ANDI
AFTER MY BROTHER left, the rest of us sat down to breakfast. When we finished, I drove everyone to the wharf to catch the ten o’clock ferry.
“You sure you don’t want to come with us?” asked my wife.
“Naw, I’ve done Bean’s. You and the kids have a good time. Don’t forget to get pictures of them with the boot!”
She kissed me on the cheek then hurriedly joined the others on the ferry. I stood on the wharf watching until they were out of sight, then I drove back to the house.
I left the car there, wanting to walk the roads of Cutter once again, knowing where I would eventually end up. We were a couple of miles from the Sloane cottage and I took my time, enjoying the warm, salty summer air.
When I reached the golf course, I stopped for a while, watching a foursome tee off. Caddies had been replaced by electric golf carts and I wondered what island boys did now to replace that lost income.
I ambled on slowly, unsure how I would act once I reached my destination. I tried to rehearse what I would say when I saw her, but everything sounded stilted and false.
When the lamp post came into view, I stopped. My mind’s eye pictured a skinny kid standing under the light, waiting for a girl—a girl who would change his life forever. I hesitated, telling myself that I should turn back . . . that I was risking too much . . . that it wasn’t worth it. But I knew that was wrong. It was worth it. It had always been worth it and, if I didn’t see her now, I would regret it for the rest of my life.
It was a short walk down the lane to the Sloane cottage. I hesitated only for a moment before walking up the steps to the porch. The door was open and, through the screen, I could hear the sounds of people within. Gingerly and with some trepidation, I knocked, almost wishing no one would hear me. However, the door had other things in mind. It was wooden and slightly warped from years of salt air and rattled noisily at my touch, the sound seeming to echo in the stillness of the porch.
A young boy, aged six or seven, came running across the room wearing beach trunks and a Superman cape. I watched him as a woman’s voice rang out.
“I’ll be right there.”
My eyes were trained on the boy and I was startled when I looked up and saw her walking toward me, shoulder-length, auburn hair glistening in the sunlight as she wiped her hands on a dishtowel.
My brother was right. She looked good . . . no, better than good. She looked beautiful.
She walked to the door, a slight smile on her face.
“Can I help you?” she asked as I stood mute, staring at her.
Her smile disappeared and her eyes—still that penetrating blue-grey I remembered so well—widened.
“Jake? Is that you?”
Still unable to speak, I nodded.
We stared at each other for a moment until finally I found my voice.
“Andi.”
As we stood in the doorway, a tall, lanky man, wearing swimming trunks and a plaid shirt walked up behind her.
“Andrea,” he said, looking me over. “Is everything all right?”
She took a deep breath. “Yes, Don. This is an old friend of mine, Jake Chambers. Seeing him kind of took me by surprise. Jake, this is my husband, Don.”
As she spoke, she pushed open the screen door, ushering me inside. I dutifully shook the man’s hand and said how pleased I was to meet him.
“Are you related to Jim Chambers?” he asked.
“Yeah, he’s my brother.”
“Great!” he replied. “Can you tell him we need four—no, six—one-and-a-quarter pound hard shells for Saturday?”
Andi frowned. “Don, Jake isn’t an errand boy.”
“It’s okay,” I said. “I’ll tell Jim.”
“Terrific,” he said. “I’m going to take Donny down to the beach. You going to join us, honey?”
“I’ll catch up with you,” she replied. “Just give me a few minutes with Jake. Okay?”
Her husband nodded and kissed her on the cheek, then scooped up the boy, lifting him up onto his shoulders, and headed out the slider toward the shore.
Andi smiled, watching them. “Sorry about that,” she said. “Don’s parents are coming this weekend and he wants to make sure everything is perfect for them. Come on in and let me look at you.”
She led me into the room, set her dishtowel down on the breakfast bar, and looked me over.
“You look good, Jake,” she finally said. “California must agree with you. Are you here with your family?”
I frowned, puzzled. “How do you know about my family?”
She laughed. “Your books, silly. The last one has a family portrait on the back. The only thing missing is the golden retriever.”
“You mean à la Dean Koontz?” I asked, grinning at her.
“Yeah, like him,” she said.
She gazed down at her hands for a moment, and then she looked up, suddenly serious.
“I know it’s a little late, but I wanted to let you how know sorry I felt when I heard about your father. I know how much he meant to you.”
My voice went AWOL as memories of my dad crowded my mind.
I took a deep breath. “Yeah, thanks. You know this is the first time I’ve been back here since he died.”
She nodded. “I know. Your brother mentioned that.”
“How about you?” I asked. “Have you been coming here all these years?”
She shook her head. “No. This is my first time back since . . . .”
Her voice trailed off as her face took on a look of sadness and regret so profound it was all I could do to keep from reaching out and taking her in my arms.
“You know,” she said softly. “I never thanked you.”
