“What thing?”
Olive set the pie on the counter.
“Open it, Justin.”
My hands shook as I broke the seal.
A small brass key slid into my palm.
It was old, warm from my skin, and worn smooth around the edges.
Fanny leaned closer.
“Is it for Miss Theresa’s house?”
I did not know.
“Open it, Justin.”
Then I unfolded the letter.
Theresa’s handwriting covered two pages.
The first line nearly stopped me.
“If you’re holding this, my porch is finally quiet.”
I looked toward her house.
For eight years, I had never seen those windows dark on a Saturday morning.
The first line nearly stopped me.
I kept reading.
“Please don’t be angry that I left without saying goodbye. At my age, goodbyes become greedy things. They ask for words that people cannot say without breaking.”
Olive sat across from me.
Roger rested his chin on the table.
“Now, before you decide this key means I left you my house, let me save you the trouble. I did not.”
“At my age, goodbyes become greedy things.”
Despite myself, I laughed.
That sounded exactly like Theresa.
“The house will go to my family. The furniture will be divided. Mr. Thorne has instructions for the rest.”
I turned the page.
“This key belonged to my back door. Harold gave it to me the day we moved into our first home. He said a key was not proof that you owned a place. It was proof that someone trusted you to enter.”
My thumb moved across the worn brass.
“I am giving it to you because for eight years, I slept better knowing you lived ten steps away.”
“This key belonged to my back door.”
My eyes blurred.
Olive reached for my hand.
The letter continued.
“You probably thought you were saving me from mowing.”
A pause waited between the lines.
“Justin, you were saving me from Saturdays.”
I stopped reading.
“Justin, you were saving me from Saturdays.”
Outside, a breeze moved through Theresa’s sunflowers.
One leaned toward the other.
When I could see again, I continued.
“Saturdays belonged to Harold.
He made coffee too strong.
He cut the grass in crooked lines.
He complained about my pie crust and ate two slices anyway.
After he died, Saturday became the longest day of my week.”
“Saturdays belonged to Harold.”
The room had gone completely still.
“The first morning you crossed the driveway, I truly did need help.
The second Saturday, perhaps I did not.
By the third, I understood something I was too proud to admit.”
I knew what came next before I read it.
“Every Friday, I left part of the lawn unfinished so there would always be a reason for you to come back.”
“I truly did need help.”
