The woman continued.
“Ruth Bell was my aunt.”
Dad had noticed us now.
He began walking over.
Diane opened her purse.
“I found something after my mother died.”
She removed a small bundle of letters tied with blue ribbon.
“I think they belong here.”
Dad reached us.
Diane studied his face.
“Mr. Lindqvist?”
“Yes.”
“My aunt Ruth wrote these.”
Dad looked at the bundle.
“To who?”
Diane glanced toward the garden.
Then toward the three wooden markers beneath the apple tree.
“To a girl named Rebecca.”
Claire had joined us.
Her face changed.
“My mother?”
Diane nodded.
“But that isn’t the strange part.”
She untied the ribbon.
“The first letter was written in 1968.”
Claire looked confused.
“My mother was an infant.”
“Yes.”
Diane handed her the top envelope.
Across the front, in Ruth Bell’s careful handwriting, were the words:
To Rebecca, when you are old enough to understand why your mother chose the garden.
