Page 2 of Of Heather and Thistle
Then came the sharp sound of footsteps crunching on frozen ground.
“Ms. Campbell?”
Heather turned to see Robert Ellis, her father’s lawyer, standing a few feet away. Tall and stately, he had an air of precision about him, dressed impeccably in a dark overcoat and leather gloves. Too composed for the rawness of the day.
“Mr. Ellis,” she greeted him, her voice quiet.
“I’m sorry for your loss,” he said, inclining his head.
She nodded, unsure how to respond.Lossdidn’t feel like the right word. Her father had been gone long before his heart stopped beating. She had lost him years ago.
“I won’t take much of your time,” Ellis continued, his tone polite but businesslike. Reaching into his coat pocket, he pulled out a thick, cream-colored envelope. “Your father left this with me some time ago, with instructions to deliver it to you in the event of his passing.”
Heather’s breath caught.
Her name was scrawled across the front in her father’s unmistakable handwriting—slanted, uneven, like everything else about him.
She swallowed hard, shoving her hands deeper into her coat pockets. She didn’t reach for it.
She wasn’t sure she wanted to know.
“What is it?” she asked, her voice barely above a whisper.
“I’m afraid I don’t know,” Ellis replied. “He insisted it be given to you directly. I understand it contains something significant, but the details are known only to him—and now, to you.”
A hesitation. Then, in a softer tone, he added, “You know, your father and I worked together for years. He was a brilliant lawyer before… everything happened. We started at the same firm. Built our careers side by side. When he lost his way, I tried to help, but he wouldn’t let me.” His expression shifted, something somber threading into his professionalism. “Handling his affairs now—making sure this reaches you—is my way of honoring what we once had.”
Heather hesitated a moment longer, then slowly reached out.
Her gloved fingers brushed against the smooth paper as she took the envelope from him. It felt heavier than it should have, as though it carried more than just words.
Her father had never been the type to leave kind words behind.
What could he possibly have to say to her now?
And why did she suddenly feel like a child again, curious but bracing for disappointment?
“Thank you,” she murmured, her voice barely audible.
Ellis nodded. “If you have any questions, you know how to reach me.”
Heather barely registered his departure, the sound of his retreating footsteps muffled by the growing wind. She didn’t know how long she stood there after he left.
Alone.
The cold crept through her coat. The snow melted against her cheeks. But she didn’t move.
Her name stared back at her from the envelope, haunting and familiar. She slipped it into her bag, her chest tightening as she tried to push away the flood of emotions—resentment, sorrow, the sting of old wounds reopening when she’d spent years trying to forget.
She knelt beside the grave after everyone was gone, the bitter chill of the ground through her wool tights.
The words engraved on the headstone were plain, to the point:
Charles Malcolm Campbell
Beloved Father and Husband.
Beloved.
