The Return

“He’d barely spoken to her? He sounds obsessive.”

“You had to read the way he wrote it,” she said. “It was very romantic. Sometimes a person just knows.”

He watched as she lifted a postcard from the top of the stack, one displaying the USS North Carolina, a World War II battleship. When she was finished reading it, she handed it to him without comment.

Tru scanned it before turning toward her. “It’s a shopping list for someone planning a barbecue.”

“I know.”

“I’m not sure why I’d be interested in this.”

“You don’t have to be,” she said. “That’s why this is exciting. Because we’re hoping to find that diamond in the rough, and who knows,” she said, lifting a letter from the stack, “maybe this is it.”

Tru set the postcard aside, and when she was finished with the letter, she handed it to him. It was from a young girl, a poem about her parents, and it reminded him of something Andrew might have written when he was younger. As he read, he felt Hope’s leg move against his, and by the time he finished, Hope was handing him a sheaf of pages torn from a notebook. He wondered if she realized that they were touching, or if she was simply lost in the words of anonymous writers and didn’t even notice. Now and then, he saw her glance up to make sure that Scottie was still nearby; because there were no birds, he’d plopped himself down a bit closer to the water’s edge.

There was another postcard, and a handful of photographs with comments on the back. That was followed by a letter from a father to his children, with whom he seldom spoke. In the letter, there was more bitterness and blame than sadness about the broken relationship. Tru wondered whether the man took any responsibility for what had happened.

As he set it aside, Hope was still reading the next letter in the stack. In the silence, he spotted a pelican skimming low over the water, just past the breakers. Beyond them, the sea continued to darken, becoming almost black near the horizon. Broken seashells littered the smooth, hard sand, left behind by the receding tide. Hope’s hair was lifting slightly in the breeze; in the graying light, she seemed to be the only element of color.

She had yet to hand him another letter, and only then did he realize that she was reading the one in her hand a second time. He heard her sniff.

“Wow,” she finally said.

“Did he write about stars colliding and sending shimmers of light through his soul?”

“No. And on second thought, you’re probably right. That other guy was definitely obsessive.”

He laughed as she handed over the letter. She didn’t reach for another one, instead keeping her gaze on him.

“You’re not going to watch me read it, are you?” he asked.

“I have a better idea,” she said. “Why don’t you read it aloud?”

The suggestion caught him off guard, but he took the letter, feeling her hand brush against his. He thought how relaxed they already seemed to be with each other, and how easy it would be to fall for someone like her. And that maybe, just maybe, he was already falling, and there was nothing he could do to stop it.

In the silence, he felt her move closer. He could smell her hair, the scent clean and sweet, as fresh as flowers, and he fought the urge to put his arm around her. Instead, he took a deep breath and, lowering his gaze, began to read the shaky scrawl.

Dear Lena,

The sands in the hourglass have fallen without mercy throughout my life, but I try to remind myself of the blessed years that we shared—especially now, when I am drowning in riptides of sorrow and loss.

I wonder who I am without you. Even when I was old and tired, it was you who helped me face the day. I sometimes felt as though you could read my mind. You seemed to always know what I wanted and needed. Even though we had our struggles at times, I can think back on the more than half a century we spent together and know that I was the lucky one. You inspired and fascinated me, and I walked just a bit taller because you were by my side. Every time I held you, I felt as though I needed nothing else. I would trade anything to hold you just one more time.

I want to smell your hair, and sit at the dinner table with you. I want to watch as you cook the fried chicken that always made my mouth water, the meal the doctor warned me against eating. I want to see you slip your arms into the blue sweater I bought you for your birthday, the one you usually wore in the evenings, when you settled beside me in the den. I want to sit with our children and grandchildren, and Emma, our one and only great-grandchild. How can I be this old? I think when I hug her, but when I listen for you to tease me about it, I never hear your voice. And it always breaks my heart.

I’m not good at this. Spending my days alone. I miss your knowing smile, and I miss the sound of your voice. Sometimes I imagine that I can still hear you calling to me from the garden, but when I go to the window, there are nothing but cardinals, the ones you made me hang the bird feeder for.

I keep it filled for you. I know you’d want me to do that. You always enjoyed watching those birds. I never understood why, until the man at the pet store mentioned that cardinals mate for life.

I don’t know if that’s true, but I want to believe it. And as I watch them, just as you used to, I think to myself that you have always been my cardinal, and I have always been yours. I miss you so much.

Happy Anniversary.

Joe

 

When he finished, Tru continued to stare at the page, more affected by the words than he wanted to admit. He knew that Hope was watching him, and when he turned toward her, he was struck by the open, unguarded nature of her beauty.

“That letter,” she said quietly, “is the reason I like to come to Kindred Spirit.”

Folding the page, he put it back in the envelope and set it atop the small stack beside him. Even as he watched her reach toward the unread pile, he had the feeling that the remaining messages would be anticlimactic, and they were. Most were heartfelt and earnest, but there was nothing that struck a chord in the same way Joe’s letter had. Even as they rose from the bench and refilled the mailbox, he wondered about the man: where he lived, what he was doing, and considering his obvious age, how he’d been able to make his way to this isolated stretch of beach on a mostly inaccessible island.

They started back toward the house, sometimes making idle conversation but mainly content to remain silent as they walked. Their ease made Tru think about Joe and Lena again, a relationship rooted in comfort and trust and a lasting desire to be together. He wondered whether Hope was thinking the same thing.

Up ahead, Scottie was zigzagging from the dunes to the water’s edge and back again. The clouds continued to darken, shape-shifting in the wind, and a few minutes later, it started to sprinkle. The tide had come in and they had to step onto the dune to keep the waves from washing over them, but Tru quickly realized that it was pointless to attempt to stay dry. There were two flashes of lightning followed by two booms of thunder, and the world suddenly dimmed. The sprinkle turned to rain and then became a downpour.

Hope squealed and started to run, but with the pier still in the distance, she eventually slowed to a walk again. Turning around, she held up her hands.

“I guess I was wrong about how much time we had, huh?” she called out. “Sorry!”

“Not a worry,” he answered, walking toward her. “It’s wet, but not terribly cold.”