So Sweet a Changeling: A Novel of the Terribly Acronymed Detective Club (Book 6)

Chapter Two: Johnny, Saturday

He put the passports next to the bag of cash on the bed and saw other important papers inside. The deed to the house. Life insurance papers. He'd have to check if they'd been keeping up with their premiums and make a claim once they got the death certificate.

He put these on the bed and saw, at the very bottom, a plain white envelope ripped open along the top. Curious, he plucked it out and saw, on the front of the envelope, Dad's name written in cursive script.

There were pages folded inside the envelope. He gently pulled the fragile paper out and smoothed it open, careful not to tear it. That same beautiful cursive was written on the pages.

April 5, 1971

Dearest Umberto

Johnny planted the page face down on the bed. No. He didn't want to see this. This was not a love letter from Mom. For one thing, Mom had barely known any English in 1971. She would have written the letter in her native Italian dialect, in that old world way he remembered, with lower case Ps and Gs falling way below the ruled line. This letter was on ruled paper, too, but the script wasn't Mom's.

Fuck. What had he uncovered?

He closed his eyes, sighed, and turned the page back over again.

Dearest Umberto,

I want to thank you for your discretion, and assure you that I make no claims on your heart. As you know, I am a married woman, and happily so. Our time together was beautiful, and made me feel young again, but I know very well nothing more can come of it, and I am content with that. You need not worry about other consequences, either. I have no transmissible diseases and am past child bearing age; in fact, it isn't a coincidence that I have no children of my own, as a medical emergency in my youth prevented me from ever bearing them again. Please don't be sad about that; it is a condition I have come to accept.

You and I come from two different places and two different times, and honestly I don't know how much of this letter you will understand. My English lessons, in exchange for your help in my garden, have so far yielded only enough proficiency to get by at your job at the mill, and my ramblings must seem like hieroglyphics to you. 

I never predicted our time together learning a new language would bring us close like this, but I am happy it did. However, I don't want to imply that I expect it to happen again should we find ourselves in similar circumstances. You have a beautiful young family, and I have no desire to be the cause of its destruction just as you are settling yourselves in a new country. If, however, your hand happens to fall on mine while we are practicing our phonemes, and if we are alone and with no possibility of discovery, I won't say no to another encounter. You remind me of a beautiful boy I once knew in my youth, and your physical attributes, which I will not describe here because I'm a lady, have made me feel alive again just when I'd become resigned to the decline in vigour that comes with age, both in myself and in my husband, who is still my soul mate, and whom you could never replace.

Yours,

Signora

Johnny closed his eyes and shook his head. "Jesus fucking Christ," he breathed.

"Hey, language."

Johnny's eyes flew open and saw Joe at the bedroom door. Too late, he tried hiding the letter, which had the effect of drawing Joe's eyes to it. "What's that?" Joe asked.

"Come in and lock the door," he said.

Joe frowned. "Why?"

"Just do it!"

Joe still listened to his older brother sometimes, and did as he asked, then sat on the bed, his weight making it sink. Johnny handed him the letter.

Joe read it, and when he was finished, his face was pale. "Oh. Fuck."