Page 82 of Sweet Somethings

"Oh, absolutely, but we're really more about long-term plants here. Can I help you? Are you looking for something in particular?"

"Actually, I wanted to talk to you, if you have a moment."

"Of course." She wiped off her hands on a nearby towel. "What is it?"

"I don't know if you're aware of this, but I grew up in a house on Primrose Lane—the same one you grew up in."

Surprise passed through her expression. "I didn't know that. What a coincidence. I loved that house."

"So did I. I had to move because my parents died unexpectedly."

"Yes, I remember that horrible accident," Cecelia said with sympathy in her eyes. "It was so tragic; you were so young. I didn't know your parents well, but I'd visited your father's bakery, and your mother used to come here and buy plants for her yard."

"She loved to garden," Juliette said. "Unfortunately, I didn't inherit her green thumb."

"Well, you have other talents."

"Anyway, I've had thoughts of buying the house back, but right now it's being remodeled, so I'll have to wait and see what Mr. Prescott wants to sell it for when he puts it on the market. In the meantime, I've been spending a little time there. My friend, Roman, is handling the construction."

"Yes, I heard that." Cecelia didn't look too happy at the mention of Roman's name. "I'm sure the old house needs a makeover."

"That seems to be the consensus. The other day Roman was pulling up some carpeting in the downstairs bedroom, and he found a box filled with love letters. We're wondering if you might know anything about them."

Cecelia's face paled, and there was not a doubt in Juliette's mind that Cecelia knew about the letters, no matter what she said next.

"Letters?" Cecelia echoed, her voice shaky.

"Love letters to a man. There aren't any names, but the letters are beautifully written. Roman and I didn't want to just throw them away, so we thought we'd try to find the owner."

"You read the letters?" Cecelia asked tightly.

"We did," she admitted. "We were hoping to find a clue to the writer's identity, but what we found was a rather haunting love story. It starts out filled with hope and giddy desire and ends with heartbreak. I have to admit we're kind of curious about what happened."

Before Cecelia could speak, Martha came through the door, giving them both a surprised look.

"Juliette, what are you doing here?" Martha asked.

"I wanted to ask Cecelia about the letters I found," she said, deciding not to beat around the bush. "The ones I told you about last night."

"She told you last night?" Cecelia muttered to Martha.

"And I told her that I didn't know anything about any letters," Martha said, sending Cecelia a pointed look.

"It seems like you both know something," Juliette cut in, drawing their gazes back to her.

"It's none of your business," Martha said sharply.

"Stop," Cecelia said. "It's fine."

"Cici," Martha said warningly.

"It's all right, Martha," Cecelia said. "I don't mind telling her. I wrote the letters."

It was exactly what she'd thought. "But you never sent them, did you? I wasn't sure, because in the last letter you were looking at the mailbox and thinking about mailing them."

"I never sent them. I couldn't. He was married by then. I couldn't break up a home. It was too late." Cecelia's eyes had a faraway look in them, as if she was being swept back in time. "I wrote those letters fifty years ago. I can't believe you found them now."

"Why didn't you take them with you when you moved?" she asked. "Why leave them hidden under the floorboards?"

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