There was no mystery in that.
24 Months Later
Dear Mol:
A lot has changed since I last wrote you.
After spending a year with the Scaramuzzis on their farm, I decided to move back into mom and Trooper Dan’s house. Robyn has moved in with me and together we have started a private art school called, appropriately enough, The School of Art. We run it out of the house now. We have over fifty students, most of them young children. There are so many paintings, drawings and sculptures hanging around we also decided to renovate the barn and turn it into a gallery featuring the student’s artwork. Franny himself contributed five pieces before he passed away in his sleep just before last Christmas. We were able to afford the barn’s renovation with the sale of just one of those paintings. A quirky abstract on traditional landscape he called ‘Listen.’
After he appeared on MSNBC, the demand for his work quadrupled, along with the price per piece. Before he died, Franny had become a rock star before our very eyes. He saved my life and I will miss him with all my heart. I will never forget what he did for me, and for us. I will always love him.
Little Michael is walking now. He gets along so well with Robyn’s little Molly that you would think they are brother and sister. Twins. They are inseparable and are permanent fixtures around the studio. Sometimes I like to think that you and Michael can see them from up in heaven. You would be so proud. Caroline has taken on the job of Nanny. I wonder if one day we’ll allow them to play flashlight tag behind the house. Naturally, the woods and Mount Desolation will be strictly forbidden territory.
Speaking of Robyn, the FBI finally caught up with her attacker. They found him inside a motel outside Chicago where he was awaiting the arrival of his latest conquest. The FBI arranged a sting operation based upon some information delivered by a Match. com client who suspected a red flag when her new love interest insisted on meeting at a strange motel-no-tell. True to form, once he was caught, he couldn’t resist bragging about his exploits all over the country, including a beautiful brunette in Albany, New York by the name of Robyn. Robyn with a “y.” Safe to say the man will be put away for decades to come. God willing, he will spend his final days behind bars.
You’ll be happy to know I’m painting again. Mostly landscapes. Nothing too difficult. Just enough to get the rust out. I’ve also decided to try my hand at completing Michael’s final novel. It’s a story about a young woman who finds herself lost and alone in Europe. Paris to be precise. When she meets another woman who is identical to herself in every physical sense, she discovers that her remembered past is far different from reality. In typical Michael fashion, he didn’t leave me with a title. But for now I’m calling it Lost and Found.
I miss you Mol.
I know you were with me on that night two years ago when Whalen made his final move. I know you were there because I felt your presence with every one of my five senses. I smelled your skin, I heard your voice, I felt your touch. You entered my body and gave me strength. You made me fight my fear. You helped me survive. You are never far from my thoughts, my memories, my dreams.
Sometimes when I wake up early in the morning, I go outside with my coffee and I look out over the field to the woods and the mountain. I still see you walking through the tall grass in your cut-off jeans and Paul McCartney and Wings T-shirt. I see your blonde hair bobbing in time with your every step. I still feel that little pang of fright in my stomach the closer we come to the woods. I don’t know how our lives would have turned out had we not entered the woods that day; had we not broken Trooper Dan’s rule. But I guess it’s silly to imagine that we would have turned out any differently. We are what we are at any given moment in time. Dead or alive.
I’m going to end this now, because I hear Michael singing in his crib.
It’s morning and I need to make the coffee before I get him out. I may not write you for a while. There’re too many things I have to do now; too much life to live. Besides, I want to save up all the good juicy bits for when we meet up again, identical face to identical face. We’ll have a lot of catching up to do. I’d like to say I can’t wait, but it’s probably going to be a while.
All my love.
Your twin sister,
Rebecca Rose Underhill
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