Page 63

Mom narrows her eyes curiously as I turn the package over in my hands. It doesn’t weigh much, and when I tilt it gently, whatever’s inside stays exactly where it is instead of shifting around.

That settles badly with me because packages addressed to six-year-olds usually come from more distant family members.

Anonymous packages belong in a different category altogether.

I scan the seams for signs of tampering before sliding the package onto the island.

Both girls lean so far across the worktop they’re practically lying on it. “You two are going to end up inside the box before I open it.”

“We’re helping,” Babs says.

“You miss bits,” Biddy adds.

Mom laughs while I cut through the tape and fold back the cardboard flaps. A layer of pale tissue paper fills the box, wrapped with the kind of care people usually reserve for family keepsakes instead of ordinary deliveries.

I ease it aside and catch sight of faded green cloth beneath it. Every thought in my head stops.

I lift the book out with both hands, staring at the worn cover while my pulse begins hammering against my ribs.

The Wind in the Willows.

Celeste’s copy.

The corners have softened with years of use, the lettering across the front has faded until only traces remain. The tiny crescent-shaped dent near the bottom edge is still there from the evening she clipped the nursery rocking chair while carrying this book in one hand and an overtired baby in the other.

I’d spent weeks teasing her that she’d managed to damage a book without even opening it. She’d smiled at me and said, “Now it has a history.”

“Daddy?”

Babs’s voice reaches me from somewhere across the island, but I can’t pull my eyes away from the cover. I open the book with hands that suddenly don’t feel entirely reliable, and the inside page hits me even harder.

Property of Celeste Wolf.

The looping blue handwriting punches straight through me.

I’ve seen those letters on birthday cards left beside my coffee mug, anniversary notes tucked into suit pockets, Christmas labels tied to presents, shopping lists stuck to the fridge, and hospital forms filled out between appointments.

I’d know that handwriting anywhere because I spent years watching the woman I loved fill pages with it.

My throat tightens until swallowing becomes work.

I bought this book when the twins were six months old after Celeste spent almost an hour standing in a tiny independent bookshop comparing different editions because she wanted the illustrations they’d grow up with to be the prettiest ones.

I’d pretended to complain about how long she was taking while secretly hoping she’d never make up her mind because watching her fuss over children’s books ranked among my favorite ways to waste an afternoon.

After she died, I’d packed almost everything that belonged to Celeste into storage. I never realized this book was missing until now.

“Daddy?”

I blink and look up to find Biddy watching me with her head tipped slightly to one side and Babs bouncing impatiently on her toes beside her, waiting for me to explain why I’ve spent so long staring at a children’s book.

I manage a smile that feels convincing enough. “It belonged to your mommy.”

Both girls light up.

“It did?” Babs asks.

“This was her book?” Biddy adds.