My Dearest Vanessa,
Did you think every letter I left you would contain a clue? How silly!
Seriously, Aunt Franny? You sent me down here.
Did it occur to you that perhaps I have more to say to you than can fit in five letters?
Although… I suppose I did direct you toward the basement, didn’t I?
Uh, yeah. You did.
Ah. Anyway, where was I?
Did I ever tell you how Victor and I first met?
This is a story I’d been meaning to ask her in the last few years. I hate that I didn’t get to hear it from her lips and see the way her smile curls up slightly on one side at the mention of her late husband’s name. They were deeply in love and had only been married for seven years when he died. My father adored Victor and often described him as the older brother he never had.
I was strolling down Yawkey Way (now known as Jersey Street) in Boston after a game with a girlfriend of mine. We had just left the game and were in high spirits from their victory over New York (that wretched team).
The last line has me chuckling. I can practically hear the disdain in her voice. The rivalry between the two teams has fizzled in recent years, but most, if not all, New Englanders would wholeheartedly disagree. The hatred remains, and that flame shall burn for eternity.
It was a windy autumn night. I had just purchased a new ball cap outside the park, but it flew right off my head the moment I put it on. When I turned around, with every intention to chase that hat across the city, I saw a man standing there, clutching my hat in his hand, and smiling at me as if he’d just won the lottery.
“This yours, miss?” he asked me. His voice was like water and velvet, if the former didn’t have the capacity to ruin the latter. It was smooth, and the way it wrapped around me was thrilling. I never wanted to stop listening to that voice. He asked me my name, and if he could take me out sometime.
I said yes.
That was it. We were inseparable from that point on. We married a year later.
The reason I share this is not for you to mourn your Uncle Vic, though it’s a tragedy you never got to meet him.
I tell you this story because if it weren’t for that hat and the wind, my life could’ve been completely different. Maybe I would never have met Victor. My happiness with him didn’t last long, God rest his soul, but the time we had was filled with magic. It was big and bright and loud like the pride parade Axil and the boys took me to last year.
Aunt Franny went to a pride parade? And Axil took her?
Something as simple as losing a hat can lead you toward your destiny, Vanessa. The universe will show you the way, but you must pay attention to the signals.
All my love,
Aunt Franny
P.S. - Your next letter is hidden in my bedroom. No, I will not tell you where.
I hate that Aunt Franny had done so much in the final years of her life that I had no knowledge of. Her injury, the time she’s spent with Axil and his brothers, and even attending a pride parade. We emailed each other once, sometimes twice, a month, and she never hesitated to invite me for the holidays, but I didn’t take her up on it.
There was always an audition or a callback or a shift at the bar that I prioritized over seeing her. It’s clear to me now that my priorities were all wrong. At the time, it felt like I was making the right decision staying in L.A. instead of flying back to New Hampshire. None of those auditions or callbacks ever led to a job, though, and I could’ve easily gotten my shifts at the bar covered by someone else.
I should’ve put her first. I should’ve come back here more than I did.
The fear of running into Beth and Caitlyn, or the man responsible for The Incident, was what ultimately kept me from booking a plane ticket, but it shouldn’t have.
I know, now, that I will have to face the people who hurt me. The longer I’m here, the more inevitable that becomes. And when it happens, I will handle it.
Tears fill my eyes as I carefully fold Aunt Franny’s letter. I hold it against my chest, praying silently that she’s watching over me. Without knowing if the next letter will actually contain a riddle to solve, I decide to take a break from the treasure hunt and eat.
My stomach growls as I climb the steps from the basement into the hallway. Standing in front of the open fridge, I ponder my meal options. The fridge contains multiple jugs of orange juice, iced green tea, prune juice, and eggs that have expired. The freezer has chocolate chip cookie dough ice cream and more vodka.
So far, my options are limited unless I want to keep drinking until I fall asleep, which seems like a needlessly destructive idea.