Chapter 7 - The Unopened Letters
Every Tuesday, the postman delivered a thick bundle of mail to the cottage. For three consecutive months, among the utility bills and baby supply catalogs, were heavy cream envelopes bearing Victoria Bennett’s recognizable handwriting.
Julian left them unopened on the mantlepiece.
"Aren't you going to read them?" Eleanor asked one evening as snow began to dust the porch outside.
"They aren't apologies," Julian replied, stoking the fire. "They are negotiations. She doesn't write to reconcile; she writes to bargain. She thinks every human relationship is a transaction."
Eleanor picked up the top envelope. The postmark was from an upscale private clinic in upstate New York. "What if she is ill, Julian?"
May you like
Julian paused, the firelight casting deep shadows across his face. "Even if she is, Eleanor, forgiveness cannot come at the expense of safety. Until she recognizes Lily not as an heir to an estate, but as a person she tried to destroy, those letters have no meaning."
He took the envelope from Eleanor’s hand and set it back on the shelf, unbroken.
