Whispers of Moonlight by Lori Wick Read Free Book Online Page B

woman who'd heard her name spoke from the edge of the room, hands on her hips.
    "I want Rebecca to make a day of it tomorrow. You stay in town until she's done."
    "I'm an old woman, Andrew Wagner! I'm too tired to be running around Boulder on a winter day." With
that she stormed out.
    Andrew winked at Rebecca. "She says you can take all the time you need."
    Rebecca laughed for the first time in days. Andrew hated to spoil the mood, but he had to have some answers.
    "I heard from your aunt today."
    "Did you?" Rebecca's look was open as she speared a potato with her fork. "Has she forgiven me yet?"
    Andrew smiled. "You still haven't written her, have you?"
    "No." Rebecca's voice grew soft. "I don't know if I can. One of these days, I'd like to explain."
    Andrew pulled the letter from his pocket and watched as she read. Her face was sad and regretful, but not guilty. He knew it wouldn't be, but the whole thing was more curious than ever.
    "I know you're sad about Travis, Reba, and I don't want to add to that, but I'd like us to talk tonight."
    She nodded. "All right. Papa. Shall I bring some coffee to the living room?"
    Andrew smiled. That was definitely an eastern custom. "Yes, I'll wait for you in there."
    She wasn't long in joining him, but long after they had their coffee, Rebecca sat mute. Rebecca felt a headache coming on. How should she begin?
    "A few years ago Hannah stopped leaving the house. I mean, we went to church, but she would stay home most of the time. She wanted me home too, but whenever I would question her, she would change her mind and let
me go, almost as if she were afraid I would grow angry. It was strange because we never quarreled. And the reason she stayed home wasn't to clean or anything; in fact, the house just fell into worse repair as the months went on." Rebecca shook her head for a moment.
    "Well, anyway, this one day was very odd because I was home alone. I couldn't remember being home alone in at least two years, but there I was on my own when the bell rang at the door. I went, and there was the mailman; we had letter service in our neighborhood," she explained, "but anyway, he said he'd missed a letter for me. Well, it was from you, the last one you had sent. I opened it right away and knew something was wrong.
    "Hannah was just next door at Mrs. Wood's, but it never occurred to me to go get her. I read your letter, and suddenly everything became clear. It was your handwriting, and yet it wasn't. And the things you said, the things about wanting to see me. I was amazed."
    Andrew's mind raced with where she could be headed, but he remained quiet and hoped that she would explain.
    "I felt cold," Rebecca told him, her mind far away, her eyes on the fire. "I'll never forget how cold I felt, but then I looked at the stairs and for some reason I thought of Aunt Hannah's room. I was never allowed in there. She didn't share a room with Uncle Franklin. It wasn't at all unusual for Uncle Franklin to send me to find something in his room, but Hannah never wanted me in hers.
    "I didn't stop to think; I just walked. I walked up the stairs to her room, and I began to look around. It wasn't long before I found them." Rebecca looked at her father. "Every letter you'd ever written me. Papa. The box was huge. She had been taking all of your letters and opening them. She always handed the letter to me already open, not because she read them, she said, but because she had a silver letter opener and it made the slit so neat.
    "It was all a lie," she whispered, her face a mask of pain. "She had taken every one of your letters, read them, and then rewrote them in your handwriting before giving them to me. I took the box to my room and hid it just before she came home. That night I sat up until morning and read everything you'd ever said to me. You can't believe the way she lied. Your letters to me, through her, said so many things. She wrote that you had met a wonderful woman and that even though you and this woman