The Four Seasons by Mary Alice Monroe Page B

over to your care. It is my client’s wish that it be delivered intact to Spring, should you find her. I assume you know its contents.”
    Birdie shook her head, accepting the small box with reverence. “No. At least not all of it. You see, we gave it to Merry as a gift when she came home from the hospital after the accident.” She paused as a million memories of her childhood flooded her thoughts. “My, I can’t believe it’s still here. It was so long ago, I’d forgotten all about it.”
    Rose stepped closer, wrapping an arm around Birdie’s waist. “It was supposed to be very private so we each gave our gift to Mom to put into the time capsule. It was a very big deal, rather ceremonial. She’s the one who put everything in the box and sealed it with all the tape.”
    â€œYou’ve never opened it?” Birdie asked Rose.
    â€œOf course not,” she replied. “It didn’t belong to me. It belonged to Merry.”
    Birdie wondered if she would have been so noble. She suspected curiosity would have gotten the better of her over the years.
    â€œThis time capsule is a piece of our childhood,” Birdie said, holding it with a trace of wonder in her voice. “And now it belongs to Spring.”

6
    A FTER M R . C OLLINS LEFT , Dennis walked lethargically down the stairs. He’d removed his jacket and tie and in his hand he carried a pile of papers.
    â€œIs the coast clear?” he asked.
    Seeing him obviously so self-engrossed in his own world did nothing to improve Birdie’s mood. She was tired and emotionally drained and she blamed him for not being there for her.
    â€œWhere were you?” Birdie asked sharply.
    Dennis halted on the stairs and slapped the papers against his thigh. His face could look very cold when he tried. “Where do you think? I was upstairs grading term papers. I told you a hundred times that I had work to do.”
    Rose grabbed her coat from the front closet. “I’m going for a walk,” she said, making a hasty exit.
    â€œYou always have work to do,” Birdie countered.
    â€œWhat do you mean?” he asked defensively. “You make that sound like a criticism, like I’m having a ball upstairsdrinking beer and watching a football game. I was upstairs working. Where should I have been?”
    â€œMaybe with me, in the dining room, during the reading of the will.” She knew she sounded bitter but couldn’t help it. Why did he even have to ask? Turning on her heel, she marched through the living room, picking up dishes en route to the kitchen.
    Dennis followed her, tucking his hands in his back pocket. “That was Season family business,” he said after the kitchen door closed. “Between the sisters.”
    â€œYou’re family,” she said through tight lips, tying on an apron.
    â€œIf you wanted me there, all you had to do was ask,” he said, reaching to pick up empty bottles from the kitchen table and carrying them to the sink.
    â€œWhy do I always have to ask?” She turned on the water faucets with brisk turns. “Can’t you see for yourself when I need you? And you ducked out of the luncheon pretty quick, too.”
    â€œYou know how I hate those affairs.”
    â€œOh, and funerals are happy affairs for the rest of us?” She turned off the water and dried her hands. Behind her, he moved around the kitchen, putting the bottles and cans into a plastic bag for recycling. The clink of glass against glass sounded in the silence.
    â€œMr. Collins and Rose hit us with a bomb today,” she said in a softer voice, “and it would have been nice to have had a little support.”
    Dennis nodded, acknowledging her change of tone as much as her words. He lowered his own tone. “What did they say?”
    â€œYou won’t believe it.” She turned to face him. “Merry wrote this letter to all of us, and made a