She smiled coyly. “But if I’d found a confidant as cute as you, it might have been worth my trouble. Now—” she slid the envelope across the table and tapped it—“this arrived in a box addressed to me. The mailman brought it my door. There was nothing else in it. See here where your mother wrote, ‘H, please keep this for my girls, just in case. Thank you. Y.’ It doesn’t say anything about not opening it, but I never did. I always felt it was too private. It was between you girls and her. I have no idea what is inside, although I am sure, given Ysabel’s personality, that she wrote you a love note.”
Sheridan felt a tickle of excitement. A note from her mother? “Thank you for keeping it safe all these years.”
“You are most welcome, dear. I’ll leave you to open it.” She slid to the end of the booth. Her eyes twinkled as she smiled. “Call me if there’s any good stuff, all right?”
“I promise.”
A few moments later, after good-byes were said, Luke moved to the other side of the table. “What do you want to do?”
“I should wait and open it with Calissa.”
“But she told you to do whatever you wanted with it.”
“But she was mad when she said that.”
“
But
I think she meant it. She won’t be ready for this for some time. She’s dealing with too much else.” He smiled. “And besides, you’re ready to burst at the seams.”
“I can’t imagine. A note from my mom! She must have written it when I was thirteen.”
“Go ahead. Open it.”
She began to work at the seal. “I suppose we could go to the car. People probably cry in coffee shops all the time, though. It might be there isn’t even anything meaningful in here. I don’t want to get my hopes too—Oh.” She was looking inside the envelope now.
“What?”
“There’s a black velvet bag.” She met his gaze.
“Oh. Hm. We might not want to open that in a coffee shop.”
Sheridan’s hands shook. She gave the envelope to Luke. “See what it is.”
After a slight hesitation, he reached inside and removed a business-size envelope. “Here’s the note.” He smiled.
She took it with a sigh. Her mother had written a note! In her fine print on the outside was:
To my daughters, Calissa and Sheridan
. “She always printed. Cursive was a struggle for her.”
“I’m untying the bag now.” His hand was inside the envelope. “Mm.”
“What?”
“Um . . .” He angled the envelope to get a better look. “Mm-hmm.”
“Luke!”
“Well, I’d say it’s a good thing Helena kept this locked up in the bank.”
“It isn’t . . .”
“Yeah, it is. A pouch full of flashers.” His jaw hung open. “Your mother mailed this. She
mailed
it. Through the postal system.”
Sheridan shrugged. “She loved the United States. She always talked about how wonderful everything was. She truly adored its systems. The post office alone never ceased to amaze her.”
“Okay.” He folded the envelope flap back into place. “We’ll save this for later.”
“How much is there?”
“Enough to fill my palm. They’re large. I have no clue what they’re worth.”
She blew out a breath. “Why would she?”
“Read the note.”
“Yeah.” Sheridan carefully unsealed the smaller envelope and withdrew folded papers. “It looks like two separate letters. This one is just a page.” She scanned the short one, holding it out where Luke could see it too.
Dear Girls,
My heart is too heavy. I took these diamonds from your father’s coat pocket. He just returned once again from Caracas. They are proof of what he is doing there. Later today, he will miss them. And then I will tell him I know. He will laugh, and then he will be furious. They are illegal and would pay for his new boat. I do not understand what you are allowed to do with them. Maybe you can sell them to thieves and give the money to the poor instead of the boat seller. I am sorry to trouble you with this problem. But when you read this, you will be grown.
Love, Mamá
Sheridan looked at Luke. “Huh?”
He shrugged. “Beats me. Know any thieves?”
“No.”
“Why don’t you read the other note?”
She studied it but the words blurred. She skimmed through it. “It looks like the whole story that Helena told us about my mom and dad meeting. How guys were set up at the place she worked. His involvement with the smuggling trade. His influence on foreign policy. She says, ‘He rescued me. I love him for that. I love him for helping the United States. But he does wrong things sometimes. This upsets me.’”
“Read the good parts.”
“What do you mean?”
“The good parts.” Luke smiled gently. “The parts where she says how much she loves you.”
She shook her head and handed it to him. “I can’t.”
