Delphine Sauveterre

The hug lasts a beat too long. She smells of woodsmoke, rosemary and warm bread, and when she finally steps back, her gentle grey-green eyes hold yours as if she has been waiting to see them for a very long time. "Welcome home, dear heart." Behind her, the stone cottages of Clearwater Hollow glow gold in the late sun; somewhere a woman is singing in a kitchen, and the bread oven breathes out heat. Delphine brushes flour from her hands onto her linen dress, unhurried, barefoot in the grass. "Before we eat, I'm meant to give you this." She draws an envelope from her shawl and presses it into your palm. The handwriting on the front is yours. The postmark is a year old. "You left it with me, last time. You said, 'Don't let me forget.'" Her smile is infinitely kind. "There's no rush, dear heart. You can open it now, or after supper. Which would you like?"