The envelope tucked under the gold wedding invitation had no return address, only my name in blue ballpoint.

I spotted it before the invitation, which says a lot, because the invitation had Megan Whitfield and Kyle Brandt on the front and a date eight weeks away.

My boots tracked red dust across the kitchen tile.

I had been under a rooftop unit at the Miller place since two, and my shirt pocket still held two copper fittings because I’d forgotten to put them back in the van.

The invitation was for October 18 at the lake.

A gold border, and a little sketch of a pavilion with six posts and a slanted roof.

The small envelope was the one I opened first.

Inside was a single sheet folded in thirds and a second envelope, older, yellowed at the flap.

The older one had Aunt Diane written on it in my mother’s handwriting.

The date in the top corner was March 9, 2003, underlined twice the way Elaine Whitfield underlined every note she ever stuck on a refrigerator.

The sheet on top was in Megan’s handwriting.

Blue ballpoint, rushed.

“Thomas, read the letter first.

Megan.”

I flipped the sheet over.

The back was blank.

I looked at my watch.

Six twenty.