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might have happened, but he did come across a stack of letters tucked inside a big travel book in a deep file drawer. They were addressed to him at his company’s address in LA.
    Frowning at the discovery, he sat on the velvet-covered bench at the foot of Josephine’s bed to see what they were. Written on perfumed stationery—his mother couldn’t do anything ordinary—they were sealed, as if she’d planned on mailing them. But he’d never received anycommunication from her. She’d had too much pride to contact him, since he was the one who’d cut her off.
    He counted them. Ten in all. Tapping them against his knee, he studied the flowing script. Even her handwriting exhibited an elegance few people could emulate.
    So what did she have to tell him? Dare he find out? There had to be some reason she’d chosen not to mail them. And he was already feeling troubled and unsettled. Why give her a voice? Would he be able to tolerate what she said?
    In case he couldn’t, he got up and shoved them back into the book, which he returned to the drawer. He’d be smarter to protect his sobriety, he thought. But after several minutes of pacing, he retrieved them, opened the top one and skimmed the contents.
    It was just a regular letter, like something he might expect if he’d been stationed overseas in the army or was away at school. The others followed the same pattern. Some were Christmas cards. Some were birthday cards. She talked about the flower shop and Coldiron House and the vacation rentals. She talked about seeing Roxanne and any news about Roxanne’s “little family.” She talked about Maisey giving birth to Bryson, noted his size and weight and complained that he wasn’t named after anyone in their family. She also talked about Pippa taking vacation or getting sick and who she might get to fill in.
    She didn’t offer him any apologies, however. She didn’t even acknowledge the fact that they were estranged. She just pretended nothing had happened between them and they were still speaking.
    After reading the last one, he stacked the envelopes the way he’d found them.
    Maybe he shouldn’t have read them, after all. They reminded him of how charming his mother could be when she was on her best behavior, made him miss her. They also made him wonder if maybe he was the one to blame for their problems. He’d already spent a lifetime wondering. Is it me or her? These letters dredged up all of that confusion and uncertainty. But, refusing to succumb to those thoughts, he forced himself to look at the letters more objectively. What did they mean? Was the fact that she’d taken the time to write an apology in itself? Was it her way of expressing her love?
    The closings never varied— Love, Mom. That was the only thing that might suggest she cared about him, two words that could easily be interpreted as a standard closing. Was there so much wrong between them that she wouldn’t risk tackling the issues? Was she hoping to simply go on, to forget the past as if it hadn’t existed?
    Since she was never one to apologize, that was her favorite approach to making up. He would’ve been content to let bygones be bygones, too, if he could. He’d tried to come to terms with his mother for thirty-seven years before giving up and forging ahead with a life that didn’t include her.
    His phone buzzed. He’d received a text from Dahlia.
    Should I come over again tonight?
    He hadn’t told her about his mother, hadn’t even mentioned that he was going out of town.
    No. I’m not in LA.
    Where are you?
    On the East Coast.
    For what?
    Business , he typed because he wasn’t willing to divulge the personal nature of his trip.
    She sent him a frowny face, to which he didn’t respond. Then she wrote, When will you be home? I’m missing you.
    He wasn’t missing her at all. He barely knew her and was fairly certain he didn’t want to see her again. The few times they’d actually had a conversation, he’d been bored stiff.
    For