“Thanked me for what?” I asked.
“For saving my life.”
“You don’t have to. I didn’t do anything special.”
Her smile faded and she slowly shook her head.
“No,” she whispered. “That’s not what I meant. I’m not talking about the beach. Though I am grateful that you found me. I’m talking about your letters.”
“My letters? I don’t understand.”
“Those letters kept me sane, Jake . . . kept me from being consumed by the darkness. My shrink said they grounded me . . . kept me functioning in the real world. They saved me, Jake. Without them, I would have been lost.”
“They were just letters.”
“No, they weren’t. They were my lifeline. I don’t think I would be here today if you hadn’t written me . . . and kept writing me, even when I didn’t . . . .”
She stopped, again staring down at her hands, unable to look me in the eye.
“It’s okay, Andi,” I whispered. “I’m glad . . . glad you’re still here.”
She took a deep breath and looked back up at me, smiling. “But you forgot something. You didn’t sign the last one.”
I frowned, puzzled. “I don’t understand . . . .”
“Wait here a minute. I’ll be right back.”
She gave me one more smile then left the room and came back a minute later, a book in her hand.
“Here,” she said, offering it to me. “I know it’s pretty dog-eared. I don’t know how many times I’ve read it. But could you sign it? Sign it for me?”
I looked down at the book. It was one I knew well. Letters to Andi, A Love Story by Jake Chambers . . . my first novel . . . the one I’d started the day I found out she’d been discharged from the hospital. The one I’d hoped would purge her from my soul forever. The one that failed miserably in that regard.
Staring at the book, I felt choked with emotion, unable to respond.
“Here’s a pen,” she said, handing it to me.
I took the pen with a trembling hand, opened the book to the title page, and wrote. Then I closed it and handed it back to her.
She bit her bottom lip and, without saying anything, opened it again.
Time seemed to stand still as she read the inscription. The threadbare furnishings of the Sloane cottage faded from my view. All I could see was her.
A lone tear escaped from her eye and rolled, as if in slow motion, down her cheek, finally splashing on the title page of the book, smearing the still-wet ink.
Then she looked up at me, her eyes as deep and dark as the sea itself.
And in that moment, I knew. All I wanted was one more time with her. To lie on the beach at Preacher’s, her body held tightly in my arms as I recited stories about the stars.
Involuntarily, my hand reached toward hers, knowing that if she took it, there would be no turning back.
“Andrea! What’s taking you so long?”
The voice coming from the outdoor patio startled us both. As if caught in a white hot flame, I dropped my hand and broke eye contact with her. She gripped the countertop, taking a deep breath. We both turned toward the slider to the deck.
Her husband stood framed in the doorway, staring at us, a look of concern on his face.
“I’ll be out in a minute, Don,” she said. “I’m just saying goodbye to Jake.”
Her husband nodded and then turned his gaze to me. “Don’t forget to tell your brother: six hard shells, Saturday. Okay?”
I nodded. “Don’t worry, I’ve got you covered.”
“Okay,” he said, then he looked back at Andi. “Five minutes, Andrea?”
“Yes, Don,” she replied as she moved from behind the kitchen counter, apparently to see me to the door. Her face, which had been so full of emotion, was now a mask—the smile painted on; the light in her eyes, dimmed.
And I suddenly understood. That mask had been her constant companion for most of her life . . . for so long it no longer looked or felt like the façade that it was. She’d dropped it once—in the summer in 1965—and again, today, for me.
Not knowing what else to do, I let her walk me to the door and out to the porch.
“It was good seeing you, Jake,” she said, the corners of her lips quivering as she tried to keep her façade from cracking.
“You, too, Andi,” I said, my voice choked with emotion.
And, as we stood on the porch once again, I caught a glimmer of light begin to shine in her eyes—just a spark—one that she quickly extinguished.
“How long are you here for?” she asked.
“Till August. And you?”
“Oh, we’re leaving in a couple of weeks. We’re moving to Cincinnati. Don’s been offered a professorship at the medical school there. This was one last vacation before we leave.”
Her voice sounded sorrowful as her eyes scanned the road in front of her. “I’ll miss this,” she added.
We stood staring at the street and the ancient lamp post that was so meaningful to both of us.
“I’ll probably see you around before you leave,” I said. “It’s a small island.”
“Yeah, probably. Well, I’ve got to get going. Thanks for coming by and for the autograph. And, don’t forget: you need that golden retriever.”
I laughed. “Yeah, à la Koontz.”
I was about to say more, but she turned away, letting the screen door slam behind her. I watched, unable to move, as she hurriedly walked out of sight to the seclusion of one of the back rooms.
I waited for a heartbeat more, then I, too, turned away, left the porch, and walked aimlessly down the lane to the main road, my mind in turmoil.
