The Heiress

by Rachel Hawkins

you can put miles and mountains between you and home, but eventually, home will call you back.

After you read these letters, you’ll probably think I’m a mad old fool for putting any of this in writing, but I’ve found that writing things down makes them real. Firms up details. Allows less room for … eliding, let us say. (If you don’t know what that word means, then I’m clearly overpaying for your education.)

And if you can’t tell the truth at the end of it all, then what, I ask, is the fucking point?

“But the Appalachians are older than just about anything else. They were here before mammals, before dinosaurs. Those mountains”—he points to them—“are older than bones.”

“When people kill tigers, they make them into rugs. And when they kill deer, their heads go on the wall. What would you even make out of a dead wife, I wonder?”

It seems to me that it should not be that hard to be both good in bed and a good man, and yet the vast majority of men never cease to amaze me in their refusal to master this particular skill set.