Cassie was on her bed, going through the weekly letters June had sent her over the last four years. June hadn’t missed a week—except for when one of them was visiting the other—and all the envelopes bore the postmark “St. Jude.” Cassie reopened a few of them, trying not to be overwhelmed by the sadness her grandmother’s slanted script called forth. The letters were just as she remembered: accounts of small-town life, of the garden, of the books June had read. Cassie simply couldn’t reconcile their content with Betty’s supposition—or Mrs. Weaver’s or Mrs. Deitz’s—that June had spent the last years of her life gallivanting around the world. She heard a knock at the door and placed the letters aside. Nick lifted a finger to his lips as he entered, wearing the same pajamas he’d had on that morning, buttoned all the way up to his neck, despite the heat. She felt herself blush; she hadn’t expected him to be this forward, especially as he shut the door behind himself.
