Six Left Behind Daughters and One Returned White Box Fifteen Years Later
A silver sedan pulled into the spot next to my old Buick, its tires crunching loudly on the loose gravel. The passenger door opened, and Harry got out, stepping carefully over a small puddle of muddy water. He adjusted his gold cufflinks before he closed the door, his eyes scanning the brick front of the Methodist church with a cold, professional assessment.
“Need some help with those, Robert?” Harry asked. His voice had that loud, commanding boardroom resonance that always seemed to fill whatever room he occupied, even out here in the open air.
“I have it,” I said, shifting the weight of the bridesmaid dresses to my other shoulder.
He did not offer a second time, but he did not walk toward the entrance either. He stepped closer, his expensive leather shoes clicking on the pavement. He looked at the rusted rear fender of my Buick, then up at me, his face neutral.
“We need to clear the air about the girls,” Harry said.
I stopped with my hand on the metal handle of my trunk. I rubbed my left wrist, my thumb finding the smooth, pale band of skin where my wedding ring had lived for twelve years before Maya left.
“I don’t think there is much to say, Harry,” I said. “We have a schedule to keep today, and Adele is waiting for her dress.”
“There is a great deal to say when my wife is kept from her own daughters because of an old grudge,” Harry said, leaning slightly against the side of my car.
He was looking at me with a directness that lacked any real anger, only a quiet, firm confidence that seemed to come from years of managing people.
“You have been told a specific version of our history,” I said.
“I have seen the records of what I paid,” Harry said.
“Paid?” I asked, looking at him.
“I’m a businessman, Robert. I don’t deal in rumors. I deal in transactions.”
He reached into his breast pocket, but didn’t pull anything out yet.
“We should take this inside,” Harry said, looking toward the church doors. “The wind is picking up.”
