The return address on the envelope was a P.O. box at the Pennsylvania State Penitentiary. It was addressed in spidery black script to Ivy's seventeen-year-old granddaughter, Rose-Marie, who had just left after spending the summer. Ivy decided not to forward the letter, even though she knew interfering with another person's mail was a crime.

If Ivy kept the letter, however, the person who wrote it would never get a response. She stared at the envelope, contemplating what it might contain. What if there was something important? An emergency? Whoever wrote this thought that Rose-Marie had received it, and was probably waiting for a response. Common courtesy required one to answer a letter. It was her civil duty, Ivy thought, to open the envelope.

One sheet of lined paper with three holes down the left side was covered with sprawling, irregular handwriting. The writer had a habit of using ellipses, so there were conspicuous gaps here and there on the page, above each series of three dots. The letter was written in black marker, which soaked had through the thin paper and left the other side mottled with stray marks.

"Dear Rose-Marie," it read. "What a beautiful name. But of course...a beautiful girl deserves a beautiful name. Thanks for answering me ad in Prison Life. Sorry it took me so long to write back. I promised to write back to everyone, and I got a lot of letters! I saved you for last, Rose-Marie...I always save the best for last. You look younger than twenty-five in your picture, but if you say so I'll take your word for it. Why did you type you letter? That's so impersonal...I want to get to know you. I'm a lonely guy locked up in an awful place...please be my ray of sunshine. I can't wait to hear form you again. Nicholas."

Ivy placed the letter on the desk, her hand trembling slightly. She remembered Rose-Marie using the typewriter. She had told Ivy the letter was for her best friend back in Philadelphia. Prison Life? she thought. A photograph? Twenty-five?

Such a deception! Not only of Ivy, but of a convict, possibly a dangerous man. Ivy thought of telling her own daughter, Rose-Marie's mother, what the girl had been up to. But now Ivy herself was implicated. She had come by this information in an illicit manner -- opening Rose-Marie's mail. She couldn't tell anyone without admitting her own guilt.

Ivy was suddenly too tired about to do, and rolled down the top of the desk.

The next morning, Ivy found herself at the desk again. She opened the roll-top and picked up the letter to reread the last lines. "I want to get to know you. I'm a lonely guy locked up in an awful place...please be my ray of sunshine." She couldn't shake the image of a broken young man, in a dank prison cell, waiting and waiting for a ray of sunshine that would never come. He must at least be informed that no letters would be coming from Rose-Marie.

She opened on of the desk drawers and pulled out a sheet of her favorite stationary. Two red rosebuds floated in the upper left-hand corner of a six-by-eight inch sheet of buff-colored paper. Fountain pen poised, Ivy wondered how to begin. She couldn't write as herself. What would this young man think of receiving a letter from a meddling old grandma? She had to pretend to be Rose-Marie. What luck, she thought, that Rose-Marie had typed the letter. Ivy had to disguise her own handwriting, however, because the elegant script would give away her age. She replaced the old-fashioned fountain pen with a ball-point, and decided that block letters, all capitals, would make her writing seem more youthful.

"Dear Nicholas," she began. "Thank you for you letter. I am very sorry, but I won't be able to write to you again. I just wanted to tell you not to wait. Best of lick. Rose-Marie."

Ivy reread the note and was satisfied. She folded it in two, and sealed it in a matching buff envelope.

A piece of mail addressed to Rose-Marie in black marker appeared in the mailbox eight days later. The return address: Pennsylvania State Penitentiary. Ivy eyed these words with a mixture of dread and, to her surprise, excitement.

Back in her study, she sat at the desk and opened the letter without qualms, This tile it was a response to a note she herself had written; this letter really was intended for her even though it was address to Rose-Marie.

The page looked similar to the first one, black scrawl, with several eye-catching ellipses. "Rose-Marie! I don't understand...Why?! Why can't you write to me? I hope nothing's wrong...Are you OK? You were the coolest person to answer my ad...and so beautiful. I'm so bummed. All I'm asking for is letters from you. Please, think about it. Nicholas."

