Six Years After the Lake Trip, One Blue Envelope Upended Everything Clara Believed
I carried the box toward the wooden pier that ran twenty feet out into the clear lake.
The dock boards creaked under our boots as we walked out over the water.
The surface of Blackwood Lake was smooth as glass, mirroring the cloudless pale blue sky.
I set Daniel’s tackle box on the weathered wooden bench built into the end of the pier.
The bench wood had gone gray from years of winter sun, but the frame bolted to the pilings was solid.
I flipped up the brass latches and raised the lid of the box.
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