THE SLOANE COTTAGE:
JULY 1985
I SAT IN the living room trying to read, but my mind kept wandering, making it hard to concentrate on the words.
“I think I’m going to turn in, Andrea. You coming up?”
Startled, I placed my book on the arm of the chair and turned. Don, my husband, was standing in the doorway, waiting for an answer.
“Just one more chapter and I’ll be there,” I replied.
He frowned, gazing at the book jacket. “You reading that same old thing again?”
I nodded.
“I’m surprised you don’t have it memorized by now. Was that the author who was here today?”
I nodded again, a bit puzzled, wondering where he was going with all this.
“You knew him when you were a kid, didn’t you? And it was here, wasn’t it? Here on Cutter Island. Is that why you wanted to stay here this summer?”
I turned to face him.
“Yeah, it was here. He taught me to play golf. We were friends. It was a long time ago. And, no that’s not the reason I suggested Cutter.”
“But he remembered you, didn’t he? Came over to see you. Don’t you find that a little strange?”
I frowned. “No. And so what if he did? He stopped by. Like I said, we were friends.”
Don and I were both silent for a moment, each waiting for the other to say something. The tension was almost palpable. Finally, I spoke.
“What are you getting at, Don? Is there something you want to ask me?”
He frowned, then gazed down at his shoes, unable to look me in the eye. Finally, he looked up.
“Yeah, there is.”
“Well, spit it out. Don’t keep me in suspense.”
“Okay,” he said, eyes now meeting mine. “Do I have anything to worry about with this guy?”
I exhaled and smiled. “No, you don’t. He’s just a friend from way back and a damn good writer. Now, go to bed. I’ll be up as soon as I finish this chapter. Okay?”
Don grinned, looking relieved, and walked over to where I sat and kissed me on the forehead.
“Don’t be too late, hon; we have a big day tomorrow.”
I frowned again. The “big day” he was referring to was the arrival of his parents who were coming for a visit on the island.
I raised my finger, twirling it around. “Yeah, whoop-de-doo,” I replied. “I can’t wait. Your mother will watch me like a hawk. I think she won’t be satisfied until I grab a butcher knife and go all Michael Myers on her.”
“Andrea, that’s not fair. Mom loves you.”
“Sure she does,” I responded sarcastically. “Her precious daughter-in-law who spent her teenage years in the loony bin. Yeah, she loves me. But don’t worry; I won’t go postal on her or your dad. I’ll be good.”
He shook his head. “Okay. I know I can’t convince you, but you’re wrong. Now, I’m going to bed.”
He leaned over and kissed me again, then walked away.
I watched him round the corner and go up the stairs. He was a good man and I loved him. At least I thought I did until today.
Jake.
Does first love, true love, ever really die?
That question had been rolling around in my head ever since he walked in the door.
I tried to concentrate again on the words in front of me, but my mind wouldn’t let go. I turned back to the title page, reading once more the inscription he’d written:
“To Andi, you were once,
and will always be,
my only summer girl“
He’d signed it Jake-with-a-J, an old joke of ours which made me smile.
I ran my fingers over the letters reliving the moment and that fleeting look of longing I’d seen in his eyes when they’d met mine. And, after I’d read what he’d written, I watched his hand move, reaching for me, and I knew that if I’d been given the chance I would have taken it and RUN . . . run away from this cottage . . . away from this life . . . run with him as fast as I could, the wind and salty air putting roses in our cheeks, the sound of the waves pounding in our ears.
Run.
Run until we found a beach . . . any beach . . . anywhere . . . where we could lie in each other’s arms and, if only for one night, tell the stories written in the stars once again. Consequences be damned.
Sighing, I closed my book, thinking about his letters and wondering how he would react if he knew I’d kept them all. They were safely stored away . . . locked in a chest in the attic of our home in North Carolina. There they waited patiently for me in case the darkness came again. And, when it came . . . and it always did . . . I would lock myself in the attic and read them, over and over, until the demons of my past were forced to flee and my battered soul was once again at peace.
Only Jake could do that for me. Just one of his letters did more than years of lying on some psychiatrist’s couch. His letters saved me back then and continued to save me today.
I took a deep breath. All this walking down memory lane was exhausting. I thought about my husband, lying in bed, waiting for me. He was the kindest, gentlest man I’d ever known and I did love him. But would I leave him . . . leave him for even one night to recapture what had been stolen from me years before?
Does first love, true love, ever really die?
I didn’t have the answer, just the question.
I looked at my watch. It was getting late and I had a “big day” tomorrow. I glanced at my book one more time, then placed it on the side table and, with resignation, went to join my husband in bed.
I didn’t sleep. At midnight, I slid out of bed, put on my robe, and tiptoed back downstairs. It was a beautiful, clear night and a warm sea breeze wafted gently through an open window.
I pulled a pack of Marlboros from my purse, stared at the logo for a minute, then shook my head, and tapped out a cigarette. I’d begun smoking when I was in the hospital . . . all the kids there did. When I married Don, he tried to get me to quit and I did for a while when I was pregnant with Don, Jr. But as soon as I stopped nursing, the old urge returned and I was back on the nicotine train again. Don tolerated it, but I wasn’t allowed to indulge in my dirty habit in the house. So, tonight, desperately needing a smoke, I grabbed my lighter and went outside to the front porch. I sat on the rail, my bare feet caressing the whitewashed wood. Lighting up, I inhaled deeply as I stared at the lamp post at the end of our dirt road.
Jake.
He always waited for me there.
I thought about the last time I’d seen him that summer of ’65. At least, I think I saw him. My brain was so befuddled with all the sleeping pills I’d taken that, sometimes, I’m not sure if the memory is real or imagined.
He was carrying me in his arms, jogging up a pathway from the beach, taking me to safety. There were tears in his eyes and he kept begging me over and over not to die.
Remembering, I took a drag on my cigarette, letting my mind wander back . . . back to that summer . . . back to the night I tried to kill myself.