About the beginning

Something Happened NEARLY 60 Years Ago You need to know About

Margaret Marchetti had been dreading this day for months.   

Her mother Elena’s farmhouse stood empty now, three weeks after the funeral, and Margaret knew she couldn’t postpone the inevitable any longer. At sixty-two, she felt too old to be orphaned, too young to be sorting through a lifetime of accumulated memories. The October wind rattled the windows as she climbed the narrow stairs to her mother’s bedroom, cardboard boxes in hand and her heart heavy with the weight of endings.

Elena had lived in this house for sixty-seven years, and it seemed impossible that an entire life was now reduced to boxes of memories and donation piles. Margaret had already gone through the obvious things—clothes for charity, jewelry to be divided among the grandchildren, hundreds of books for the library sale. But now came the harder work that was much more heart wrenching. Now it was the personal papers, the hidden corners, the secrets every woman keeps and clues to a life that was lived.

She started with the dresser, working methodically through each drawers of handkerchiefs and scarves that still smelled faintly of her mother’s perfume – Chanel No. 5 was always her favorite. As she reached the bottom drawer, beneath a collection of Christmas cards dating back decades – why she saved them Margaret would never understand – her fingers found something unexpected: a small brass key.

Margaret turned it over in her palm, puzzled. It was old, ornate, clearly designed for something more significant than a small jewelry box or diary. She’d never seen it before, yet something about its weight felt important, purposeful. Instantly her curiosity overtook her sadness and she knew she must try to find what ever this carefully hidden key opened.

For twenty minutes, she searched the bedroom for whatever the key might unlock. She tried the antique secretary in the corner, the hope chest at the foot of the bed, even the old wooden jewelry box on the vanity. Nothing.

It wasn’t until she ventured into the guest room—the space her mother had used for sewing and where she read so many of the books she loved – that Margaret noticed something odd about the window seat. The cushions looked unusually well used, as if someone had been sitting there regularly. Curious, she lifted the cushions and discovered that the wooden seat was actually a storage bench. And it was locked.

The brass key slid into the lock as if it had been waiting for this exact moment. The lid opened with a soft sigh, releasing the scent of dried lavender and old paper. Inside, Margaret found something that made her sink onto the edge of her mother’s sewing chair in complete bewilderment.

Twenty-four letters, tied with a faded blue ribbon, lay nestled in tissue paper like sle

eping birds. Beside them: a small collection of black and white photographs, a pressed flower still somehow retaining its color, and a business card so worn the edges had become soft as fabric.

Margaret lifted the first letter with trembling hands. The envelope was addressed in masculine handwriting to “Mrs. Elena Marchetti” at their farm address. The return address read: “J. Fletcher, c/o Harper’s Magazine.” She had never heard her mother mention anyone named J. Fletcher and barely remember.

The postmark was dated September 20, 1967—two years after her father’s death, when Margaret was away at college and her mother was living alone on the farm for the first time in her adult life. Margaret remembered that period well; her mother had seemed different somehow during her visits home. More vibrant, more thoughtful, more alive to beauty than Margaret had ever seen her.

At the time, she’d attributed it to Elena’s newfound independence, her freedom to make small choices without consulting anyone else. Now, staring at evidence of what appeared to be a correspondence that lasted an entire year, Margaret wondered if she’d been completely wrong about what had changed her mother that autumn. With hands that shook slightly, she untied the ribbon and opened the first letter.

“Dear Elena,” it began. “I hope this letter finds you well, though I confess I’m not certain it will find you at all. I’ve carried your address in my wallet for three weeks now, written on a scrap of paper that’s grown soft from handling…”

Margaret read the entire letter twice before reaching for the second one, this time in her mother’s careful handwriting, addressed to a hotel in Vermont. Then the third, from New Orleans. Then the fourth, from Colorado.

As the afternoon light faded, Margaret found herself surrounded by evidence of a love story she never could have imagined. Her practical, devoted mother—who had spoken of Margaret’s father with quiet affection but never passion, who had never shown interest in romance novels or movies—had conducted a year-long correspondence with a Harper’s Magazine journalist that read like poetry.

The letters revealed a woman Margaret had never known: intellectually curious, artistically gifted, capable of deep passion and sophisticated thought. This Elena had enrolled in photography classes, sold pictures to newspapers, and written with the kind of emotional honesty that made Margaret blush.And James Fletcher—whoever he was—had clearly been utterly captivated by her.

“Your letter found me in San Francisco,” he wrote in what appeared to be the sixth exchange, “where I’ve been photographing the changing face of American cities for Harper’s spring issue. But all I can think about is the way morning light falls across your kitchen table, the way you described the grain silos standing like sentinels against the winter sky. Elena, I need to see you again…”

Margaret’s heart raced as she realized she was reading the most intimate thoughts of two people who had found in each other something extraordinary. The progression was clear: tentative friendship had deepened into intellectual connection, which had blossomed into passionate love.

But what had happened? How had it ended? And why had her mother never mentioned this remarkable man who had clearly changed her life so profoundly?

Margaret reached for the final letter in the stack, dated August 30, 1968, exactly one year after the correspondence began. Her mother’s handwriting looked different here—more confident, more assured.

“My dearest James,” it read. “Today marks one year since you first arrived at our farm to photograph the grain silos. As I write this, I can see them from my window, and they no longer look like monuments to isolation. Instead, they remind me of how much is possible when two souls recognize each other across impossible distances…”

But before Margaret could read further, she heard a car door slam in the driveway. Her sister Carol had arrived to help with the sorting, which meant Margaret would have to share this discovery before she’d had time to process it herself.

Quickly, she gathered the letters and photographs, her mind racing with questions that demanded answers. Who was James Fletcher? What had happened between him and her mother? And most importantly—was he still alive?

---

---

---