““From Wes,” she said. “He’s my cousin and I have a right to know what’s inside.” This was debatable. “Personal and Confidential” pretty much meant that, and if Wes had dragged himself from his sickbed to contact me, it had to be important. I yawned like I got envelopes every day and backed off fast, smack into Frieda Johnson’s cinnamon syrup bun table, almost knocking her tub of handcranked maple butter to its death. Frieda glared at me like I was an alien, so I snuck between the pumpkin sloppy... joe stand and the pumpkin doughnut table and ripped The Letter open. It started with “Dear Ellie,” which meant he cared: “I bet you weren’t expecting to hear from me today. Well, I wasn’t expecting to write you either, but I guess this flu’s got me for a while longer, although I hate to admit that, not ever being sickly.” Grace was moving in for heavy spying. I spun around past the pumpkin and sausage stew line and read fast: “I’ve been thinking about you and Max and how you probably need a pep talk right now.MoreLessRead More Read Less
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