CHAPTER TWELVE: THE LETTER THAT WASN’T FINISHED
The next morning, Helen returned without an axe.
She carried a small paper bag containing pastries and a folded page from her notebook.
Megan met her on the porch.
“I wrote something for Nadia,” Helen said.
“I don’t know if I can send it.”
Megan did not invite her to read it aloud.
Instead, she handed Helen her phone.
“You could call her.”
Helen considered the suggestion.
“I spent decades trying to find words that would make me look less guilty.”
“Then don’t start there.”
Helen dialed.
Nadia answered while she was loading her restored miniature figures into a storage case.
“You made it home?” she asked.
“Yes,” Helen said.
“And the tree?”
“Still standing.”
“Good.”
Helen looked down at the folded page.
“Nadia, I owe you an apology.”
“I know.”
“I didn’t support you when Solomon blamed you, and I let my fear become an excuse for abandoning you.”
Nadia remained silent.
“I cannot undo it,” Helen continued.
“And I don’t expect one telephone call to repair thirty years.”
“It won’t,” Nadia said.
“But I can hear you now.”
Helen pressed a hand to her eyes.
“I also tried to chop down the maple.”
Nadia made a small sound of disbelief.
“You did what?”
“I thought it would be easier to get the tin before Everett arrived.”
“Helen, we planted that tree ourselves.”
“I know that now.”
“How could you forget?”
Helen looked at the old photograph Megan had placed beside the phone.
“Because I spent too long remembering what went wrong and not enough time remembering what was good.”
Nadia let the silence continue until it stopped feeling like punishment.
“I spoke with Iris this morning,” she said.
Helen’s head rose.
“You did?”
“She watched a recording of the performance last night.”
“What did she think?”
“She said the bakery window is still too bright.
”
Helen laughed through her tears.
“Of course she did.”
Nadia told her that Iris had agreed to discuss repainting the missing kitchen scene.
She also wanted the new exhibit to name all three women and describe the pieces that had been reconstructed.
“Will she speak to me?” Helen asked.
“She says you can call her yourself.”
Helen closed her eyes.
“That’s more than I deserve.”
“Don’t turn it into a speech,” Nadia replied.
“Just call her.”
After the conversation, Megan and Helen walked into the yard.
Rowan arrived later that morning to inspect the trunk again and confirm the protective measures.
He proposed monitoring the maple over the coming seasons and bringing in a qualified specialist if retrieval of the old tin was still desired.
“There is no reason to make an urgent excavation now,” he said.
“The tree has already suffered enough.”
Helen offered to pay for all professional care and a replacement if one ever became necessary.
Megan asked Rowan to put the recommendations in writing so they could agree on a sensible plan.
This time Helen listened to every instruction.
Before leaving, Rowan pointed to a small new bud near the lowest healthy branch.
“It’s not a promise,
” he said.
“But it’s a good sign.”
Later that afternoon, Megan received a message from Sabine.
The exhibition had suspended the sale of the harbor and was rewriting its public description.
Quentin had expressed interest in supporting a traveling demonstration of the restored miniature theater, provided the makers controlled how their work was presented.
The proposal was only a conversation, and Nadia had not accepted it.
Megan sent back a simple reply thanking Sabine for the update.
The outcome no longer depended on a frantic excavation.
That evening, Helen arrived once more carrying the repaired handle of an old miniature paintbrush.
She asked whether Megan would like to see how a window could glow without showing the lamp behind it.
Megan looked at the maple, at the fresh cuts hidden beneath their temporary wrap, and at the tiny brush in Helen’s hand.
“You can show me,” she said.
“But you still owe me a healthy tree.”
Helen nodded.
“I intend to do everything I can for it.”
They sat at the kitchen table beneath an ordinary ceiling light.
Helen painted a miniature window on a scrap of cardboard and tilted it toward Megan.
A little square of yellow appeared to shine from somewhere impossibly deep inside the paper.
Megan bent closer.
“How did you do that?”
Helen smiled.
“That’s the part I can teach you.”
Outside, the maple held its leaves above the walkway while the last light faded from the neighborhood.
The End.