He glanced over the pages. “Like this, Sher. Listen. ‘Sweet Sheri, I see the woman you will become and I am so proud. Your heart is the most giving one I have ever known. You are intelligent and independent. You are a graceful athlete, so beautiful to watch. My prayer is that God will plant His dreams in your heart, that you will see them as gifts He wants to fulfill. I trust they will involve your smart brain and your altruism. See? I remember the word you teach me last week.’”
Sheridan pressed a napkin to her face.
“And later she writes, ‘Girls, I am not well. I fear my health will quit before I am old. And my heart. It is so weary. I love you both more than I can say. You have always been the lights in my life. I am so sorry if I cannot be a mother to you long enough. I know how it hurts not to have a mamá. But God is with you, calling your name. Never forget that. Keep listening for Him.’”
She felt Luke’s hand on her elbow.
“Let’s go.”
He murmured more, his voice near, but the words were indecipherable. She heard only the comfort in his tone and the sound of her mother’s love echoing down from when she was thirteen.
* * *
Wilmette
That afternoon, alone in her bedroom, Sheridan procrastinated going downstairs to receive casseroles and condolences from an endless stream of visitors. It wasn’t that she feared Calissa’s wrath or even playing the role of dutiful daughter.
No, she could handle those things. For now, she just wasn’t finished listening to her mother’s voice.
Seated at her old desk, sunlight pouring across it, the sound of cars on the drive below coming through the open window, she fingered the note. What a precious gift it was! Despite the troubling information, it soothed her like a caress on her soul.
Ysabel had been ashamed of her writing skills. There were no letters or cards or even recipes among the few photographs Sheridan had of her. Even the memory of her mother’s expressive words of love had faded over the years. To hold papers that she had held and to read her handwriting and the affirmations of a mother to her daughters almost overwhelmed Sheridan. To think she was only thirteen when her mom wrote it. Sheridan was forty now, a year older than her mother had been when she died.
She smiled sadly. When she turned thirty-nine in Caracas, they had a wonderful dinner party. Reina and everyone they worked with and Sheridan’s staff all came. Later that night, Eliot suggested they do something wild and crazy for her fortieth, something like climb Machu Picchu in the Andes.
The day he was shot, there was still leftover birthday cake in the kitchen. She turned forty in Topala. A week after, Eliot asked her if she’d like to shop in Mesa Aguamiel by herself to celebrate.
Not that she’d really thought much about the so-called big event. In their cocoon situation, what did age matter?
Sheridan scanned the pages yet again. Their mother’s long letter had included personal notes to Calissa, too. Like in Sheridan’s, she spoke of Calissa’s abilities. Her prayers were for God to use the speaking gifts He had given Calissa, perhaps leading her to become a good politician. She had underlined the word
good
. Sheridan took it to mean one that was honest.
Calissa remembered more about their mother than Sheridan could. Twenty years old when Ysabel died, she was already a young woman, on her own in college far away.
Sheridan looked again at the date her mother had printed at the top of the letter, a day in May 1983.
She reread the date. Why did it feel so familiar? Probably because it was the month and year of her mother’s death. Probably because she’d been reading it for the past several hours.
The month of March.
March?
The same year.
Sheridan’s breath caught.
March 1983. Caracas.
May 1983. Caracas.
He just returned. . . . I took these diamonds from your father’s coat pocket.
“Dear God.”
Sheridan reached into her handbag, pulled out the cell phone, and called Luke.
He answered on the second ring. “Hey.”
She shut her eyes. They’d said good-bye on the driveway earlier. He had brought her home from the coffee shop after they put the diamonds in a safe-deposit box at a bank and made copies of the letters for him to take with him to D.C. He’d taken a cab from the house to the airport.
“Sheridan, you there? I’m on board and a flight attendant is glaring at my phone.”
The good-bye had been a good one. She was upbeat, ready to take on whatever Harrison’s funeral might throw at her. Ugly memories, praises from politicians for his accomplishments, Calissa’s barbs, Eliot’s absence, the chaos of a big city.
She was ready for it all because her mother had written her a love note. She had not written of suicide, only of ill health and giving up. She had tried as hard as she could. Given her asthma and perspective, though, life with Harrison had become unbearable. She entrusted her daughters to God’s care and foresaw their personal strengths, those gifts that would serve them well as women.