“I know, but how in the world —?”
“It might have . . . or maybe . . .” Holly traile off.
“When did you discover it was gone?” the man asked.
“Some time after I moved in with Jonathan. I used to keep it in a special box, but I don’t know what happened. All of Jonathan’s and my books got mixed up and I looked through all his stuff, too. Who knows? Maybe it’s a message from him from beyond the grave giving us his blessing.” Holly laughed. “Oh, wait. I don’t believe in that kind of thing.”
Now they were silent for a while. Finally, the man spoke.
“Poor guy,” he said.
“Yes.”
“What a horrible night that was.”
“The way he looked,” said Holly. “Gray. I’ll never forget it.”
“What’s the inscription?”
“Oh, that,” Holly said. “After we were married, Jonathan did his will, and he put a letter with it that gave instructions for a few things. He actually planned his funeral. You know, a Gregorian requiem, something that we couldn’t quite pull off. Well, he also said he wanted that on his gravestone.”
“What’s it say?”
“ ‘Qui nunc iacet horrida pulvis, unius hic quondam servus amoris erat.’ ‘He who now lies here as rough dust once was the slave of a single love.’ It’s hard to translate horrida. Rough, coarse, gravelly.”
The slave of a single love, Maggie thought. Yes, that would be Holly. That was only right. Maggie felt a pang. Did she count at all? Yes, Jonathan did love her too, Maggie was certain of it.
Suddenly Maggie had the impulse to step out from behind the tree and tell Holly and the man everything. She wanted to help them; she wanted to explain and confess, and to cry with them about Jonathan, and she couldn’t stand the tension of hiding any longer. The temptation was almost overpowering, and it took all her strength to stay where she was, pressing her back even harder against the trunk.
“You know,” the man said, “I sometimes forget that without Jonathan, we might never have found each other again. He wasn’t exactly perfect, and I sometimes wondered why he was my best friend, but I really do miss him.”
“Me too.”
“If he could see us now,” said the man, “I wonder what he would be thinking? I know he’d be happy. That was one thing about Jonathan, he was always happy for his friends.”
“And he wanted to have children so badly himself. He’d also be happy for us about that.”
“Yes.” The man paused. Then he said softly, “Here, Holly, give me your hand.”
For several minutes, Maggie heard nothing and nothing stirred. There was no wind, and the leaves of the sycamore might have been ceramic; although, it was true, when she noticed it, she did hear a drone of traffic in the distance.
“Ready?” Holly asked the man finally.
“Yes,” he answered.
Still they did not move. Then Maggie heard their footsteps crunching grass and scuffing on the path.
Tears rolled down Maggie’s cheeks, and she shuddered, but she made no sound. She waited and waited and waited. Half an hour passed. Then Maggie stole away.
About the Author
JAMES COLLINS was formerly an editor at Time and has contributed to The New Yorker and other magazines. He grew up in New York City and now lives in Virginia with his family. This is his first novel.
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