She turned off the engine, then reached into the glove compartment for a mirror and brush. Looking at herself, she saw her eyes were still red and puffy. Like yesterday after the rain, she was sorry she didn't have any make-up, though she doubted it would help much now. She reached for her purse, opened it, and once again looked at the article that had brought her here. It felt impossible to her that she had arrived only the day before yesterday. It seemed like a lifetime since her dinner with Noah.
Starlings chirped in the trees around her. The clouds had begun to break up now, and Allie could see blue in between patches of white. It was going to be a beautiful day.
It was the kind of day she would have liked to spend with Noah, and as she was thinking about him, she remembered the letters her mother had given her and reached for them. She untied the package and found the first letter he had written her. She began to open it, then stopped because she could imagine what was in it. Something simple, no doubt-things he'd done, memories of the summer, perhaps some questions. Instead she reached for the last letter, the one on the bottom of the stack. The goodbye letter. This one interested her far more. How had he said it? How would she have said it?
The envelope was thin. One, maybe two pages. Whatever he had written wasn't too long. She turned it over and checked the back. No name, just a street address in New Jersey. She held her breath as she used her fingernail to prise it open.
Unfolding it, she saw it was dated March 1935. Two and a half years without a reply.
She straightened the page and began to read.
My dearest Allie,
I don't know what to say any more except that I couldn't sleep last night because I knew that it is over between us. It is a different feeling for me, one that I never expected. Looking back, I suppose it couldn't have ended another way.
You and I were different. We came from different worlds, and yet you were the one who taught me the value of love. You showed me what it was like to care for another, and I am a better man because of it. I don't want you ever to forget that.
I am not bitter because of what has happened. On the contrary I am secure in knowing that what we had was real, and I am happy we were able to come together for even a short time. And if, in some distant place in the future, we see each other in our new lives, I will smile at you with joy, and remember how we spent a summer learning from each other and growing in love. And maybe, for a brief moment, you'll feel it too, and you'll smile back and savour the memories we will always share.
I love you, Allie.
Noah
She read the letter again, then put it back into the envelope. She knew she couldn't delay any longer. Lon was waiting for her.
Her legs felt weak as she stepped out of the car. She paused and took a deep breath, and as she started across the parking lot she realized that she still wasn't sure what she was going to say to him.
And the answer didn't finally come until she reached the door and opened it and saw Lon standing in the lobby.
CHAPTER EIGHT: WINTER FOR TWO
THE STORY ends there, so I close the notebook, remove my glasses and wipe my eyes. I look at her now that I have finished, but she does not look back. Instead she is staring out of the window at the courtyard, where friends and family meet.
I read to her this morning, as I do every morning, because it is something I must do. Not for duty-although I suppose a case could be made for this-but for another, more romantic reason. I wish I could explain it more fully right now, but it's still early, and talking about romance isn't really possible before lunch any more, at least not for me. Besides, I have no idea how it's going to turn out, and to be honest; I'd rather not get my hopes up.
We spend every day together now, but our nights are spent alone. The doctors tell me that I'm not allowed to see her after dark. I understand the reasons, and though I agree with them completely I sometimes break the rules. Late at night when my mood is right, I will sneak from my room and go to hers and watch her while she sleeps. Of this she knows nothing. I'll come in and see her breathe and know that, had it not been for her, I would never have married.
And when I look at her face, a face I know better than my own, I know that I have meant as much to her. And that means more to me than I could ever hope to explain.
Sometimes, when I am standing there, I think about how lucky I am to have been married to her for almost forty-nine years. Next month it will be that long. She heard me snore for the first forty-five, but since then we have slept in separate rooms. I do not sleep well without her. I toss and turn and yearn for her warmth and lie there most of the night, eyes open wide, watching the shadows dance across the ceilings like tumbleweeds rolling across the desert. I sleep two hours if I am lucky, and still I wake before dawn.
I shuffle towards her and sit in the chair beside her bed. My back aches when I sit. I must get a new cushion for this chair, I remind myself for the hundredth time. I reach for her hand and take it, bony and fragile. It feels nice. She responds with a twitch, and gradually her thumb begins to rub my finger softly. I do not speak until she does; this I have learned. Most days I sit in silence until the sun goes down.
Minutes pass before she finally turns to me. She is crying. I smile and release her hand, then reach in my pocket. I take out a handkerchief and wipe at her tears. She looks at me as I do so, and I wonder what she is thinking.
"That was a beautiful story."
A light rain begins to fall. Little drops tap gently on the window. I take her hand again. It is going to be a good day, a very good day. A magical day. I smile, I can't help it.
"Yes, it is," I tell her.
"Did you write it?" she asks, her voice like a whisper.