The Printed Letter Bookshop

by Katherine Reay

  Janet

  I barely sleep all night. I finally fall into a deep, dreamless slumber well after four a.m. My alarm chirps at six. I almost roll over, then I remember the day. There is no way I’m missing Seth at the train today and there is no way I’m not looking my best.

  It takes time on a normal day to tame my hair. Today I want soft, silky perfection, and after thirty minutes with the dryer and a round brush, I’m almost ready to take scissors to every defiant curl. But not quite . . . A thin green sweater, capri pants, and a pair of ballet flats Seth and I bought downtown one day are laid out at the foot of my bed. I dress and head to the Daily Brew.

  With two lattes in hand, I wait.

  Seth’s car pulls into the lot, and I watch as he walks toward the station. His hair is almost fully gray now. The last time I looked, really absorbed his presence, probably in his lawyer’s office, it was a salt-and-pepper affair. The gray suits him. He looks distinguished. I glance down to my now shaking fingers. I feel old and brittle. Tired and scared in a way I haven’t felt before—or haven’t let myself admit to before.

  I catch the instant he notices me. His step hitches then swings through, as if willpower alone drives him. I intercept him at the edge of the parking lot. We are close to the platform, but out of earshot of all the passengers waiting there.

  I stretch one latte his direction. Our fingers interlace for the briefest touch before he pulls the cup away. He shifts it to his other hand and straightens the hand that collided with mine stiff and firm, ridding it of softness. I watch and feel certain it’s an involuntary gesture. He’s not a cruel man. He’s a hurt man.

  He stands there looking at the cup. He looks young, unsure, and it reminds me of when we first met. Twenty-two, both straight out of college, and living in crowded apartments in New York. We thought we were living the dream—maybe we were. He worked a hundred hours a week at an investment firm and I worked installations for an art buyer. And from the day we met, every moment was spent tangled up with each other. Then fall came and with it a transfer to the Chicago office. Only a month in, we thought the other was oxygen itself. Proposal. Marriage. Move. All before the leaves changed color.

  “I’m sorry.”

  He tries to step past me. I shift in front of him.

  “I’m not in the mood today, Janet. Is this something that would be best said through your lawyer?”

  I cringe. He hasn’t heard me. I feel it. He can only see what I was, or at least what I became in those last days.

  “I don’t need a lawyer for this.” I take a breath and step inches closer. “I came to say I am sorry. I am sorry for my betrayal. I’m sorry I broke our vows, Seth.”

  His eyes flicker in question. He wants to scoff. He wants to ask Is this a joke? I stand still and I don’t add or retract a single word. And I don’t step away.

  His confusion is palpable now as he clearly digs back into his memory. I’m not sure he knows about his eyes, but I do, and they give me hope. They soften from emerald to moss as he digs into our almost thirty years of marriage. He can’t find it. He can’t find a single time I apologized. I’d pout, leave the room, or play the victim until I was forgiven. But I never said I was sorry. I never felt I needed to.

  He quits his search but stands on shaky ground. Seth, until those final days, was rarely unsure of himself. Finally he nods and takes a sip of coffee. “Thank you for this.”

  The train whistles as it approaches the station.

  He steps around me and, without a look back, he’s gone.

  Day two is brighter. The sun rises earlier and earlier each day, and today I not only have sun, I have new flowers opening along my front walk. The tulips and daffodils are joined by bluebells, and I can tell my bearded iris isn’t far behind.

  I hop in my car, lattes already in hand. I made the coffee at home today and put his in his favorite to-go cup. He left it behind. He left everything behind.

  Again I spot him before he spots me. His shoulders slump as if he’s exhausted, and I almost turn away. I’m not trying to add to his burden. I’m trying to relieve it. A questioning voice pricks at me . . . Are you trying to relieve his or yours? The answer is both. I’m now honest enough to admit that.

  I step toward him and hold out the dark-blue tumbler. He grasps it in his hand as if trying to determine its weight, its significance, and if it’s something he wants to hold on to.

