"Oh, my goodness."
She opened it.
Inside the cover, in faded ink, it said: "To Ellie, because you always steal my books anyway. Love, Maggie."
Grandma laughed through her tears.
"I gave her this for her 16th birthday."
"She kept it all these years."
"She kept everything."
We spent hours reading their notes in the margins.
They'd argued about characters, corrected each other's spelling, and written little jokes only they understood.
Eleanor hadn't just left me expensive books.
She'd left me the friendship she'd lost.
My phone rang.
Eleanor's daughter.
"I heard you collected my mother's books," she said.
"Yes."
"Do you know what they're worth?"
"Yes."
"So she left you money after all."
"She gave me books."
"Don't insult my intelligence, James."
I walked into the hallway.
"You expect people to believe a 22-year-old boy wanted to marry my mother because he loved her?"
"I know how it looks."
