Reston, Virginia

Emma Tully pulled out the letter from the yellowed envelope. At first, the stack of envelopes that were gathered together with an orange rubber band had grabbed her attention because the top one, this one, had a twenty-cent stamp with a woman’s picture: Ethel Barrymore. She’d never heard of Ethel Barrymore before. Perhaps she was Drew’s grandmother? It didn’t matter. What caught Emma’s attention was that she couldn’t believe stamps had ever been twenty cents.

She wondered if the stack of envelopes had long been forgotten. She had found them the last time she stayed at her mom’s house in Cleveland. The bundled stack was stuffed in the back drawer of the guest-room bureau. Forgotten perhaps, but important enough to save. And her mom was definitely not the pack-rat type. The letters were even kept in chronological order. Again, not something her mom would do unless these were special.

Emma didn’t know anyone who even wrote real letters anymore. This was a treat. Especially if Emma’s suspicions were true. Were these old love letters her dad had written to her mom before they were married? That was like awesomely romantic. It was like taking a peek into a part of her own history.

She settled back into her pillows.

August 26, 1982

 

Dear Liney,

 

I got in last night around eight. Yes, safe and sound. You didn’t need to worry. Although now I can admit I was a little rattled about flying. I know I told you it didn’t bother me and I know I’m right about the odds of two major crashes happening within a couple months of each other. It’s just not going to happen. But for a few minutes when I sat in the plane while we were still on the tarmac at O’Hare I did think about all those burning body parts blown all over that New Orleans neighborhood. I just told myself that I’m going to be the guy who investigates what went wrong.

 

You should see this place. Quantico’s like a whole little town hidden inside a pine forest. I guess I expected military barracks or something.

 

I found my room at the dorm. Three guys to a room and they’re not big rooms. But that’s okay. The other guys don’t seem too bad. Hey, we all want to be feebies, so we’ve got that in common.

 

It’s funny, because almost immediately we assigned each other nicknames. That’s not entirely true, “Razzy” came with his and thought we all needed one, so Reggie’s J.B. because the guy eats jelly beans like his life depended on it. Seriously, he brought his own bag. I think it’s a three-pounder. He says President Reagan eats them, too. I don’t know if that’s true or not. I picked up the latest Time at the airport because they had an interview with Reagan. They didn’t mention anything about jelly beans. Just about the recession and him riding horses with the queen. But hey, if he eats jelly beans that’s kinda cool.

 

Oh and my nickname—bet you’d never guess. It’s Indy. Yeah, okay, obviously because I’m from Indiana. These guys have no clue where Indiana is, let alone Terre Haute.

 

I know I told you once that I hate nicknames. You remember that, right? Mostly because as a kid my dad called me “dimwit” or “klutz.” Stupid stuff like that. But I don’t mind this nickname. I actually like it. It reminds me of the movie, you know, Indiana Jones. That was the second movie we saw together last summer, remember? Of course you remember. How could you forget, right?

 

So anyway, I kind of like the idea of being associated with a guy who carries a whip and wins the girl with very little effort. That’s definitely more my style than klutz. More my style than what my dad had in store for me. He was still going off on me this morning about deserting the family business. Hey, I even look a little like Harrison Ford, don’t you think? Besides, Indiana Jones, Indy, is definitely more in line with what I have in mind for myself.

 

Yeah, Quantico is only the beginning of my brilliant career. I’ve got big plans.

 

Until next time.

 

Yours truly,

 

Indy

 

 

Emma pulled out the next one but stopped when she heard the front door. Footsteps marched directly to her bedroom. What now? She swooped up the letters and stuffed them under her bedcovers, just as the knock came.

“Hey, sweet pea,” her dad called. There was no anger. She sighed in relief. “I have to do a favor for Maggie. You want to go for a drive with me?”

Normally she’d groan and make some excuse. But tonight she didn’t mind. Maybe she was curious to see if she could notice any trace of Indiana Jones.