  I talk before he can choose to let it go. “The Daily Brew is going to get expensive, so I’ll bring you coffee from home.” I throw out home carelessly and try not to flinch. I’m not trying to manipulate him either.

  Nevertheless, he stiffens. “How many times are you planning to do this?”

  “As many as it takes.”

  He takes a sip, watching me over the top of the cup, but he says nothing. When he lowers it, I begin.

  “I’m sorry I didn’t listen.”

  “What?” His brows join over his nose in confusion.

  “I was more interested in what I had to say than in truly understanding what you felt. Again and again, I put my needs and my need to express them above yours.”

  He stares at me, and I figure it’s a good time to go.

  Without thinking, I lift onto my toes and kiss his cheek. Then I walk away and don’t look back, berating myself the whole way. That kiss was not part of the plan.

  Day three is warm. Spring is truly in the air—and it’s early. It usually envelops Chicago in late May or June, but color is bursting forth this last week in April with all the attending smells. The bearded iris opened this morning, and right next to it, the fritillary too. It’s my favorite and I feel so thankful it’s here and blooming today.

  I lay awake again all night, questioning my motives and that impetuous kiss. I almost decide to end the apologies, but one look out my window and the fritillary changes my mind. Seth planted those for me. It’s a strong flower, an unusual flower. It reminds me of you.

  I hadn’t appreciated those words years ago; I’d have rather been a beautiful, delicate flower than a “strong and unusual” one. But fritillary is unusual. It seems to grow upside down, with the delicate blooms facing down and the pointy leaves sticking up like the hair on Beaker, the Muppet lab assistant.

  I watch the flower and soon my thankfulness is replaced with a new understanding. Life is so terribly subjective. I defined myself and never wondered how Seth viewed me or how that could change my world. Fritillary is strong, but it’s actually quite beautiful too. And those blooms? Extremely delicate.

  I fill my cup with coffee and grab another travel mug for Seth. His reaction has surprised me. I expected wary, but I also expected his eyes to remain hard and unyielding. Yet on day one they softened. But to be fair, we didn’t divorce because he hated me. We divorced because I broke his heart. And, if I had to guess, he believed I hated him or had stopped loving him in some way. After all, why else would one ever have an affair?

  But it was never so simple. I wanted him, but couldn’t figure out how to reach him. I wanted something of myself back, but couldn’t lay the responsibility of finding it upon myself. I also had no idea that the answers, the joy, and the assurances I required could never be found in Seth at all.

  Father Luke is right. It takes three, the right three, to make a marriage work. But Madeline is still wrong. It doesn’t always take two to blow a marriage up—one can do it quite thoroughly on her own.

  “Good morning.” Seth sees me first. I look down for a moment, and when I glance back up he is heading, with purpose, straight to me. “You don’t need to keep meeting me here. What do you want, Janet? What do you expect to happen?”

  “Nothing. I expect nothing from you.” I hand him the cup. “I hope you’ll listen, but I don’t expect that. I simply hope you will.”

  With that, I begin. “I resented your success. I resented that I had to give everything up so you could achieve it.”

  He opens his mouth to speak, and I cut him off with a raised hand.

&nbs
p; “I get the irony of cutting you off after yesterday when I said I need to listen more, but . . . I need to explain before you speak. I need to say that what I just said was wrong. It’s the lie I chose to believe. You never asked me to give up anything. Every time I wanted to pursue art again, you encouraged me. It . . .” I took a deep breath. “It was easier to blame you than face the possibility that I might not have what it takes to make it. I’m sorry for that. I’m sorry I made you carry that for me.”

  “Janet . . .”

  “Have a good day.”

  As I ran away I again berated myself. I had come for three days, and had a few more ahead of me, yet I didn’t have the courage to hear what he might say in response. I didn’t want his anger, but I also didn’t want his pity, and I didn’t want him to let me off the hook and end this work right as I was beginning it.

