Page 70 of A Cozy Kind of Christmas
“No, I don’t think so. He told me to help you decipher your Christmas letters.”
“I don’t know what his deal is with the damn Christmas letters. He hasn’t been able to shut up about them since you mentioned that maybe there was a story there. What the hell does he mean bydeciphering? What is there to decipher?”
Meg made a face and shrugged. “No clue. Do you have the letters? These are the ones he’s written to you every Christmas, right?”
Jill’s face softened a touch. “Yeah, he leaves them in my stocking with candy.”
“Do you have them with you?”
“Yeah, they’re in my art journal. He insisted I bring them because of you.” Jill glanced toward the bedroom. “But why?”
“I don’t know, but go get them!” Meg waved her arms. “He said they contain clues.”
“Clues?” Jill scowled. “I don’t think so.”
“Just go get them.” Meg made herself comfortable in the living room, keeping a hand on Owen’s newest letter.
Jill returned shortly with her sketchbook. She opened it to reveal six letters, all in the same cream envelopes and with the same brown calligraphy.
“I didn’t realize Owen was a calligrapher,” Meg said, passing the newest letter to Jill.
“He’s a man of many talents—like bolting when he learns he’s having a baby.”
“Let’s just take a look,” Meg encouraged.
Jill hesitated, then carefully peeled open the letter. Her eyes scanned the first line.
Every day, I wake up next to you and wonder…
“No, I can’t.” Jill turned the letter upside down on the coffee table as if it had burned her fingers. “This is just cruel.”
“Jill, I have a good feeling about this.” Meg leaned in, careful not to push too hard. “Owen didn’t seem like a guy ready to leave you for good. He said he had a plan and wasveryspecific about the letters. He said they contain a clue.”
“There’s no clue.” Jill shook her head. “They’re just love notes. Sweet, sentimental stuff. A holiday tradition. We do them every year—it’s our thing. But there’s nothing more.”
“Are you sure?” Meg asked, scanning Jill’s face. She wasn’t convinced, and she wasn’t going to let it go. “Can I take a look at them?”
Jill didn’t answer.
Silently, she slid the envelopes across the table.
Meg took them with quiet resolve, feeling like she was on the cusp of solving a mystery. She read the first letter, which was dated seven years ago, on Christmas Day. It began with:
My sweet Jill.
TheMwas bold, underlined with a little squiggle and surrounded by tiny snowflakes. The next letter read:
Are you ready for your first Irish Christmas?
Again theAwas underlined with the same hand-drawn snowflakes.
Meg tore through the rest of the stack.
Remember last Christmas, sipping mulled wine and kissing under the mistletoe?
Rembrandt once said, I can’t paint the way they want me to paint, and they know that, too.
You are remarkable, beautiful, talented, and my only Christmas wish.
