Page 94 of Letters From Victor

Lawrence took it, his grip warm and steady. “Just be careful,” he said, not letting go immediately. “And send me a wedding invitation. I think I’ve earned that much.”

“Pour us something, and make it sparkling, darling.” I greeted Barbara at her door with two dozen roses in one hand and freedom in the other.

She pressed her hand lightly against her chest, searching my face. “Does that mean what I think it does?”

“You are looking at a bona fide free man.”

She took the roses and kissed me softly. “Well, you’d better come inside before some pretty girl snaps you up.”

Barbara’s house smelled of vanilla and fresh linen. She wore a periwinkle dress that swayed with her as she glided to the kitchen, shimmering like a morning lake. I followed and placed a silver gift box on the counter. She peeked inside, and her eyes sparkled.

“Crystal flutes? You think of everything.”

She retrieved chilled champagne from the fridge, the bottle sweating in her delicate hands. With a practiced twist, she sent the cork flying, its pop ricocheting through the house like a joyous gunshot. Bubbles spilled over the rim as she poured.

I took my glass and held it aloft. “To freedom.”

Her lips curved into a knowing yet wistful smile as she clinked her glass against mine, the crystalline note lingering in the air.

We sipped, and the champagne’s effervescence played a symphony on my tongue—light, airy, with an undercurrent of apple and pear that breathed life into my veins.

“I’m so happy for you,” Barbara said. Her voice was warm, but her eyes held something else—hesitation, maybe hope. “This means we’re one step closer.”

“Closer,” I echoed, rolling the word over in my mouth with another sip of champagne. I thought of Lawrence’s warnings, the road still ahead, and the possible complications lurking beneath the surface. “Speaking of which, any news?”

Barbara swirled the champagne in her glass, watching the bubbles rise like tiny desperate swimmers. “Frank still insists on Mexico. He says his lawyer is handling everything.”

I let that sink in as I took another slow sip, the cool liquid settling the uneasy feeling in my gut. “That makes things easier, then,” I said, offering optimism I wasn’t sure I believed.

She shrugged and moved to the sink to fill a vase with water. The rushing tap and the quiet clink of rose stems against glass cut through the room’s fragile silence. “Easier, maybe. Quicker, definitely…” She turned back to me, one hand brushing a loose strand of hair behind her ear. She started to speak but hesitated, lips parting, then pressing together again.

I set my glass on the counter with a muted thud against the Formica. “What’s on your mind, sweetheart?”

She shook her head. “Honestly, I’m just waiting for the shoe to drop. For him to change his mind, back out, or…”

“Or what?”

She glanced at the refrigerator, where a bright tangle of crayon strokes on manila paper clung to the door with a single magnet. “I’m worried about custody arrangements if we handle it out of the country.”

I pulled her close and held her head against my chest. “You need your own representation,” I said gently, pressing a slow kiss into her hair. “I don’t trust Frank’s lawyer to handle this fairly. Let me set you up with Lawrence. He’s sharp, and I trust him with my life.”

She nodded, curling her fingers into the fabric of my jacket.

“Don’t you worry, my darling. We’ll make everything right.”

I expected her posture to soften, but it didn’t. Barbara’s eyes flicked to the side. I followed her gaze to an unopened letter on the counter—crisp, white, official. The return address belonged to a prominent Los Angeles law firm. She caught my gaze.

“It’s from my mother’s estate attorney,” she said, her voice flat. “I don’t want to open it.”

“Why not?”

Barbara bit her lip. “Because I’m afraid of what it will say. Mother and I weren’t on the best terms. I imagine she cut me out. But I still don’t want to read it.”

I released her and picked up the letter, weighing it in my hand. It was light—probably no more than a page or two. “Would it help if I opened it?”

She hesitated, her eyes locked on the letter as if it were poison. After a long beat, she nodded.

I slid a finger under the flap and tore it with deliberate care. The paper inside was thick and expensive—the kind rich people used for weddings and funerals. I unfolded it and scanned the first few lines.

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