  If I didn’t see this through now, something told me I never would. And that might be the worst loss of all . . .

  Day four is pouring. An optimist might say Winsome is being made new by the rain. We’re in the last days of April, and “April showers bring May flowers.” But to me, the day feels dark and scary.

  Seth finds me beneath the platform’s awning.

  “You should’ve stayed home on a day like this.”

  I smile and hand him the coffee. “I’m sorry for making you feel that what you did was never enough.”

  He opens his mouth to speak as the train’s whistle blows.

  People jostle around us and our moment is gone. He nods and lets the throng push him toward the waiting train.

  I’m already tired of the rain. I yearn for warm May days. I juggle the coffee and the umbrella and head to the parking lot. I’m late today, feeling old and worn, and he’s already there.

  My heart skips a beat. He’s watching for me.

  I step to him and hand him the coffee first, as I’ve done each morning. “I’m sorry I never played with you. You asked me over and over again to golf, run, walk, ski, fish, countless things we could do together, and then you stopped asking. I’m sorry I led you there.”

  “This is not necessary, Janet.”

  I can’t interpret his words or his tone. His voice is soft and, to me, that means pity. I simply reply, “It is necessary.” And I walk away.

  Pity is more painful than anger.

  Over the next several days, after buying a pack of paper to-go cups at the grocery, I meet him with an apology each morning. It feels like I’m coming through a valley. The first day felt so good. I felt strong. Then I went down a steep slope, and carrying this burden got heavy and it felt never-ending. The rain didn’t help. Those days felt hard and oppressive. And I was affecting Seth—not in a good way. Circles darkened under his eyes, and his smooth gray hair of day one appeared tousled for many days afterward, as if he, too, was having trouble sleeping and couldn’t sort himself out each morning.

  But around day eight, the burden lifted. I was so grateful to feel the sun again on day ten, and to see Seth looking brighter on day eleven.

  I apologized first for using the kids as weapons in fights; the next day for cutting him out of my emotional world and leaning on friends rather than on him. The great irony of those two is that, in the divorce, the kids and the friends all sided with him. The next days covered some instances of passive-aggressive behavior, which, by his expression, he remembered too.

  And finally, today, I return to the affair. Yes, a lot led to it, but in that final moment, I could’ve stopped, run home, and changed our lives—for the better. I chose not to.

  “I was a fool, Seth. I probably still am, but I’m learning. I’m learning about wisdom and faith and love, real love, and the proper ordering of love. I’m learning about humility and forgiveness. I’m learning about all the gifts I’ve been given and all the fruits I have failed to produce—one being patience.”

  He chuckles and I laugh with him. Patience has never been my strong suit.

  “I won’t bother you any more now. There’s more to apologize for, and that’s one thing I’m learning about this journey; there’s a lot of grace, but only if you offer up the sins. But I won’t burden you any more with them. All you need to know is that, without qualification, I am sorry.”

  I scrunch my face because this vulnerability isn’t comfortable, and right now I’m close to tears. I don’t want Seth to see me cry. That’s all I did those last days before we signed the papers. I sobbed and behaved horribly, all to manipulate him into feeling guilty. To cry now feels no less manipulative. Maybe I’m being hard on myself, but I’m not sure. I’m not sure of anything anymore—but I am learning.

  I reach up and kiss his cheek. I have ended the last three mornings with such a kiss and he hasn’t stopped me. It feels right, like another aspect of vulnerability I need to endure and even welcome. This time I linger and breathe in the scent of him. He’s still sandalwood, musk, and mint. I close my eyes to carry it with me.

  I turn to walk away and feel a light, tentative touch on my arm. Had it been winter and I’d dressed in a wool sweater and a down coat, I never would have felt it. But I do and I turn.

  “I wasn’t perfect, J.”

  I close my eyes again. J. A very intimate nickname, only ever used by him, and one I always cherished because J meant “jewel” and only we two knew it.

  “But you were a good husband. I didn’t do this to make you feel guilty.”