So close . . . I had come so close to throwing everything away. And, for what? For a night on the beach with a woman I now hardly knew? A woman who’d rejected me years before?
I picked up my pace, wanting to leave the Sloane cottage, Andi, and all the questions I would never know the answers to behind me. But when I reached the main road, I hesitated, unable to resist the impulse to look back. A curtain in the upstairs bedroom window moved ever so slightly. Was that her? Or was it just waving in the soft ocean breeze?
I turned away again, feeling troubled. Why was I so reluctant to leave . . . to go home to my wife and my family? What was it about Andi that held me in such thrall?
I pondered this as I walked down the road. When I neared the island church, I stopped. Preacher’s was just around the corner.
Feeling compelled, I made my way down the overgrown trail, careful to tread lightly on the wooden planks in case they had rotted out during the spring rains. Finally, the beach opened up in front of me. I took a deep breath.
It was as if I had been transported back in time. Preacher’s looked exactly as I remembered it and I made my way over to a lone rock at the water’s edge and sat down. The tide was on its way out, revealing the skeleton of this rocky cove, and I stared at it, remembering.
I don’t know how long I sat there. I only know that when I finally got back home, my boys greeted me noisily, eager to recount their day and their fascination with all things L.L. Bean.
Laughing, I put my thoughts away and hoisted my younger son onto my shoulders. “Where’s your mom?” I asked.
Jake, Jr. grinned. “She’s in the bedroom trying to figure out how she’s going to get all the junk she bought into her suitcase. I think she’s going to have to go back to Bean‘s and buy herself an extra one!”
I laughed as we walked around to the back of the house where ’Tilda was setting up a game of croquet.
“Jake, go get Mom,” I instructed, as I hefted a mallet. “Let’s play until your uncle comes home.”
We spent the rest of the afternoon that way, playing croquet and enjoying the warm sunshine and salt air. My brother got home close to six and I could tell he was tired from a long day on the water.
“You sit down and take a load off, bro,” I said. “You, too, ’Tilda. You both work too hard. How ’bouts I take us all out to dinner tonight to the Cutter Clam Shack? That is, if it‘s still in business.”
’Tilda laughed. “It’s still here. I’ve got a menu inside, posted on the fridge. And thank you, Jake. Lord knows I could use a night away from the stove.”
“No problem. Let’s take a look at that menu.”
Later, after we had all stuffed ourselves at the Shack, I sat again with Jim on the porch. He seemed to sleep, his eyes closed as he leaned back in his chair, feet propped up on the rail.
“So, did you go see her?” he asked softly, startling me.
I glanced over in his direction. His eyes were still closed.
“Yeah, I did,” I replied.
“And?”
“And, what? I said ‘hello.’ I met her husband. Oh, and by the way, I almost forgot. He wants six hard shells for Saturday. Think he said pound and a quarter. It’s special. His folks are visiting.”
Jim opened his eyes and pulled a small notebook from his pocket and jotted down the order. “Thanks, bro,” he said. “I got it.”
We were silent again for a few minutes, then he turned to me.
“Did she tell you why she did it? Why she tried to off herself back then?”
I shook my head. “No, and I didn’t ask. We didn’t talk much. Her husband was waiting for her. I signed a book. That’s all.”
“A book? Which one? I bet it was the first.”
“You’re right. Letters to Andi. The one that got me started.”
“Yeah, and look where you are now. Bestselling author, screenwriter—the whole nine yards. Who’d have guessed a kid from Cutter could accomplish that?”
I grinned at him. “I was lucky.”
“Lucky? That brings me to another question. Back then . . . did you and she ever . . . ?”
As he spoke, he made a lewd gesture with his hands and I could feel my face redden.
Laughing, he stood and gripped my shoulder. “I guess the expression on your face answers that question for me. My little brother, the stud. Bet it happened that night you stayed out so late. The time Dad took you to the woodshed.”
“Dad never took me to the woodshed. I got grounded and had to do extra chores. It was no big deal.”
“Yeah, but he also spoke to you privately. What was that all about?”
I laughed. “He gave me a box of Trojans. I think it was Mom’s idea.”
“Dad gave you rubbers? I don’t believe it.”
“It’s true. You should have seen him. He was so embarrassed.”
Jim laughed again, shaking his head in disbelief. “Well, it’s getting late. Time for me to hit the hay. You’re still coming out with me tomorrow, aren’t you?”
“Yup. Hope we don’t have to leave as early as you did this morning, though. A writer’s hours are a little more flexible than a lobsterman’s.”
He laughed. “Naw. Tide‘s turned. We won’t be going out till noon. Get a good night’s sleep.”
I heard the screen door close as he went inside. It was getting late and I knew I, too, should call it a day. I stood and stretched, then followed him into the house.
My wife and ’Tilda were playing cards at the kitchen table.
“What ya playing?” I asked, sitting down beside Mandy.
