Old habit.
I made coffee and walked onto the porch.
Robert’s letter sat on the table.
Beyond the neighboring rooftops, the sky was turning pink.
For the first time since his death, I could look toward the ocean without imagining only what I had lost.
I could imagine what might still be ahead.
Then I noticed one last page beneath the financial statements.
I had missed it the day before.
It was folded in half.
On the outside, Robert had written only four words:
Before you sell, ask Ellen.
I stared at the message.
Ellen.
The realtor.
Why would Robert mention her by name in a letter written almost two years earlier?
I unfolded the page.
Inside was a copy of an old architectural sketch.
It showed our Cape May house.
But behind it, where our narrow backyard stood, Robert had drawn something that did not exist.
A small second cottage.
