She opened the door before we knocked.
“I knew you’d be here.”
Owen stepped inside.
“Did you read it?”
“Owen.”
“Sorry.”
Mrs. Parker looked at me.
“Coffee?”
“Definitely.”
Her kitchen was warm and smelled faintly of cinnamon.
The envelope lay unopened on the table.
Owen stared at it as though it were an unexploded firework.
Mrs. Parker poured coffee.
“I haven’t decided whether to open it.”
Owen looked bewildered.
“But you’ve waited fifty-two years.”
“Which means waiting another hour shouldn’t hurt.”
He sat down.
“Who’s Thomas?”
Mrs. Parker paused.
That question, apparently, was harder.
Finally she sat across from him.
“Thomas Mercer was my best friend.”
“Daniel’s dad?”
“Yes.”
“Did he go to this school?”
“No. He worked here.”
Owen blinked.
“As a teacher?”
“As the music teacher.”
That explained the manuscript.
Mrs. Parker traced one fingertip around the rim of her coffee cup.
“We were both twenty-six. I taught third grade. Thomas taught music.”