The tone of this letter took Ivy back over forty years, when she used to get countless notes from admirers. Usually they were more poetic than this one, but the pleading message was the same: I need you.

Young men had been speechless before Ivy. They stammered and giggled, even blushed when she spoke to them, which was why many of them resorted to putting their feelings on paper. Indeed, she was striking; a tall woman at five feet ten inches, with rich auburn hair, green-gold eyes and creamy, light freckled skin. Some boy or other was always courting her, offering the flowers he could afford -- daisies or carnations -- asking politely if he might hold her hand, or, when he was more bold, asking for a kiss on the lips.

Ivy glanced at the display of family photographs on top of the antique desk: her parents' wedding picture, her own wedding picture, the portrait of her late-husband, George, school photos of her daughter, Jolene, and baby pictures of Rose-Marie, the only grandchild. Her eyes lingered on a photograph of herself, taken in 1952, when she was first runner-up in the Miss Pennsylvania beauty contest. This was the largest photo of the bunch, placed in the middle and framed in shining brass. She wore a burnt-orange maillot (the photo was black-and-white, but Ivy remembered the suit as if she had worn it only yesterday), and cradled a bouquet of white roses in her left arm, while waving to the crowd with her right. Her smile was radiant.

She took a piece of rosebud stationary out of the drawer.

"Dear Nicholas," she wrote. "How can I resist you? Your last letter convinced me that our correspondence means a lot to you. So I changed my mind. I'm here for you now." Giddy with her own audacity, Ivy felt her heart knocking on her ribs, and veins throbbing at her temples. She was not sure what to say next, and thought back to his first letter, which she never really answered. "About my age, I know I don't look twenty-five. But I am! I've always looked younger than my years. They still ask me for I.D. in bars!" Ivy smiled proudly as she wrote this last remark -- very authentic, she thought, for someone in her twenties. "I typed my first letter because writing by hand is so much more personal -- too personal for a stranger. But you don't feel like a stranger anymore." The small page was almost full and she decided to leave it at this. "Write again soon. My thoughts are with you." Her hand paused only briefly before she signed the name, "Rose-Marie."

Ivy pulled an atomizer out of her purse to spritz the paper with gardenia essence. She folded it in two and tucked it into one of the buff-colored envelopes.

Just after dawn the next morning, Ivy woke up sweating, her stomach clenched into a tight ball. She couldn't believe she'd written -- and worse, mailed -- that letter yesterday. What was she thinking? She was getting herself involved with a criminal. She was being dishonest, deceiving Rose-Marie, and that poor prisoner. The thought of going to the post office and trying to intercept the letter occurred to her, but she knew such an effort would be futile. And she didn't want to draw attention to what she'd done.

She slipped on her white terry cloth robe and slippers, and went into the bathroom. The mirror showed her bluish circles under puffy, wrinkled eyes, fragile gray hair hanging limp, despite the recent cut that was supposed to give it bounce. Even the green of her irises -- the one element of her beauty she thought she could keep through old age -- was beginning to turn drab. A tired old woman, she thought, and shut off the light.

Ivy went down to the kitchen and brewed a pot of chamomile tea to relieve the knots in her stomach. As she sipped, she resolved in her mind: never again. If that man wrote back, she would tear his letter into tiny pieces, without even reading it, and throw the bits of paper in the furnace.

At noon, Ivy was in the dining room, the massive oak table covered with newsprint. She was wearing rubber gloves and polishing silver. As she worked on the heavy ladle that had belonged to her grandmother, footsteps resounded on the porch. Ivy heard the familiar bang of the mailbox shutting, then feet descending the steps. Immediately she put down the ladle, only half coated with pink polishing cream, and removed her rubber gloves.

Out on the porch Ivy quickly sifted through the contents of the mailbox: pre-approved credit on a Visa card, going-out-of-business sale at the Asian rug store, and a phone bill. She dropped it all back in the box and let out a sigh.

