The Correspondent
Dear Theodore,
Thank you for trimming the high bushes for me yesterday. Your height is a tremendous asset.
As I mentioned to you a few weeks ago, I had broken things off with Mick. He was a bit much, and possessive, needing to be married. Imagine, needing to be married again at our ages. And he much older than myself. It is such a relief! I would have hated living in Texas.
In other news, I booked my flight to London.
(First class! I have all this money—from people dying, no great accomplishment of my own.) I’ll see Fiona for a week or so.
She is going to take me up to see Oxford, and then onto the Yorkshire moors, which is where Emily Bronte set Wuthering Heights, and then she’ll drive me north to Fort William to meet Hattie and the brothers.
She’s become very supportive of the madness.
I’ll leave at the end of April. If it goes well, if I find I enjoy moving about the world like a cavalier twentysomething, I wonder what would you think of taking a trip?
With me, I mean, of course. I’ve always had a secret wish to see Paris.
In the meantime, more reasonable plans: it’s been years since I went to the National Symphony, and I understand they are putting on Carmina Burana in late February. Would you take me?
Warm regards,
Sybil