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cance. Driver opened it and was astonished. There, carefully nestled on a small pink satin heart-shaped pillow was a stack of letters, primly tied by a pink satin' ribbon. Next to it was a brownish, three-by-five spiral notebook. |
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He picked up the stack of letters, uncertain what he was going to do with them. Did it matter that he pried into her life now that she was dead? Were they left behind to show the world that someone actually did once care about Flora Saint Quentin? Did any of it have meaning or purpose? Driver contemplated the invasion of privacy and finally sagged down on the edge of the bed, yielding to his morbid curiosity. He peeled away the pink satin ribbon and began to read. |
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Two hours later, the bizarre story of Flora Saint Quentin had taken yet another grotesque twist. |
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The stack of letters were all written on the same pale pink, slightly scented stationery. They were all written to the quiet, homely woman who said little, asked for less and revealed nothing of her hopes and dreams. Now he knew why. It was all there, gently scrolled by a delicate hand on wafer thin sheets of paper. Each began, ''My Darling Flora." Each passionately appealed for her favor. Each professed undying eternal love. Each was signed, "Forever, your loving Harry." |
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