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“Fiona? Where are you?”

Footsteps echoed down the hall. Michael had returned from Whelan’s and was making his way to the kitchen. Fiona, still sitting at the table, was staring out of the window. Michael called to her again, but she didn’t answer him. She didn’t trust her voice.

“There you are!” he said, walking into the kitchen.

He carried a sleepy-eyed Nell tucked up in one arm, and held a plate of food covered with a cloth in his free hand.

“Why are you sitting here all alone?” he asked, placing the plate on the table.

“That’s for you. Sausages, sauerkraut, and a piece of apple cake. ”

Fiona turned away from the window to face him; as she did, he abruptly stopped talking. His gaze traveled over her face, taking in her red eyes, the silvery sheen on her cheeks.

“Aw, lass. We didn’t mean to hurt your feelings,” he said. “But you burnt that roast right to shite.”

“I’m not crying over the supper, Uncle Michael,” Fiona said, wiping her cheeks with her palm.

“What are you crying over, then?”

“This,” she said, touching the note she’d found, which was folded up again and lying on the table. “I went to put Aunt Molly’s cookbook away and this fell out of it. It’s from her, Uncle Michael. To you.”

Michael inclined his head, as if he hadn’t heard her correctly. “Fiona, is this some kind of joke? Because it isn’t funny.”

“It’s not a joke. Here,” she said, pushing the note across the table. “Read it. I did. I probably shouldn’t have, but I did.”

Michael sat down at the kitchen table across from her, Nell drowsing on his shoulder, and looked at the note. Fiona could see that he was working up the courage to pick it up, and after a long moment, he did.

She watched his face as he read it. She knew the words by heart now.

My dearest Michael,

I am dying. Dr. Mason will not say so, but I see it in his eyes. God has given me a few moments’ relief from the pain, and I am writing my last words while I have the strength to do so. It will be easier for you to read them after I am gone, I think, than to hear them from my lips.

I’m afraid, Michael. Wherever I’m going, it won’t be this. It won’t be you. It won’t be Nell. After such happiness here on earth, what can heaven offer me?

You have given me so much, but there is one final thing I must ask of you—I want you to marry again after I am gone.

Find a woman who will love you and will love Nell, too, as if she were her own.

Mary Munro is my first choice. She has been like a sister to me and is such a good mother to Ian.

And she has been a widow for too long. Some might say that it’s strange for a wife to pick out her replacement, but I do not think so.

I never knew how much love a heart can hold.

Not until I met you. You have the biggest heart, Michael, and there is room enough in it for both of us.

Take good care of our Nell. Tell her about me one day. Tell her how much I wanted her, how much I loved her. Tell her how much I loved her father.

Forever yours,

Molly

After a long moment, Michael folded the note and placed it back on the table.

Fiona looked at him. She couldn’t see his face clearly because his head was lowered, but then he spoke, and she heard in his voice what he was feeling in his heart. She heard all the things grief had put there—anger, fear, sorrow.

“The end came quick. She’d been writing, just before…

before things got bad. I thought it was a grocery list for a supper she was planning.

” He laughed. It was a dry, bitter sound.

“The doctor must’ve tucked the note inside her cookbook.

She had it with her, y’see. I never opened it after she passed. Couldn’t bear to.”

It was the most Michael had ever told Fiona about Molly’s death, and it cost him; Fiona could see that.

“She knew you,” Fiona said, trying to encourage him. “Better than you know yourself. She knew what you would need. Who you would need.”

“Time. That’s what I need, Fiona. Time.”

“You haven’t got it.”

Michael’s hand, resting on the table, knotted into a fist. “Don’t start this again, lass.”

“I don’t want to, believe me. It’s not pleasant arguing with you,” Fiona said. “But you care for Mary, I know you do. And she cares for you. And Milton Duffery bought a ring yesterday. A diamond ring. In Tiffany’s. Nick saw him. So stop being stubborn and listen to me.”

“He bought a ring?” Michael asked.

Fiona nodded.

Michael got to his feet. He looked desperate and frightened, like a horse that wanted to bolt. “Take her,” he said, handing Nell to Fiona. The little girl, sweaty and sticky and sleepy, mewled in protest.

Anger flared inside Fiona. “I can’t believe this. Are you running off again? Where are you going this time?” she demanded, taking Nell into her arms.

Michael grabbed the vase off the table and pulled the flowers out of it, dripping water all over the table. “Out,” he replied, leaving the kitchen.

Fiona tried to stand up, to go after him, but the weight of the sleeping child in her arms made her clumsy. She knocked into the table and upset the vase. It teetered back and forth; she only just managed to catch it before it fell over.

“Uncle Michael? Uncle Michael!” she shouted. “Where are you–”

The door to the flat slammed shut.

“Bloody hell!” Fiona swore, sitting down again. Why did he always run from hard things instead of facing them?

Nell, unhappy at being jostled awake, began to cry. Fiona rubbed her back and hummed a lullaby.

Why did Michael take the flowers ? she wondered. Where on earth is he going with them ?

As Fiona heaved a troubled sigh, the clock in the parlor struck the hour—seven p.m. Nell had curled back into sleep, her head against Fiona’s chest. She would put the child to bed in a little while, but for now she held her, enjoying the sweet weight of her, her warmth, her little girl smell.

Out of all of them, Nell would suffer the most if Mary left to wed Mr. Duffery, and Fiona felt desperate at the very thought.

Mary was like a mother to Nell—the only mother she’d ever known.

As Fiona sat, still humming, the golden rays of the slow-setting summer sun filtered through the kitchen window, falling across the floor, the kitchen table, and the folded letter lying on it. The warm light seemed to set the paper aglow, drawing Fiona’s gaze.

She stopped humming and reached out her hand. A tiny flame of hope kindled inside her as she touched Molly’s letter. She knew now where Michael had gone. And why. Turning her head toward the sunlight, she whispered three words.

“Help him. Please . ”