Tribute

you?”
    She dropped her hand. “What am I? A weenie?”
    “No, you’re not.”
    “Then let’s do it.”
    “They’re in my office.”
    She went in with him, watched him take the book off the shelf, then set it on the counter for her to open.
    “I keep thinking how she chose Gatsby . The rich, shining life, the glitter and then ennui, romance, betrayal, ultimate tragedy. She was so unhappy. I dreamed of her again not long ago. I didn’t tell you. One of my Janet and Cilla dreams. Forest Lawn. They’re both buried there. Her and Johnnie. I only went there once. Her grave was literally covered with flowers. It made me sad to look at it. All those flowers, brought by strangers, fading in the sun.”
    “You planted them for her here instead. And even when they fade, they come back new. Year after year.”
    “I like to think that would matter to her. My personal tribute.” She opened the book, took the stack of letters out. “I’ll open this,” she said, choosing one. “You open that.”
    Ford took out the card. He’d expected a happy picture of a baby, or a sentimental one of a mother and child. Instead he found Andrew Morrow’s initials on heavy, cream-colored stock. “Pretty formal,” he commented, and opened the card.
    Congratulations to my lovely daughter-in-law on the birth of her son. I hope these roses bring you pleasure. They’re only a small token of my great pride. Another generation of Morrows is born with Brian Andrew.
    Affectionately, Drew
    Cilla laid the letter beside the card.
    My Dear. My Darling.
    There are no words to express my sorrow, my sympathy, my grief for you. I wish I could hold you, could comfort you now with more than words on a page. Know that I’m with you in my heart, that my thoughts are full of you. No mother should have to suffer the loss of her child, and then be forced to grieve in so public a manner.
    I know you loved your Johnnie beyond measure. If there can be comfort now, take it in knowing he felt that love every day of his short life.
    Only Yours
    “Is that fitting, is that fate?” Cilla said quietly. “That I’d choose the loss of a son to compare to the birth of another? It’s a kind letter,” she continued. “They’re both kind notes, and both strangely distant, so carefully worded, I think. When each occasion should have filled the page with emotions and intimacies. The tone, the structure. They could be from the same person.”
    “The writing’s similar. Not . . . well, not exactly exact. See the S’s in the card? When he starts a word—son, small—with an S, it’s in curvy print. In the letter—sorry, sympathy—traditional lowercase cursive.”
    "But the uppercase T’s are written the same way, and the Y’s. The slant of the writing. It’s very close. And they were written years apart.”
    “ My and my in both really look like the same hand, and the uppercase I’s, but the uppercase D’s, not so much.” Ford knew he looked with an artist’s eye, and wasn’t sure if that was a plus or a minus. “Then again, in the card, that’s a signature. Some people write the first letter of their signature differently than they might a word. I don’t know, Cilla.”
    “Results, inconclusive. I don’t suppose you know any handwriting experts.”
    “We could find one.” He looked up, into her eyes. “Do you want to go that route?”
    “No. Maybe. I don’t know. Damn it. No easy answers.”
    “Maybe we could get our hands on a sample closer to when the letters were written. I can ask Brian to try for that.”
    “Let’s just put it away for now.” She folded the letter, slipped it back into the envelope. “We know one thing after this. It wasn’t Hennessy. I’d forgotten about the letter after Johnnie’s death. No way, even if he was crazy in love, would he have written that after the accident. Not when he was with his own son in the hospital.”
    “You’re right.”
    “So, if I had a list, I’d be able to cross a name off. That’s something. I guess it’s going to have to be enough for now. At least for now.”
    Ford closed the book, put it back on the shelf. He turned to her, took her hand. “What do you say we go buy a grill?”
    “I’d say that’s exactly what I want to do.”
    But he left the monogrammed note on his desk when he went to dress. He could find a graphologist. Someone outside Virginia to whom the name Andrew Morrow meant nothing. And he could see where that led.
    CILLA’S PLEASURE WHEN her walnut