13 Little Blue Envelopes(70)

Dear Aunt Peg,

Not sure if you know this, but the thirteenth

blue envelope is gone (it was stolen along with my

bag in Greece). Anyway, I figured I’d take over.

Just so you know, Richard got me back to London,

and I figured it out. I should have realized about

the green slippers.

We made a lot of money. People really liked your

paintings. So, thanks for that.

You know, I wanted to write to you for a long

time, but I never could. You never left an address

where I could reach you, and you never did check

your e-mail. So now I’m writing to you when you’re

dead, which is kind of dumb. There’s nowhere I can

send this letter. I have no idea what I am going

to do with it. It’s kind of ridiculous that the

only one of the famous thirteen letters I’ll have

is one I wrote.

The truth is, if I had been able to write to

you, I probably would have just yelled at you. I

was mad at you. And even though you’ve explained

it all to me, I’m still kind of mad at you. You

went away, and you never came back. I know you

have “issues,” and I know you’re different and

creative and all those things, but it really



wasn’t okay. Everybody missed you. My mom was

worried about you—and as it turned out, she

should have been.

At the same time, you pulled off this incredible

trick. You got me over here, made me do all of

these things that I’d never have done otherwise.

And I guess even though you were telling me what

to do, I still had to do them on my own. I always

thought that I could only do things with you,

that you made me more interesting. But I guess I

was wrong. Honestly, I pulled some of this stuff

out of my butt. You would have been proud. I’m

still me. . . . I still find it hard to talk

sometimes. I still do incredibly stupid things at

inappropriate moments. But at least I know I’m

capable of doing some things now.

So I guess I can’t be too mad. But I can still

miss you. Now that I’m here, in your room, spending

your money . . . you’ve never seemed farther away. I

guess it will just take time.

Since I won’t need the blue envelope to mail

this, I’m going to put half of the money in it and

leave it for Richard. I know you gave it all to me,

but I’m also pretty sure that you wanted him to

have some of it. He is my uncle, after all.

I’ve also decided to do what you never managed



to do but what I know you probably wish you

did . . . I’m going to go home.

Love,

Your Interesting,

International Niece

P.S.

Oh, and I told him for you.





Acknowledgments

I would like to thank the trustees of Hawthornden Castle. This book began there, during my residency, when I also learned to navigate the roads of Midlothian, Scotland, in the pitch dark, in the rain, in winter. (An accomplishment, but not something I recommend.) Simon Cole and Victoria Newlyn provided safe haven in

London and never once asked annoying questions like, “What are you doing here?” or “When are you leaving?” Stacey Parr served as resident expatriate and lovable mad aunt, and Alexander Newman as the Englishman in New York and ever—

supportive uncle. John Jannotti is long overdue thanks for sharing his much-varied expertise and for his tolerance of my coffee-drinking.

Without the editorial guidance of Ben Schrank, Lynn

Weingarten, and Claudia Gabel of Alloy Entertainment, and Abby McAden of HarperCollins, I would be nowhere at all.