Free Mine to Tell by Colleen L Donnelly Page B

because it went somewhere? Somewhere away from Isaac? And somewhere to somebody else?

Chapter 11
    “Thy word is a lamp unto my feet
    and a light unto my path.”
    I was barely awake when Kyle showed up at my front door, my hair still knotted in the previous night’s tangles. I opened the door with a mug of steaming coffee in my hand and saw him standing there with two homemade rolls wrapped in plastic.
    I wanted to screech You’re early! but I composed myself and said, “We’ll share,” instead. I lifted my cup and did my best to appear unruffled.
    He stepped inside and we went to the kitchen.
    “But before we share I have to change,” I said, glancing down at the T-shirt and sweat pants I’d worn to bed. “You can help yourself to coffee while I do,” I nodded toward the pot as I backed from the room.
    He smiled this time. I saw it as he bent over the rolls to open them. I scurried from the kitchen, leaving behind the homey noises he made getting out plates and pouring himself a cup of coffee.
    I wondered what Julianne’s little kitchen thought when I returned and saw Kyle sitting at one side of her small table, two cups, two plates, and two rolls set out in front of him. Had a man ever joined her here like he was joining me? He looked comfortable, and he made the room seem comfortable. I walked to the opposite side of the table and took my seat. We ate and drank in silence, our common goal binding us together and keeping the awkwardness at bay.
    “Why do you suppose she chose a Bible to write her tale in?” I finally asked. “I mean, she was hiding it, that’s clear, but why in a Bible? If she went to all the trouble to do this one letter at a time, in an unlikely book, under a false floor, in an attic, then I have to wonder if she really wanted anyone to know what she had to say.” I ran the tip of my finger around the rim of my cup. “She could have created some code no one would ever break, instead. Or said nothing at all.”
    Kyle finished his roll and looked up at me, as he thought about what I’d said. “You write. You put your thoughts on a page. It seems she may have too,” he said. “We won’t know until we begin if what she did was part of her story or not.”
    He was right. I closed my mouth before I wound myself up into a dither that I had no grounds for yet. “Disappointed” didn’t touch how I felt, but neither did “thrilled.” Did she write? What if she didn’t? I’d been so excited all night, hoping Julianne’s secrets were close. But now I worried they were far away and her gone with them. I looked at Kyle. I was glad he was here. “Let’s get started.”
    I gave him the sofa so he could be comfortable while he read. I took a straight chair with a tray across my lap for a hard surface to write on. Kyle opened Julianne’s Bible in a reverent way. We looked at each other; then he bent over the first page and began to read the letters to me, one at a time.
    The intensity of our work obliterated time, letter after letter, fitting together into words that were not yet strung into clauses, sentences, or thoughts. I watched for phrases like “In the beginning” or “I’m sorry it happened this way,” but they weren’t there. Instead I saw “closed doors” and “Chicago” and “Henrietta and John.” I wanted to stop and cut the never-ending stream of letters into words and find out who Henrietta and John were, learn about closed doors, and find out if Chicago was where she’d gone. But I plunged onward through the tedious task of deciphering as many letters as we could so that when we finally fragmented the chain into meaningful phrases I’d see her clearly and know how she’d begun.
    It wasn’t until my stomach growled that we both looked up, dizzied from our concentration. Kyle had one finger on the letter where we’d stopped. “Want to finish this page and then stop for lunch?” he asked. I looked at my watch. It was one o’clock. We’d worked five hours