Page 12 of The Best Wild Idea
“Yes?” I ask wearily, praying that he’s just a roaming door-to-door solicitor who somehow knows my name. “What can I do for you?”
“I’m here to drop this off.” He holds the envelope out to me but I don’t take it. Instead, I eye him suspiciously. “I was hired by Monica Braverman to deliver this to your address. Does that name ring a bell?”
“No.” I frown. Then I study the envelope between us, still not reaching for it, but looking for a clue of what it might be. He shakes it a bit in my direction as if that might entice meenough to grab it. It doesn’t. “Are you serving me court papers or something?”
He shakes his head, amused.
I cross my arms, waiting for a stronger answer than that. I don’t normally take random envelopes from strangers, especially without recognizing the name of who they’re from andMonica Bravermanis not a name that I recognize.
“I’m not serving you papers,” he promises. He looks friendly, I’ll give him that, then again I’ve never encountered a process server. “I have no idea what this is. Honest. I’m just supposed to deliver it. Monica is my boss. She’s a travel agent.”
“This isn’t one of thoseyou’ve won a tripscams, is it? Where you show up with some papers, claiming I’ve won a fancy trip, just to get me to call a number and give you all my personal info. Because if it is, I’m sonotinterested.”
“I’ve never hand-delivered anything to one of her clients, and this is not a scam. Which tells me this is something seriously important.”
He rustles the envelope at me.
I reluctantly take it, but when I flip it over for a closer look, my heart skips a beat. My name is handwritten in what looks eerily similar to Grant’s handwriting.
Your imagination is on fire today, I scold myself, burying any traces of false hope.
The anniversary of his death must be making my brain misfire all the tiny synapses that miss him to my core, making me see things that aren’t there. Whoever this Monica Braverman is, she probably has similar penmanship to Grant. That’s all.
“Thank you,” I say, squeezing the envelope between my fingers for any indication of what might be inside. But it’s papery and flat, not giving anything away. “Is she—?” I start to ask, but he’s already skipping down the front steps of my porch, looking relieved to have fulfilled his duty.
He waves over his shoulder.
“Have a good day!” he calls before disappearing around the corner.
“The best day,” I mutter, turning to push my key into the door.
I cross the threshold and shut myself inside. Silence embraces my nervous system like a warm hug while I study my name on the envelope. The way the J loops around is enormously exaggerated while the rest of the letters are scribbled so tiny beside it. Exactly the way Grant used to write my name. An absurd little spark of anticipation bubbles up in my stomach before I can shove it back down again.
If only.I close my eyes, willing the thought to be real.
But no.
This is from someone named Monica. Not Grant.
I beeline to the kitchen, envelope in hand, tossing my keys and purse onto the counter so I can rip it open, slowly making my way toward the recycling bin under the sink. I’m expecting to see a few colorful sales flyers boasting travel services by whoever she is while I pull out the papers from inside.
But my hands begin trembling when I see the delicate stationery is covered with the impossibly familiar script — one I never thought I’d see again.
Chapter 3
By the time I reach the end of the second line, I have to set everything down on the counter and collect myself before going on.
I rub my eyes with balled fists, blinking fiercely, as if my lids are windshield wipers attempting to clear the view in the midst of a downpour.
My mindhasto be playing the most wild tricks on me today.
This is impossible.
He’s dead.
Jules, he’s dead.
So how am I holding a letter that I’ve never seen before that was so clearly written by him?