My goodness, she thought. This is only the first day.

One month later, the ritual was fully established. Every day, Ivy would rush to the box as soon as the mailman was out of sight. About once a week there would be a letter from the Pennsylvania State Penitentiary, addressed in black marker to Rose-Marie. Back in the study, Ivy would sit at her desk to read it, usually more than once. Sometimes she would answer right away, sometimes later in the afternoon, but always the very same day.

Today she held it gently with both hands, savoring the feel of it. She examined every word and number on the address -- her address. A man had taken the time to write this to her, a lonely man who needed her.

She carefully inserted a letter-opener into the corner, and neatly sliced open the top of the envelope. As always, there was a single sheet of paper, covered on one side with irregular black script.

"Dear Rose-Marie, Thanks for writing again so soon! You really make my week. I feel like you really care. Plus you're intelligent and beautiful...do you have any faults?" Ivy was beaming. She read these first sentences again before going on. "Your letters always smell so god...what is it? and what are you trying to do to me? It's so beautiful it's driving me nuts!" She knew the gardenia would work. Feeling that effortless power women can have over men, which Ivy hadn't exercised in so long, brought a smile to her lips. "Something good finally came from my being in here...I found you. I'm so lucky." Ivy paused. Her heart was pounding and her cheeks were hot. "We've been writing for almost two months now, and I think I should tell you what I'm in for...dealing pot. Can you believe they would lock someone up for 4 ½ years for selling a little weed? But that's our country today. I hope you understand. I have to go now. Thinking of you. Nicholas."

Drugs! she thought. How could he talk about it so casually? Understand? Ivy hadn't even wanted to know. She almost managed to forget he was in prison at all. But now their relationship was ruined. She couldn't go on. A drug dealer!

Ivy would not write to him again.

Upon hearing the mailman's footsteps the next day, Ivy felt unbearable guilty for not answering Nicholas' letter yesterday.

Were drugs reason enough to end this? she wondered. After all, she was writing to someone in the prison -- he must have done something to get there. She should be relieved that he wasn't a rapist or ax murderer. Ivy remembered that she was his ray of sunshine in a dark and frightening place. Was it fair for her to abandon him? He was, after all, paying retribution for what he had done. Did she have the right to punish him further? And marijuana wasn't as bad as those other drugs they talk about on the news. In fact, her own daughter Jolene confided that she smoked it sometimes. And Jolene was a very moral and responsible person who worked to protect the environment.

Ivy found that se was able to forgive his crime, and felt closer to Nicholas because of it.

She went back to the desk and took pen and stationary out of the drawer.

"Dear Nicholas, I am so happy to have your letter here in my hand. It gives me such pleasure to hear from you. Of course I understand what you're in for." Ivy copied this phrase directly from his letter, and was pleased to use his lingo. "Thank you for sharing it with me. In return, I feel I should tell you about my past. I was married once, but my husband died of a heart attack. I have a daughter by him." All of this was true, so Ivy had no trouble writing it. "I loved him very much and was devastated by his death. I have not been with a man since." Emotion was rising in Ivy's throat, but it felt good to share this information with someone, even a faceless stranger in a prison cell. "I hope you don't mind the fact that I have a child." Ivy remembered the fact that she was supposed t be twenty-five and added, "She is three years old, her name is Jolene." Using her daughter's real name excited Ivy.

She wanted to continue the letter and share more of herself, but didn't want to make her letters any longer than his. She ended it with, "I too am thinking of you. Write again soon." Ivy was tempted to write "love," or at least "affectionately," but decided to follow his lead and not put anything before the name, "Rose-Marie."

She sprayed the page with perfume.

Ivy received three more letters from Nicholas during the next month, and answered all of them. In her last letter she asked him for a picture of himself. She expected to find it enclosed with the next reply, but there was only the usual sheet of paper in the envelope.

