The morning of the trip, I found my father’s old fountain pen in the back of my jewelry drawer.
I wasn’t looking for it. I was looking for a pair of pearl earrings Aaron’s mother had given me for our first anniversary. Pearls she said were “more appropriate” than the diamond studs I usually wore. I was trying very hard that week to be appropriate.
Instead, my fingers closed around something long and cool and smooth. I pulled it out.
It was black, with a gold clip and a little gold band around the middle. The ink inside had dried up years ago. On the side, in tiny engraved letters, it said H.V.
Harold Vance. My father.
I sat down on the edge of the bed with the pen in my hand.
He signed everything with that pen. Every contract. Every check. Every birthday card. He said a man should sign his name with something that weighs a little, so he remembers his name means something… Continue Full Story Tap Here