  “I don’t think that. Part of me has no idea what to think . . . I need more time.”

  “I understand.” I turn away. I’m not forgiven—maybe I never will be.

  “If I stop at Patisserie Amélie on my way home tonight, do you think I could bring a couple almond croissants to the house tomorrow morning? You have the espresso machine.”

  “Yes. I do. And yes.”

  I burst out the words so fast and loud two women stare.

  Seth chuckles. I blush.

  “What time?”

  “Anytime you want.” I rise up on my tiptoes and lower slowly in hopes he hasn’t noticed I almost bounced like a kid.

  “You like to sleep late on Saturdays.” He smiles and I can barely breathe.

  “You wake early.”

  “Compromise? I’ll be there at eight thirty?”

  I can only nod.

  With that he walks toward the platform. This time . . .

  He looks back.

  Two days after pastries, I receive a text.

  Three days after pastries, I receive an invitation.

  Five days after pastries, I am holding Rosie in my arms. She is more beautiful, more perfect, than anything I could have imagined.

  Two weeks after pastries, I face the most terrifying moment of my life: Seth arrives unannounced at my front door.

  “Do you want to come in?”

  “No.”

  “Then . . .” I stall, unsure what’s happening. His face is tight, intense, and I fear I’ve hurt him again in some way.

  He steps toward me and lifts his hands. I see them coming to my face as if they’re moving through water. Time slows and crystallizes. I hear myself whisper “Don’t” without thinking the word first.

  “Don’t kiss you?”

  I nod. I shake my head.

  His hands reach my face and hold me. “Which is it?”

  “I only wanted you to forgive me if you could. I . . . It’s not an exaggeration, Seth, when I say I won’t want to survive you leaving again. And if you kiss me, I might start to believe that—”

  “There you have it.”

  “Have what?”

  “I forgive you. And this . . .”

  He pulls me close and covers my lips with his. I feel myself resist and pull away. It feels like a wave receding from the shore, smooth and low.

  Then I feel it. The instant I stop resisting and the wave stops receding. The momentum builds and rushes forward and, as I tip toward him, I am filled with light. It shoots out of me, consumes me. He forgives me. And right here, right now, is the perfect momen
t to be lost within.

  Chapter 23

  Madeline

  Eternity only reaches us in the present.

  The more I think about it, the more I believe Luke is right. Janet too. I look back, and I cannot dwell in past mistakes. Maybe Aunt Maddie knew I would start there, but as I work through the last few books on her list, I will not dwell there. That is not how I tell my story.

  I glance across the kitchen and watch as Janet struggles to open the wine, Claire sautés the asparagus, and my mom tosses the salad. I pull the chicken parmesan from the oven.

  “When did you learn to cook that?” My mom closes her eyes and inhales. “It smells wonderful.”

  I blush, wondering if I should confess. Instead I take in her smile and again feel so glad I called her a few days ago . . .

  “Please come visit. I’m sorry I’ve put you off for so long.”

  “That’s all right, dear.”

  She wouldn’t hear any more about it, though we both know I have pushed away for years, from her, from everyone.

  So Mom arrived yesterday morning, and we enjoyed the first few hours of her visit together before I took her to the shop. We talked about everything—my ups and downs, the offer on my condo that arrived moments before her flight, my fears of losing everything to find none of it mattered, my fear of chasing something new and how scary yet exciting that felt—and there were some vague references about this new man who filled every heartbeat, but only tangentially. I still wasn’t ready to verbalize Chris.

  But, of course, the moment Mom walked into the Printed Letter and introduced herself, Claire and Janet spilled every detail.

  I returned from buying our sandwiches to find Mom perched on my stool behind the customer service counter as if she’d been there all along. For a second, I felt out of place. Looking at the three of them, so near in age and experience, I felt like an outsider. I heard words like daughters, parenting, and collagen, and stepped away.

  Janet noticed me and called out, “Get over here before Claire and I share all our secrets.”