"Dear Rose-Marie," he wrote. "Thanks again for writing back so fast. You make me feel so good. To answer your question....no you can’t have a picture of me. You won’t need one....you can see the real thing. I have big news...I’m being released for good behavior! Next week. Yup, November 13 is my lucky day. Can you believe it? I hope you don’t mind that I didn’t tell you this might happen. I wanted to be 100% sure and my lawyer just told me it’s definite. Plus I wanted it to be a surprise. I’m dying to see you face to face, so I’ll come to your house. You know I have the address! I hope you’ll be there...waiting for me. Love, Nicholas."

Ivy was paralyzed. She held the letter dumbly before her, staring at it with large, vacant eyes. My God, she thought, what have I done?

She went to the dining room, opened the hutch that served as a liquor cabinet and poured herself a small glass of sherry. She sat at the oak dining table and took deep breaths between sips. Okay, she thought, I can handle this. Today is the eleventh, I have two days to think of something. She gulped what was left of her drink.

Her mind raced. She could say she had had never heard of this Rose-Marie person, he must have the wrong address. Or that Rose-Marie was the woman she had just bought the house from, and she didn't know where that person had moved. She could escape out the back door and hide in the tool shed when he came. She could simply not answer the door.

What was becoming of her? Plotting, lying to people, drinking alcohol at midday. This must stop. She put the empty glass on the table with a firm hand.

He will keep coming back and in the end he will find her. She had to face him.

November twelfth was a Sunday. Ivy had not been a practicing Lutheran for almost thirty years. Since Jolene’s confirmation back in 1967, she had only been to church on Easter Sundays and Christmas Eves. But this Sunday she went. She prayed for forgiveness and understanding -- from God as well as from Nicholas. She spent the rest of the day cleaning the house.

On the morning of the thirteenth, Ivy was awake before dawn. She had tea and an English muffin while watching the sky turn from dark gray to almost white out the kitchen window.

In the shower she shaved her legs and underarms, and used a special voluminizing conditioner on her hair. After some debate, she decided to wear beige slacks and a burnt-orange wool sweater (so few people can wear this color). She put on a long gold chain and gold earrings that looked like little knots. Back in the bathroom, she spent twenty minutes applying make-up so it appeared natural. The final touch: a couple dabs of gardenia essence behind her earlobes.

At eight-thirty a.m., she was ready.

Ivy didn’t know what time Nicholas would turn up, so she didn’t leave her house. She spent most of the day in the kitchen so as not to mess up the other rooms. In the morning she read the newspaper and did the crossword puzzle. At noon she heard someone on the porch and jumped up from the table, spilling her glass of orange juice on the paper. It was only the mailman. He didn’t deliver anything interesting -- a coupon for a new dry-cleaner’s and a flyer announcing next weeks library bazaar. She almost had tuna salad for lunch, but realized that she didn’t want the house, or her breath, to smell like fish. She had a grilled cheese sandwich instead. In the afternoon, she balanced her checkbook, played a dozen rounds of solitaire, and began Sunday’s crossword, which she hadn’t have time to do yesterday.

At five o’clock the wooden stairs creaked with unsure footsteps.

Ivy held her breath.

The doorbell rang.

Ivy’s heart thumped inside her chest. The wool sweater she was wearing felt uncomfortably heavy and itchy. Her mouth was dry, her hands moist. She got up from the table and walked slowly down the hallway leading from the kitchen to the front door. A mirror hung on the wall about halfway there. Ivy paused to make sure there was no lipstick on her teeth. She saw that her had gone flat.

The doorbell rang again.

Wringing her hands together she cleared her throat and called out, "Coming." She dried her damp hands on her slacks, at the same time smoothing out the creases that had formed there from so much sitting. Attempting to compose her features into a calm smile, she opened the door.

A young man stood before her. He guessed that he was about thirty years old. He had a slim built and was almost as tall as Ivy. Dark brown hair hung in long waves past his shoulders. His tie-dyed tee-shirt displayed a burst of yellow, red and purple rays. The bottom of a tattoo peaked out from beneath the right sleeve of his shirt, but not far enough for Ivy to tell what it was. Surprisingly he did not seem to be cold in just a tee-shirt on this gray November day. He also wore faded blue jeans and a pair of new-looking work boots. In his left hand was a bouquet of daisies.

