Page 223 of The Right Wrong Promise

You must know I’ll restore them. I just need time. I need to practice my technique and hope my arthritis doesn’t make art impossible.

I don’t have your talent, May, but I’ll try to do you justice. I won’t stop until they’re the perfect memory of what our Elvira wore in happier, easier times.

Yes, I know.

She deserves to know how sorry I am, too.

One day, she’ll know the truth, and she’ll have the little shoes we lost in that fire. I hated seeing you in tears. The precious shrine to our children was the one thing I could never replace after those goddamned devils turned your studio into ashes.

If I had more proof, you know they’d be in jail. I would rename their lot May Blackthorn Blueberry Farms in your memory.

That’s why you made the shoes she wore as a loving testament. That’s why it was your last project.

I miss you, May.

I miss the easy times.

I miss the old Leonidas you loved, before a tortured old man smashed our daughter to pieces, just like I smashed up the lovely shoes you made.

I pray you’ll forgive me from the other side. Just like I pray she’ll understand how deeply I regret the ways I tore the heart out of this family.

“On the bright side, the grandkids are fine.”Margot’s voice wavers. I squeeze her hand, giving her the space to keep reading.“They’re too young to understand this nasty rift. One day, before it’s their problem, I will mend Elvira’s heart. And I will copy your shoes down to the last detail, so help me God.

You were the only one who could ever suffer a stubborn old fool.

Even when you’re gone, you’re still my guiding light.

One day, no more night.

One day, Elvira will know she’s been loved with every step of her life.

If there’s one thing I wish I’d learned when you were still here by my side, it’s how there’s never enough time to say the things that truly matter.

The words settle between us like lead.

She already knew about her grandfather’s hand in trying to break up her parents, Elvira and Scott. One of the many things we discussed when we came back to New York.

I understand how crazy it must’ve been, learning that the man she looked up to the most was flawed.

Your heroes in life are ultimately people, riddled with human flaws.

And now, hearing his remorse, his determination to put things right, her eyes are misted.

“He never finished the shoes, did he?”

“I don’t think so,” she whispers. “His arthritisdidget worse. A few years after he wrote this, he could barely stand to write. It must’ve killed him that he couldn’t do it. He could never get his sculptures up to my grandmother’s level before his body gave out.”

I shake my head. There are times when biology is so fucking cruel.

“Your mother doesn’t know yet, does she?” I say softly.

“No.” She wipes at her eyes, sitting up.

“Do you think it might be time to tell her? Show her this letter and the shoes?” I tap the journal. “It’s never too late to make amends. He couldn’t make it perfect, but he put in a ton of effort.”

“I know, I know. She hated him so much. But God, it’s beautiful, isn’t it?” She traces the words on the paper. “I counted at least a dozen shoe sculptures. Holden said he found twice as many back in Portland. He spent years on this, and he could never get it right. He always carved his signature and the date into the bottom.”

“You think your mom will never forgive him?”