Still vacillating, she gazed down at the scattered envelopes, trying to decipher the blurred postmarks. The latest one was dated a few months before Kate’s death.
One envelope, this one plain, white, business size, and thicker than the others, bore no postmark, stamp, or address, only a single line, written in an unsteady hand.
For Burke, to be opened after my death
Allison’s throat tightened as she held it. This letter, if that’s what it was, had almost certainly been written last. And it appeared that it had never been opened.
But never mind that. Today, with her life crumbling like a sandcastle, the last thing she needed was to read the intimate thoughts of the woman Burke had loved.
Hastily, as if fearing she might change her mind, she began scooping the letters into a pile. One letter slipped loose and dropped to the floor, spilling its folded pages—sunny yellow sheets bordered with daisies—onto the carpet.
She reached down to gather them up. The first page had fallen open, lying faceup, inviting her—almost daring her—to read it.
As her fingers brushed the paper, Allison felt a shiver of anticipation. She would read only one letter, she vowed. Then she would put them all back in the drawer and forget she’d ever seen them.
Her pulse quickened as she put the three pages in order, smoothed out the creases, and began to read.
My Darling Burke,
The rains have come early. This afternoon, while I was mulching the hydrangeas, I noticed a cloud bank creeping in over the lake. Now it’s lying out there like a big, shaggy, wet dog, with no plans to leave. I’ve opened the French doors to let in the breeze. A few minutes ago, when I looked out beyond the balcony, I saw the first flash of lightning.
Earlier tonight I tried to sleep. But the house is too quiet, the bed too wide and empty without you, so I’m curled in your big leather chair, wearing your ratty old plaid bathrobe over my pajamas. The robe smells like you, which is why I stop myself every time I get the urge to throw it in the laundry. Wearing it is the closest I can come to feeling your arms around me.
Brianna’s off at a slumber party and Captain is snoozing in his favorite spot under your desk. From the way his arthritic old legs keep twitching, I’d say he’s dreaming about chasing seagulls on the wharf, or maybe treeing that snooty Siamese next door.
A few minutes ago I almost picked up the phone and dialed your hotel. Don’t worry, I came to my senses in time. It’s after midnight here and God knows how late it is in Miami—sorry, you know I never bother to keep track of such trivialities as time zones. Whatever the hour, I’m aware that you’ve had a hectic day and need your rest. Besides, the ringing of a phone in the dark hours is a nightmare sound. Even when it’s a wrong number, your pulse doesn’t stop jerking till dawn. I wouldn’t inflict that on you for the world. But I wish I could hear your voice right now—or better yet, I wish I could fly across the country on the wings of night and creep between your sheets. We wouldn’t even have to make love. Just holding you would be enough.
Since that isn’t possible, I’ve decided to write you a letter. Oh, yes, I know it’s the twenty-first century, and email is the way to go. It’s fast and efficient and won’t wake you up in the night. But I hate the sterile look of those words on the screen. A letter is more intimate—the paper I’ve touched, the curves, dots, and lines of words that I’ve formed with my own hand, the envelope I’ve sealed with my tongue, to be opened by no one but you. I realize I’m hopelessly out of date. But I’ve always enjoyed writing letters to people I love.
Wondering . . . How much time have we spent apart in the past twenty years? I’ve never tried to add up the days, weeks, and months, the missed holidays and anniversaries, the crises I had to survive without you. But then, why should I? It’s the time we’ve spent together that counts—you, me, Brianna, the dogs, the boat, our friends. We’ve had a rich life, Burke. And the rough times have only made the good times sweeter.
Which brings me to a bit of news. It’s nothing you need to be alarmed about, and certainly no cause for you to come flying home. If it were, you’d have gotten one of those awful late-night phone calls. And you haven’t. So don’t worry, OK?
Here it is. Last week, when I was showering after a run to the landing and back, I found a pea-sized lump in my left armpit. The doctor took a biopsy, and the results came back today. The picture isn’t pretty, my sweet. But the specialist is hopeful that we’ve caught the cancer in time to stop it (there, I’ve used it, that nasty old C word).
I start chemo (another of those ugly C words) next week. The doctors say I’ll lose my hair, which will probably make me look like Patrick Stewart in drag. But you and Brianna always did like Star Trek, didn’t you ? And my hair will grow back thick and curly when the treatment’s over, or so they tell me. I should even lose some weight in the bargain. Think how sexy I’ll look on the boat next summer!
I know my news will worry you, Burke, but please don’t let it change anything between us. I’m a strong woman, and I’m going to fight this thing like a tigress. I plan to be around for years to come—to dance at Brianna’s wedding and rock her babies in my arms, to celebrate our fiftieth anniversary, and maybe our sixtieth! Not only am I not going down without a fight—I am not going down, period!
So put this letter aside and be at peace. In two weeks, when you fly home, I’ll be waiting at the airport to welcome you with open arms. Until then, stay well, be safe, and know that I’ll always be here for you.
All my love,
Your Kate
CHAPTER 3
Racked with grief and worry, Brianna sobbed against Liam’s jacket. The call about her father’s accident had come early that morning. Allison had delivered the news, her voice so calm that Brianna had wanted to scream at her. What’s wrong with you? This is my father! He could be paralyzed! He could even be dying!
But she hadn’t screamed. With amazing self-control, she had asked a few questions, promised to come as soon as she could get a flight, and then phoned Liam, who’d picked her up and driven to a nearby park where they could talk. Only now that she was in his arms did she give full vent to her emotions.
“I can’t lose him, Liam,” she said between sobs. “I already lost my mom. I can’t even imagine losing my dad, too.”
His arms tightened around her, cradling her close. “From what you’ve told me, it sounds like he’s going to be all right.”
“All right?” She gulped back a sob. “He has two shattered vertebrae in his back. They’re operating on him this mor
ning. What if he doesn’t wake up? You’ve seen those TV shows where the lines on the monitor go flat. Anything can go wrong during surgery.” She pushed away, far enough to look up at him. “I need to go. I need to be there.”