Madelyn "Lyn" Creeke and her grandmother were the last of their family. At least, that's what Lyn's grandmother always led her to believe.
Lyn had never heard of or seen pictures of Georgina Creeke, a great aunt that had been living a few hours awa...
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I didn't have any new guests coming in and the nightly treat of hot cocoa and cookies wasn't until seven. So I had some time on my hands and I thought it would be best to spend it on work. However, after I spent half an hour redoing my work because my eyes kept darting over to where the box and journal sat, I decided it was best to focus on mapping out the trees and figuring out a plan of action with the ornaments. Surely then, once I got my last responsibility to my aunt out of the way, I could focus on my actual job.
Clearing my desk and tucking my laptop back into its bag, I dumped out the box and began sorting through the bits and pieces of Gina's history. I started a timeline, following her journey from small-town girl to big city starlet. She left on April 3, 1963, as dated by her Greyhound tickets. Then, according to a playbill from November 23, 1963, she had her first gig as an ensemble singer in a small musical. Then a poster proclaimed her a warm-up act for a concert on September 8, 1966. I pieced together all the little moments and performances during her stay in LA. However, after the timeline fleshed out, I realized an important date was missing.
June 21, 1965.
It was hard not to remember that date. My grandmother took me out to see my grandfather's grave in Arlington every year on that date. A date that I noted was somewhere between gigs for my great aunt, which seemed hard to pull off considering she needed to be at my grandfather's funeral.
A heavy weight formed in my stomach as I saw the pieces sliding together. I cast my eyes over to the letters I left inside the box. I pushed aside the bundle of unopened envelopes and withdrew the few that had come from my grandmother.
The first I pulled out had very few words, but it left me utterly incapable of breathing for a good ten minutes after reading it.
March 10, 1995
Georgina,
Jack is dead. He and Emma were in a car accident. It was quick and painless. Madelyn is in my care.
—Norma
My grandmother grew up in an age where a lot could be determined about your character by your penmanship. She prided herself in her light, curvy lettering and graceful strokes. This letter, however, was scrawled with rough jolts of a pen pushed hard into the paper. Dots of moisture, now dry, warped the paper and smeared the ink. I wondered if it was from my grandmother or my great aunt's tears. I imagined it was a mixture of both.
Once I regained myself, I pulled out the next letter. I didn't spend much time on that one. I'd already gotten the gist of it in the journal. My grandmother warned off Georgina, telling her never to write to Jack again or she'd involve the police. Whatever that meant. Even if it seemed like an empty threat to me, it had stopped Gina from writing, so I suppose my grandmother's threat was real enough to her.
Then there was the last letter, clearly much older than the others. I pulled it out of the yellowed envelope and carefully unfolded the aged paper.
