The Six Rules of Maybe

service there was dreadful. I had to write and tell you, as I recalled then your fine service to our home every day for twenty-five years. You are an inspiration, and the French have a lot to learn from the US Post Office and the respected members within it.
    Sincerely,
    Doris Woodruff
    Dear Mr. Weaver—
    I am writing to thank you for the example you set while being our mail carrier while we lived on your route. My son, John Roberts, has decided to join your profession, and I have no doubt it was because of the role model you were without even being aware of it.
    Deepest Gratitude,
    Charlotte Roberts
    Mr. Weaver—
    I am sorry you have been sad. I want you to know, though, that I think you are a fine man, and havingyou as a neighbor all these years has been really great. Corky, too.
    Love,
    Scarlet Ellis
    Our own first letter from the Martinellis arrived at the beginning of August. Mom waved the envelope at me.
    “You’ll never guess who this is from,” she said.
    I took it from her, looked at the stamps. “Africa,” I said.
    “I’m afraid to look,” she said.
    “They need money. They’re stranded.”
    “I can’t stand it. Open it,” she said.
    I tore open the thin airmail envelope. Mrs. Martinelli’s brittle-thin handwriting filled two pages. I read a little. “Oh God,” I said.
    Mom sat beside me on the lawn chair. “Come on! What?”
    I laughed. “Oh my God. You’re never going to believe this.”
    Dear Annabeth and Scarlet,
    Although it has been an eventful few weeks, Mr. Martinelli and I are finally getting settled at our cocoa plantation, which we have named La Nouvelle Vie, or, new life, in French, the official language here. Our journey was a long one—Mr. Martinelli had his luggage stolen in Marrakech by two thieves posing as rug merchants. We set out after them in a speeding taxi and a ruckus ensued, and this series of events led us to be escorted out of the city by our new friend, the chief constable Mumbao Reynaulds, who we have come to call fondly Burt Reynolds, at his kind suggestion.
    The letter went on. Morin Jude must have met a terrible fate—she never showed at their meeting in Abidjan. No one seemed to have heard of her, until Mr. Martinelli bribed two government officials to speak. They were then put in contact with an individual from a remote village. A hundred dollars exchanged hands, and that’s when they were finally brought to an abandoned plantation and left, holding only the keys to their new home.
    “Can you imagine how much a hundred dollars is to a village like that?” Mom said.
    “They traveled across the world to buy an abandoned plantation for a hundred bucks. Do they know?”
    “Does it matter?” Mom said. Her eyes danced.
    “Not at all,” I said. It was the happiest I’d felt in a long time.
    “What a thrill, huh, Scarlet? What a thrill.”
    The day that the Martinellis’ first letter arrived, construction began on the Saint Georges’ garage. I recognized the voices of the men and their music. Hits of the seventies. Midnight at the o-a-sis … Send your camel to be-ed… . There was always reconstruction going on somewhere. Things that came apart were put together again, never exactly the same.
    I had another dream that night. I dreamed Juliet and I were rolling down a grass hill, rolling and laughing, and when we got to the bottom, there were two sets of hands to lift us up, Mom’s hands, and a man’s, too. There was ice cream, and then things went bad. Juliet was crying and reaching out her arms and Mom was crying and there was a red car driving away, and we stood huddled together and Mom was calling and calling a name.
    That next morning, I felt a sadness so pure I could almost hold itin my hands. It had risen to the surface sharp and clear enough that it felt real. I remembered Juliet beside me in the dream. A feeling of us bonded, sisters, the two of us against all things, against the bad stuff around us. Juliet and me, together.
    She was still sleeping when I went into her room. There was no butterfly candleholder on her night stand anymore, no trace of Buddy Wilkes. She’d been reading my book What to Expect When You’re Expecting , which she’d snitched back from my room and now lay on her floor. One of Hayden’s notes stuck out from the end, used as a bookmark. I shook her shoulder.
    She sighed awake, rubbed her eyes. “What time is it?” she said.
    “Just eight,” I said.
    “For God’s sake, Scarlet. I need my rest .” She