15. Meredith #2
The thought sends a shiver down my spine—and a wave of hopelessness through my chest. “If there are, we can say goodbye to any paperwork.”
I start sifting through a stack of crusted-over crates, pulling them out the door so we have enough space to unpack them.
Also, because a spider the size of my palm scurries across the wall, and we’re both too freaked out to stay inside any longer than we need to.
After that, we quickly fall into a rhythm of unpacking and discarding.
“Haven’t seen you in a few days,” I say as June appears at the door again. “You been busy?”
“Got a few ideas I’m working on.” She pauses to heave out an old icebox. “I’ll send out the investor pack once we get some photos of the opening.”
“Anyone decent?”
“There’s…one. Maybe.”
I glance away from the disintegrating phonebook I just found to look at her, noticing the color in her cheeks, and it’s not from the heat or sun. “Are you blushing right now?”
“I’m doing all the work here, of course I’m flushed,” she snaps back, unceremoniously dumping the icebox at my feet.
What is with me today and prying where I’m clearly not wanted?
I try to push down the bitterness and return to the task at hand. At the very least, June seems grateful that I’m dropping it, even though my curiosity is constantly nagging in the back of my mind.
It’s a little while later before June speaks again. Though this time, it’s not smiley or snappy or any of the other things she’s been today. It’s entirely frigid. “Uh, Mer?”
Without looking up at her, I hum in acknowledgment of being called.
“It’s for you.”
Finally, I look at her. In her hand is a letter, likely hidden in the folder she’s clutching in the other. The paper is yellowing at the edges and stained like some kind of treasure map, but neither of us is paying attention to anything except the familiar scrawl on the front that addresses me.
Pulling off my gloves only reveals how much my hands are shaking as I reach for it.
And there’s a part of me that doesn’t want to read it.
The part that wants to stay where I am right now—teasing and laughing with my sisters, rebuilding our relationships, hoping our efforts might be enough to save the Shack.
A tentative but shared understanding that we all want things to be better and to start healing from the past.
There’s also another part of me that knows that, if I don’t read it now, the truth will be harder to bear when it inevitably comes to the surface.
Dear Meredith,
I know you’ll call me old-fashioned for writing this instead of typing it on a computer like you showed me, but I didn’t want to have to ask you for help halfway through.
If you’re reading this, it means I finally gathered the courage to do something I should have done a long time ago, and you’ve found it in your heart to hear what I have to say, which is probably more than I deserve.
This is an apology—the deepest I can write.
None of this changes how much you and your sisters mean to me.
I hope and pray you know that, despite everything, that has never changed.
I never wanted to hurt any of you, especially not your mother.
Things got out of hand so fast. I don’t want to make excuses, because that wouldn’t fix anything.
Even if I could, I’m not sure if I would now.
But it was never supposed to go this way.
For what it’s worth, I’m going to try to make this right.
If you’ll accept it, I’ll set aside some money for your college fund.
You’ve worked so hard to pass the bar and save during these last few summers, and I know you’ll pay it forward when Sophie is ready for her next big step.
I’m not sure if I’ll still be here when you read this, but I trust you’ll find it.
I’m so sorry, Mer. You deserve so much more than this. You deserve to live wonderfully, happily, and filled with life’s greatest treasures—because you three were always mine.
I love you so much, however much that’s worth coming from a weak man. I’m not foolish enough to expect your forgiveness, but you will always have everything that I have left to offer.
I’m sorry.
Dad
It’s a silent ride back to the beach house.
Beyond asking to read the letter and calling Sophie to tell her to expect us, there’s nothing that June seems able to say, which is fine because I’m still in shock.
Still in denial, or maybe teetering into anger.
Neither of these is productive to take out on each other.
So my mind supplies me with another focus.
Richard.
And the fact that he was right.
I’m practically seething by the time we make it into the kitchen. We’ve barely stepped inside when the smell hits me—burnt sugar with something acrid underneath.
“Mom?” I call, already moving toward the stench.
“Mom?” June’s voice follows, sharper.
Then I see her crumpled on the floor by the oven, hands clutched to her chest, red and angry-looking.
“I don’t know what happened!” Sophie’s voice cuts in as she rushes toward us, wide-eyed and already shaking.
“Hey,” I say, dropping to my knees beside our mother. “It’s okay. Are you hurt?”
Eleanor looks up at me, dazed. “Everything was fine, I just?—”