Why would James demand secrecy?
Why not simply call?
Why not knock on my front door?
And if James hadn’t written these instructions, who else could possibly know about the yellow dress?
I hurried upstairs.
At the back of my closet sat an old cedar chest.
Inside, beneath layers of tissue paper, was the dress.
The yellow had faded over the decades, but it was still unmistakable.
I lifted it carefully.
Then my fingers found three clumsy stitches near the side seam.
Suddenly I smiled.
James had sewn those.
The
