Violet DeWitt held the envelope marked “To Be Opened by My Daughter Upon My Death” and ran her fingers along the edges.
But Violet only eyed the calligraphic writing in her father’s hand, reminiscent of medieval illuminations. She studied the ornate wax seal. It was such an unnecessary thing on a modern envelope. So very much something her father would do.
He cast her another puzzled look before turning to the stack of papers on his desk and flipping through them. She understood the look he was giving her. Most people that the solicitor saw were probably grieving or concerned about money they would inherit; Violet was not interested in anything of the sort. She just wanted to leave.
“Your father was a great man,” Mr. Penning commented as he pulled out another piece of paper and peered at it through his bifocals.
Violet made a sympathetic murmur in her throat. She didn’t care about the money or the house, and she hadn’t expected anything. She just wanted to leave.
“Very lucky,” Violet agreed, her fist clenching. She had an idea who that donor was, and she hated the jerk. Anonymous, indeed. Now he’d expect her to be grateful and throw herself at him with gratitude. Not in this lifetime.
“I think that’s everything, then.” The solicitor gave her one last expectant look, his gaze sliding to the envelope in her lap. When she made no move to open it, he sighed and handed her a paper to sign. She did, and he stood and extended his hand.
“Thank you, Mr. Penning. Call me if I can be of any further assistance,” she told him, all business. Then she shook his hand and left the law office, the unopened envelope clutched in hand.
When she got out to her car, Violet started the engine, tossed the envelope into the passenger seat, and then paused. She rubbed her forehead, willing the headache behind her eyes to go away. Envelopes were an old favorite of the late Phineas DeWitt. When she was eight, her father had given her an envelope for her birthday. Inside was a clue that, if followed, would lead her to a trail of additional clues. She’d been so excited at the time, and after a series of envelope clues, each one more complex than the last, she arrived at her present.
It was a copy of The Encyclopedia on the Study of Ancient Hieroglyphics. Used. The inscription inside said: To Phineas, thanks for being a great teacher.
Granted, it was an interesting book, but her eight-year-old self had wanted a Barbie.
Phineas paid no attention to Violet’s other birthdays until she turned sixteen. She’d received another envelope in the mail and had been excited despite initial trepidation. At the end of the chase, however, her present had been a copy of a doctoral thesis written by one of her father’s students on Minoan frescoes. He’d tacked a note to it that read: Pay attention, Violet. This is the sort of thing you’ll need to write if you want to work for your father!
Again, not something she’d particularly wanted. But Phineas DeWitt believed in two things—knowledge and adventure. All else was foolishness.
She’d tossed the photocopied thesis into the garbage and tried to forget about her father’s terrible ideas for birthday gifts. When she was eighteen, she fell for it one more time, and was just as disappointed. The end of that envelope chase led to an ugly copper ring that turned her finger green and looked like something out of a tourist shop. That was after a week of frantic searching to find what her father had left her, hoping against hope that he’d remembered what she liked, her fears and hopes and dreams, and that he’d give her a present that showed he really, truly did understand his daughter.
Not so much. Phineas DeWitt gave presents, but in the end, it was still all about him. Just like everything else with her father’s games, she knew that her initial excitement would lead to inevitable disappointment. The envelopes and the challenge were to mask the fact that Phineas put no thought or effort into her presents . . . just like he’d put no thought or effort into being her father.
And she knew what—and who—this last envelope game would lead to without even having to look.
Oh, Father. I know what you’re up to. This is just one more little game, and I’ve no intention of playing this time. Nothing you say or do can make me want to talk to Jonathan Lyons ever again.
Violet didn’t think she was a hard, unforgiving type. She was nice, darn it, and understanding. But when a guy gave you pretty words, got you pregnant, and abandoned you? That wasn’t so easy to forgive, or forget, no matter what her father wanted.