It had to be opened. Bea settled on doing the deed in a public place. Work seemed perfect. She laughed to herself: if she did lose control, what better place than a Crisis Centre? Mira’s words could be explosive. On the drive to Mount Russet she decided to wait until there was a lull in the morning, settle in with a double espresso, and consume the letter slowly. Once that decision was made, her heart rate soared and her foot pressed down on the accelerator. What did the damn woman have to say that could only be done by a letter? Was this going to disrupt her contained, ordered life? Her brakes screeched as she swung into her regular parking spot. She turned off the engine and grabbed her bag. She couldn’t wait any longer. Her hands quivered as she tore the envelope open and pulled out a handwritten letter wrapped around a pretty pink-and-white card. The trembling spread from her hands to her whole body. She could barely hold the card steady enough to read it. It was a party invitation.
