Write to me. Tell me you’ll meet me.
Love,
Ken
September 23, 1976
Los Angeles, California
My Sweet Janet,
We ignite something in each other. I must see you again. Tell me you’ll see me. I will find a way to come to you.
My world is black and white, and you are Technicolor.
Love,
Your Ken
October 4, 1976
Los Angeles, California
My Sweet Janet,
I am sorry for calling. When I heard your voice, I realized that I should not have called you at your home until I had asked you first. I have to admit I feel like a teenager again. And I’m behaving foolishly just as I did back then.
I simply haven’t felt this way in so long that I’m overcome by it.
And so, my sweet Janet, I am so happy to hear that you feel the same way.
I’ve booked a room at our hotel for next week. Thursday, the fourteenth.
I am so happy we will have this night. The knowledge that you will soon be in my arms again is enough to carry me through.
Love,
Ken
November 12, 1976
Los Angeles, California
My Sweet Janet,
I need you. Seeing you once a week has quickly become not enough.
I need your smile, and I need to look up and see the brightness of your eyes. I need your tender and womanly body by my side.
I miss you with all my heart. And when I think I cannot bear it anymore, I think of how it feels to lift you into bed and know that you exist only for me. That I exist only for you.
I have never loved before. If this is what love is.
I will see you Thursday morning at ten. I cannot wait to hold you in my arms.
Love,
Your Ken
April 21, 1977
Encino, California
David,
Does the weather ever really change down there? I can’t imagine it does. Nothing ever changes around here. There are no seasons.
When I lived in Boston, April was my favorite month. In the fall, I used to watch as the leaves went from green to yellow to orange and red. And then I always hated December—that was when they fell off, and it seemed like they would never come back. But then April came around, and the sun came out and the leaves started sprouting and life began again. It seemed like the most exquisite thing in the world.
Because the leaves don’t really fall off around here, April isn’t nearly as exciting. I’ve always been struck by the idea that you can’t be all that happy something has returned if it doesn’t go away in the first place.
But what if the thing goes away and never comes back? Is it corny to say my heart feels like an eternal December with no April in sight? Of course it is. Anyone who compares their heart to anything weather related is a square.
I am writing to formally thank you for sending the letters. But more than that, I am writing to say thank you for calling me. After I read them, I sat in the living room by our record player and put on Carly Simon and sobbed. Then I moved on to Daisy Jones and Carole King. All so easy to cry to, if you’re in the mood. Then I put on Blue. A true classic for the ages. Do you listen to Joni Mitchell at all? Ken gets annoyed when I listen to her. He says she makes me “schmaltzy.” I suppose she does get me feeling a little sentimental.
Lately, though, I think I’ve skipped over sentimental and gone straight to maudlin.
“I have never loved before. If this is what love is.”
I cannot believe he wrote that to her. Days later, I still hear it reverberating in my head over and over and over.
I have never felt so alone.
Alone in the world and alone in my marriage. Alone in love, really. With a man who claims he never loved me.
Should I even be surprised? He barely looks at me anymore. Neither of us even attempted to bring up trying for a baby this month. I doubt he even bothered to notice a month had gone by without his touching me.
Sometimes, I swear, I’m invisible. And yet, frankly, David, I often find it to be a relief. I can’t stand the idea of him truly looking at me right now. There is so much I do not want him to see.
The phone call from you did wonders to break the spell. I was sitting at the kitchen table still crying when the phone rang, and I swear I knew there was something special about the call before I even picked it up. (But I’m sure that’s just me being schmaltzy.)
But allow me one more schmaltzy thing to say: I felt better the moment I knew it was you.
Thank you for telling me that everything will be OK. I don’t think either of us is sure about that right now, but it feels nice to hear someone say it.
You did a wonderful job of cheering me up. I was laughing through my tears, and that is quite a gift. So, truly, David, thank you.
Sometimes, when I am lying in bed next to Ken and I can’t sleep, I feel so hopelessly pathetic. So unloved, so unremarkable. I feel like the girl at the party nobody wants to dance with.
There I am, hoping someone might choose me, while the rest of the world goes on dancing.
But lately I find that in those moments, I think of you.
I am not alone at the party. You are at this miserable party with me. And it brings a smile to my face to be standing next to you.
All my best,
Carrie
April 26, 1977
Carlsbad, California
Carrie,
I’m glad to know I may have made things a tiny bit easier for you. God knows you have made all this easier for me.
In fact, I should admit that I called you the other day to check in on you, but I also called you because I needed to hear a warm voice. I needed to call someone I thought would want to hear from me. Talking to you on the phone these few times this week has been the highlight of my days. You are the very definition of a breath of fresh air.
Carrie Allsop, you are never the woman no one will ask to dance.
I will be here dancing with you for as long as we want to get groovy.
All right, that was truly lame. I’ll quit writing now before this really goes off the rails.
Thinking of you—
Yours,
David
P.S. I realized who it is you look like. It’s Carly Simon. I told you I would place it, and I finally have. It hit me square on the head as I was going to bed last night.
It’s your smile and your eyes. Just like Carly Simon.
April 29, 1977
Encino, California
David,
Would you have any interest in meeting for lunch again? I could use a charming dining companion.
All my best,
Carrie
May 4, 1977
Carlsbad, California
Carrie,
I can get away on Monday the ninth, assuming that works for you. Let’s do the same place, same time.
Yours,
David
May 10, 1977
Encino, California
David,
What a lovely afternoon that was. I can’t tell you how wonderful it is to spend time with someone and feel like he is truly listening.
And I had such a great time going through those old records with you at the general store. And talking about books. (This is your reminder that you have to read Looking for Mr. Goodbar. And, of course, I will read Ragtime. I’m always true to my word.)
It was so nice to have such invigorating conversations. Ken never talks about that stuff with me. He mostly just complains about Carter and asks about dinner. As long as I agree with him and don’t overcook the fish, he doesn’t say too much.
But with you, I felt like I could talk, finally. Talk about anything and everything. I can’t remember how long it’s been since I felt that unguarded. Or maybe I should say carefree.
And what a pleasure you were to listen to as well. It has been a long time since I laughed that hard, since I was that interested in learning what someone had to say.
Delights can be hard to come by recently, so I truly cherish getting to laugh with you.
All my best,
Carrie
May 13, 1977
Carlsbad, California
Carrie,
“Delights can be hard to come by recently, so I truly cherish getting to laugh with you.” You took the words right out of my mouth.
How about next week? Friday work for you? Our same place?
Yours,
David
May 20, 1977
Carlsbad, California
Carrie,
I thought of you the entire way home from lunch. You have to be the most well-read, cultured, intelligent woman I know. I am stunned by your insights and your kindness.