Page 57 of Letters to Molly (Maysen Jar 2)

Without Jamie, she’d lost her heart. So I’d fought. I’d fought hard for her. I’d called her constantly. When she didn’t answer, I went to check on her. I stayed late at her house, lying next to her on the couch until her brain would shut down and she finally fell asleep. Then I carried her to bed. Day after day. Week after week. I spent every minute of the day fearing for my sister’s life.

Everything else was shut out, Molly especially. She took over a lot at Alcott and covered when I needed to be with Poppy. She made sure my laundry was done and the lawn was mowed. She ran our lives.

In return, I came home from Poppy’s house miserable. I snapped at Molly, taking out my frustrations about Jamie’s death on the one person I loved the most.

“What did we fight about that night?” I asked. “I can’t remember.”

She grinned. “The price of Swedish aspen.”

“That’s right. For the Bexter project. God, he was an asshole.”

“He sure was. That was the first and only time a client made me cry.”

Alan Bexter was a guy who’d moved to Bozeman on a whim, a trust-fund kid who’d thought paying full price was beneath him. It was a big project and worth it for Alcott to tackle, even after giving the guy a discount. I’d made a verbal agreement with Alan for a reduced price on the trees he’d wanted to line his driveway.

I’d been in the middle of that project when Jamie was murdered.

By the time we’d wrapped it up, weeks had passed. Molly was doing all the billing for Alcott and she’d sent Bexter his final invoice. All fifty-six Swedish aspen had been itemized at full price.

Bexter had called Molly, ripping her up one side and down the other. Then he’d called me, giving me an ass-chewing before recommending I fire my bookkeeper. The idiot hadn’t put two and two together to realize he’d been talking about my wife.

“I swear I told you about the price change,” I said.

“And I swear you didn’t.” The truth was a mystery. Not that it mattered now.

“Damn, that was one hell of a fight.”

She grinned. “I don’t remember who started throwing the food first.”

“You.” I chuckled. “I was shocked when you threw those noodles in my face.”

“Oh, lord.” She dropped her face into her hands. “Not my finest moment.”

“No.” I reached out and took her hands away, keeping hold of one. “It was perfect. That was the first time I’d laughed in weeks.”

That food fight had reminded me of Jamie. He would have done that, started a food fight to defuse a situation. Maybe that was why I?

?d joined right in, tossing a bowl of Caesar salad in her face at the same time she’d swatted at me with the loaf of French bread.

We’d collapsed together in the kitchen, laughing hysterically, Bexter and his towering trees forgotten. Then we’d made love on the floor, surrounded by our discarded clothes and uneaten dinner.

That was the night we’d made our Kali.

“Things were better after that.” We’d talked all night, and we’d started doing things together again, rather than dividing things up. And we’d gotten real with Poppy.

We flew my parents down to see her again. They’d been calling every day, but on the phone, they hadn’t seen how bad things had gotten. Then we all sat her down and told her how worried we were. Poppy felt awful. She felt guilty. Mom and Dad asked her to move home to Alaska and she thought about it.

But then we told them we were pregnant. It was early, but we were too excited not to share the news.

“It was Kali,” Molly said. “I think she would have gone to Alaska with your parents if not for Kali. She wanted to be a good aunt. It gave her something to smile about.”

“It was the turning point.”

So how had things gotten so bad again? How had we found ourselves in more fights? More arguments?

We both stared at the letter again, the quiet settling around us like a heavy cloak. Was she onto something? Had Jamie’s death been the beginning of our end?

I refused to believe it. I wouldn’t pin this on him.