"Hi," he said, "I'm Nick. I'm looking for Rose-Marie."

"Yes. Of course." Ivy paused. "Won't you come in?" She stood back and gestured to him with her arm.

She smiled at her, and his eyes squinted-up tightly. They were pretty -- very blue, with dark lashes. She also noticed his large, crooked teeth.

With an easy loping gate, he entered the house. "So I guess she got my last letter in time," he said with his back to her as he walked into the living room.

"Yes. Your letter arrived two days ago." Ivy cursed in her head. I'm still doing it, she thought. I must tell him right away.

Nicholas was standing in the middle of the room, and Ivy motioned him to the couch. "I'm kinda nervous," he said, I think I wanna stand."

"Please. I insist. You really ought to sit."

He looked at her with one dark eye-brow raised, before heading to the couch.

Ivy sat in the armchair in front of him, so that the coffee table was between them. The daisies sticking awkwardly out of his fist rendered Ivy weak with tenderness. This made it harder for her to start confessing, yet also reinforced that she must.

"You see...Rose-Marie isn't...I'm not..." She sighed. "I'm sorry."

One of his eyebrows jumped up again as he stared at her.

"Rose-Marie's not here," she said.

"Oh." His shoulders sagged and the bouquet drooped as some of the tension left his wrist. "I can come back." He made a move to get up.

"No! No. What I mean is..." She looked at her lap and decided to blurt it out. "Rose-Marie didn't write you those letters; I did." Without picking up her head, she lifted her eyes to look at him.

Both his eyebrows were raised now. He blinked twice and said, "You?"

Ivy nodded and cast her eyes down again.

"So who's this?" he asked in a defiant manner, as if he had the evidence to prove her wrong. Whipped a picture of Rose-Marie out of his pocket. It was a snapshot, from the waist up, taken on the beach. She was wearing a burnt orange bikini.

"My granddaughter," she said to the floor, then braced herself for his angry outburst. She resolved to remain calm no matter what he said or did. She brought this upon herself and deserved whatever punishment she might get.

But he was silent. After a few seconds she looked up at him. His brows were furrowed and he was looking at her intently. You're telling the truth now, aren't you?" he asked. "You're not just covering up for a girl who changed her mind and asked you to get rid of me?"

Ivy jerked her head up and straightened her back. "No! I can prove it was me. I can tell you what I wrote. I can show you the paper I used, and the perfume..." She gestured frantically toward the study.

He didn't ask her to prove it. Instead he squinted inquisitively and said, "Why did you do this?"

Looking everywhere in the room but at him, Ivy explained how Rose-Marie had stayed with her for the summer and had written to him form this address. How his first letter had arrived after she'd left. How Ivy hadn't intended to do this, and tried to cut off correspondence right at the beginning if he would think back. But now his second letter had sounded so terribly sad she just had to answer it. How she hadn't meant any harm. How she'd just gotten carried away.

When she looked at him again, his eyes crinkled up and sparkling, his teeth exposed in a wide grin. He was shaking his head slowly back and forth. "You're a pisser, lady."

Ivy wasn't sure what he meant and still expected him to explode. "You're not angry?"

"Nah. I mean, I'm a little pissed off. But I'm too damn happy to be outta that hell-hole to get mad at anyone today. You're lucky."

The tension left Ivy's body and she breathed easily. "I am sorry for deceiving you," she said. "I just --"

"Forget it," he said. "I been through worse."

They sat in awkward silence for a few moments.

Suddenly he nodded his head once in her direction and asked, "So what's your real name.?"

Surprised and touched, she answered softly, "Ivy."

"Well, Ivy," he said getting up from the couch, "I guess these are for you." He extended the daisies over the coffee table.

"Thank you." She stood to accept the white flowers, and cradled them gently in her left arm.