“Oh, just a game of War. ’Tilda’s beating the pants off of me. Think it’s time to say goodnight.”
’Tilda laughed. “Yeah, it’s been a long day. Tomorrow, we can relax at the beach while the boys play with the lobster traps.”
“That sounds like a plan! You ready to turn in, Jake?”
“Yeah. I think after last night’s fiasco, I’m in need of some beauty sleep.”
Mandy laughed. “You go ahead then. I’ll be there directly after I help ’Tilda tidy things up here.”
I kissed her on the cheek and walked out back to the guest cottage. By the time she joined me, I was already in bed, eyes closed, feigning sleep.
She changed into her nightgown, then slipped in beside me, and turned off the light.
I don’t know how long I lay there, waiting and hoping for sleep to come. I could feel Mandy’s breath even out as she pulled away from me, hugging her pillow to her chest. Slowly, trying my best not to disturb her, I turned back the covers and got out of bed.
Pulling on jeans and a sweatshirt, I tiptoed out of the cottage and stood on the porch.
It was a warm night, but the sea breeze held a crispness to it that caused me to shiver. I stared at the sky, ablaze with stars. I felt restless . . . somehow unsettled. I thought about the conversation I had just had with my brother.
He was right about that first book. If I hadn’t written it, I might have stayed on Cutter and ended up a fisherman like him. Not that that wasn’t a bad life. But even back then I’d wanted more.
Andi had given me that to me. She had planted a seed that summer and, with her love, had helped it grow. Even the tragedy of her attempted suicide had helped me on my way. The letters I wrote her honed my skills which then led to improved grades and the chance at a college education. All this had happened because of a fifteen-year-old girl—a girl who, for unknown reasons, tried to take her life one night on the beach at Preacher’s Cove—a girl I’d loved.
How strange life was, I thought. Because of her, I’d left this place and, now, when I’d finally returned, she’d come back, too. Some people believe life’s a circle and maybe—just maybe—it is.
I knew I should go back inside and try again to sleep. But I didn’t. Deciding to take a walk, I stepped off the porch. The night sky was cloudless and, with the moon shining down, I felt I wouldn’t need a flashlight. I made my way to the front of the house and began to stroll aimlessly down the road.
As I walked, I couldn’t help but picture her again in my mind.
Andi. Her hair, no longer a mass of curls, fell gently to her shoulders, its auburn hue catching the light, shining. And her eyes, the depths of which never ceased to boggle my mind.
I thought of how she’d thanked me . . . not for bringing her to safety that night, but for writing to her all those years after. I wondered what she’d meant about the “darkness” that haunted her . . . the “darkness” my letters kept at bay. So many questions still unanswered . . . so many dreams, unfulfilled.
My mind was full of her that night and I didn’t pay attention to where I was headed. When I reached a crossroads, I looked around. Not surprisingly, I was at the cemetery, not far from the path to Preacher’s Cove.
Giving in to fate, I made my way to the beach. The path was more perilous at night despite the moonlight; however, something in my genetic code must have kicked in and I walked the wooden planks easily and soon found myself at the shore.
The tide was in and the rock I had used for a perch earlier was almost completely submerged. I stood at the water’s edge, gazing out to sea. The sky was clear and I tilted my head to the heavens and absentmindedly mapped the constellations, the stories my mother taught me echoing across my mind. As they faded, I fell once again to remembering that summer of ’65, my heart longing for something—something that had ended too soon—something that never had the chance to play itself out.
Andi.
It was growing late, probably midnight or beyond, and I turned to leave the beach. My intention was to go back to my brother’s . . . back to my wife, kids, and the life I had carved out for us in California.
But as I reached the road, I knew, at least for this night, that was not to be.
Resolved, I turned in the opposite direction and began to walk, quickening my pace. Time became fluid and, in my mind, it was 1965 again and I was barely sixteen and lucky enough to have a date . . . a date with a fifteen-year-old girl who I would meet next to a lamp post on Cutter Island.
I turned the corner. The main road was up ahead, and the end of her lane was not far beyond. But, as I stepped onto the blacktop, I hesitated. I could see the soft glow of the street lamp in the distance.
What was I doing? Was I going to throw my life away—a life that was good . . . a life that was full—for the dream of a girl I’d lost long before? A girl who now didn’t really exist except in my mind? It wasn’t 1965 and she wasn’t fifteen any more. She was a woman now . . . a woman who was a stranger to me.
And, yet I still had so many questions. Why did she try to take her life that night? Was it my fault? Was the guilt I’d carried over the years truly earned?
If I turned back now, I’d never know.
Confused, I sat on the curb and leaned over, putting my face in my hands. After a moment or two I took a deep breath and gazed again at the lamp post, reliving in my mind the look in her eyes when she’d read the inscription I’d written in her book: