Dearest Josephine

by Caroline George

  “Our sot chose his lovers,” a girl yelled. “Now, they must kiss.”

  Fateful moments are few and far between, those life-altering instances where anything can happen—and anything does. Some call the occurrences destiny, coincidences, luck. Others joke about the turn of events because they seem predictable.

  Elias processed all opinions when he noticed a finger aimed at him and another pointed at the girl called Josephine De Clare. He couldn’t breathe. None of it seemed real. Perhaps he was drunk or dreaming. Perhaps the universe was playing a trick on him.

  Josephine walked to him as the crowd applauded and begged for a kiss. Her eyes shimmered with firelight, and her hair swayed with the night’s breeze—a sight that turned Elias to stone. “Let me kiss you, Bag Head,” she said with a laugh. “Don’t be shy.”

  He inched closer, his heart racing. No girl had ever kissed him. Throughout his school years, he had attempted to call on ladies. They’d overlooked him, especially once they learned of his inferior birth. But this girl—the one smiling at him—offered approval without conditions.

  She gazed at him, not through him.

  “You don’t have to,” Elias said. He paused near the bonfire and flinched when Josephine lifted the sack to his nose. “We haven’t even been introduced—”

  “I don’t believe we meet people by accident,” Josephine whispered. “Perhaps I’m foolish, but I think sometimes . . . meeting is enough.” She glided her fingers across his jawline. Then, she stood on the tips of her toes and kissed him.

  A release much like a sigh washed all fear from Elias’s body, and in that second, his world consisted of her hands on his face, her lips fused with his lips, an entire universe freeing him from his prison of shadows. The night was bright. He was seen.

  And she was everything.

  FOUR

  JOSIE

  * * *

  From: Josie De Clare

  Sent: Tuesday, June 21, 8:21 PM

  To: Faith Moretti

  Subject: Elias Roch Is My New Boyfriend

  Faith, I’m in love. Not really. But I fancy the idea of reading old letters and falling head over heels for their writer (especially if he looked like the guy in the painting). Elias Roch, the Regency babe magnet, seems my type—well, as far as I can tell from some letters and the first chapter of his manuscript. He moved to Cadwallader Manor centuries ago, after his father died. Strange coincidence, right? He wrote to a girl named Josephine De Clare. She also lost her father, and she wasn’t close with her mum. Another coincidence.

  Elias wanted to correspond with Josephine about his tragic past, Cadwallader, and their so-called serendipitous meeting. Pretty sure he had a crush on her. I mean, he wrote a book about the two of them. Maybe the story was based on his life. Who knows? I typed his name into a search engine, and nothing came up. The internet has no idea he existed.

  I also searched for information about Josephine De Clare, but she, too, seems a ghost. No census records or family trees. Not even a birth date.

  Something must’ve happened, because Elias never posted the letters. Perhaps he didn’t learn Josephine’s address, or they reunited at a ball. I hope they ended up together. Someone deserves to find happiness, and nobody I know—excluding you and Noah—seems content.

  Our beautiful Elias Roch went to boarding school like us. He detested his headmaster and did stupid stuff with his friends. Sound familiar? Ugh, I wish he wasn’t dead. We’d get along. In other news, Mum decided to lease the townhouse until I graduate from uni. She won’t sell it. (Your pyjamas are safe!) I’m relieved because I didn’t want to fight with her—again. We don’t see eye to eye on anything, at least anything we talk about. And we don’t talk much. Our conversations happen over text, and they’re usually about boring stuff like dentist appointments.

  Not that I want phone calls. I prefer our mutual indifference. If she talked more, I’d have to talk back, and I really enjoy not talking. Like, I don’t hate Mum. I just don’t trust her. There’s a difference. Hate means I don’t want her in my life.

  Distrust means I refuse to let her guide it.

  My counsellor at Stonehill told me to let go of grudges. She was like, “Forgive and forget, Josie De Clare. That’s the Lord’s way.” I guess I was angry back then. Maybe I still am. It’s just . . . We can forgive but we can’t forget. Whoever says otherwise hasn’t known true pain. Hear me out. Hearts are muscles, and muscles have memory. So, of course our hearts can’t forget. They remember what hurts them. They remember so they can grow stronger. I think that’s why we must remember. If we forgot the moment we forgave, we wouldn’t receive the strength that comes from hurting. And something good must come from all the bad. Something. Anything.

  Even the faintest good.

  Mum was upset I didn’t call her after I broke up with Rashad. But she left Dad and me, so why should I give her information about my personal life? She didn’t take me bra shopping on my thirteenth birthday. I went with Dad, and yikes, that was a weird day. Mum didn’t even know about Rashad until I made the relationship Facebook official.

  I haven’t forgotten all the years without her. Deep down, I must still be that thirteen-year-old girl, dying from embarrassment as her dad held bras to his chest. Whatever.

  Screwed up is the new normal.

  Tonight I did a bunch of oddball activities. What started as self-care turned into self-destruction. I made pizza pockets for dinner, then ate way too much of Martha’s sponge cake. (She brings food at least once a day.) Then I painted my toenails, which took less time than expected. I got bored, and nothing good happens when I’m bored.

  I decided to dye my hair, but I didn’t feel like walking to the variety store. However, thanks to Dad’s toddler-esque diet, I found a pack of strawberry Kool-Aid in the cupboard. Yep. I did what you’re thinking. I soaked the ends of my hair in ancient pink Kool-Aid. Now I look like that Sindy doll my aunt gave me for Christmas six years ago.

  Don’t worry. The colour will fade in the next week or so.

  Norman said he’d find a contractor to help me with renovations. I want to preserve Cadwallader’s original features. Not sure how I’ll manage it. This place is a disaster zone. The wallpaper has sprouted mould. A previous owner covered the drawing room’s floor with shag carpet. And if that’s not bad enough, I found an unkindness of ravens in the attic.

  Google recommends scarecrows or CDs to get rid of birds. I might stuff my tiger onesie with newspaper and see if it’ll de-raven the house. Say a prayer for me. I plan to start repairs tomorrow, and I’ll probably injure myself. You remember what happened the last time I played handyman. I tried to change a light bulb in our residence hall and broke my wrist. The cast was cute, though. Lots of Tom Holland stickers.

  Oh, Rashad phoned me! (I almost forgot to tell you.) He left several voicemails because I wouldn’t answer his calls. The dummy thinks I stole his leather jacket.

  Elias regarded his Josephine with respect. He was enthralled by her. All girls want that, I suppose—for a guy to see them and think, Yep, she’s the one. Rashad wasn’t the one for me. Not at all. I want a guy who cares more about our relationship than clothes.

  I want a guy who writes to me.

  The letters and novel make this place seem less vacant. I get the sense it was destined, that I was meant to visit Cadwallader and discover Elias’s writing. Go ahead. Have a laugh. I understand how reality works, but it’s fun to consider the what-ifs. What if fate, not my own breakdown, brought me here? What if Elias and I are somehow connected?

  Those questions distract from the realer situation. That I’m alone in Dad’s final project. That I have no idea what I’m doing with my life. That I stole my ex-boyfriend’s jacket and am currently wearing it. Yeah, maybe I’ll cling to my imagination a bit longer.

  Talk to you soon.

  Josie

  P.S. I miss my cat.

  (Sent from iPhone)

  * * *
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  * * *

  From: Faith Moretti

  Sent: Tuesday, June 21, 11:14 PM

  To: Josie De Clare

  Subject: Re: Elias Roch Is My New Boyfriend

  Sorry for my late reply, Josie. Shopping with Noah occupied the entire day. He wanted a new desk, so we took the bus to IKEA and spent hours looking at furniture. He isn’t the most decisive person. Like, we ate lunch and dinner in the store because he couldn’t make a choice.

  We left around seven with a beanbag chair and no desk.

  Your emails made the day interesting. Letters? A hidden manuscript? Wow. I expected you to find something from your dad, not messages written by a Regency era gentleman—a hot one at that. I looked at the picture you sent me. Dang, Elias Roch was model quality. With that jawline, he could’ve gotten jobs in New York and Milan. (Portrait does resemble Ian Wyatt from third-period arithmetic. Maybe we should tell Ian to pursue modeling.)

  Keep reading!!!

  I am relieved to hear about the townhouse (and my pajamas). Let’s plan a two-week-long vacation for after we graduate. We can stay at the town home for a week, then drive up to Cadwallader. It’ll be like old times, full of dance parties and movie binges. Maybe we can even visit your dad’s grave. I’d like to go there with you.

  Your mom doesn’t understand. She doesn’t see how the divorce and her leaving hurt you. A lot of parents don’t get it, and cluelessness seems worse than if they intended to cause pain . . .

  Because if they hurt us on purpose, then at least we’d feel seen.

  My parents treat me like a stranger nowadays. When I first returned from England, they pretended I hadn’t changed. I was still the kid with braces who collected Silly Bandz and One Direction posters. Over time they stopped trying to know me. They quit asking questions about you or Stonehill. They grew distant, and I blamed myself. I regretted accepting that scholarship. I regretted leaving them. But they’d wanted me to go. They were so proud.

  Maybe they’re embarrassed because they don’t know me anymore. For example, Mama took me shopping, and I hated everything she picked out. She bought us deli sandwiches before I revealed my disgust for processed meat. I think she and Daddy gave up on me. Like, they decided I belonged to you and your dad, not the Moretti family. I’d become too modern with my impractical career dreams and fancy education. I’d lost the parts of me that came from them.

  I wish they’d hurt me on purpose.

  Yes, Noah and I are content. That seems a good word to describe us. I mean, we spend most afternoons together. We go to the laundromat, grocery store, and get takeout twice a week. Being in the same city has allowed us to find a routine. So yeah, we’re content—we have this adult-ish relationship that pleases our families. It’s just . . . I feel like Noah won’t say what he wants to say, and whatever he wants to say is something I don’t want to hear.

  Does that make sense?

  He has all these big dreams too. Like, he plans to study architecture in Barcelona and renovate a home in Jersey. His parents are rooting for us, so much so that his mom asked me about engagement rings the other day. I’m supposed to fit into Noah’s dreams. But what if his dreams don’t align with mine? Why can’t we enjoy our broke college days without planning?

  I love him. I want us to last, you know, get the careers and house. My brain can’t think about that stuff now, though. After what happened in England—losing you and your dad, leaving Stonehill—I need easy. Noah understands. Maybe that’s why he won’t say what he wants to say.

  We’re all living some messed-up coming-of-age story, right? Whether we’re thirteen, bra shopping with our dads, or sixty years old, we’re all trying to figure out who we are and where we fit. Nobody knows what they’re doing. We just put our best foot forward and give life a go.

  You’re on the right track, Josie. Renovate the manor (or attempt it). Try not to hurt yourself. And get through the grief even if it requires Kool-Aid dye jobs and your ex’s jacket. Also, please read more of the letters, because I need updates. LOL. Maybe you were meant to find Elias’s writing. My nonno says God brings together people with similar pains so they can support each other. He met his best friend, Robert, after my nonna died.

  I’m excited for you. Nobody finds two-hundred-year-old letters addressed to them. Doesn’t happen. And yet it happened to you!

  The coincidences blow my mind.

  Gotta say good night and brew a cup of herbal tea (to hack my snack craving). Too bad we’re not still roommates. I’d be elbow-deep in your chocolate stash by now.

  Faith

  P.S. I know you dislike the Kardashians, but Kim released the best at-home workout. I’ll paste the link below so you can stay in shape while holed up at Cadwallader.

  * * *

  * * *

  From: Josie De Clare

  Sent: Wednesday, June 22, 10:21 AM

  To: Faith Moretti

  Subject: Re: Elias Roch Is My New Boyfriend

  Good morning, Faith. I survived another night. Thoughts about Dad kept me awake, but what’s new? I tossed and turned until the sun rose. Then I walked to Atteberry Tea Room & Café for breakfast.

  I reread Elias’s first chapter while I drank my tea. In the story, Josephine wore a red dress with golden bumblebee embellishments—a pattern that matches my old bedspread. I also had a bumblebee on my school notebook. And my laptop sleeve.

  And the necklace Dad gave me.

  The coincidences seem too intentional, like they couldn’t just happen by chance. Elias knew a Josephine De Clare. The way he described her and wrote to her . . . It’s like he knew me. I’m grateful for this find, whether it’s serendipity or divine intervention.

  Elias felt what I feel. Maybe that’s the magic of all this.

  Whenever I look at his writing, I get a pit in my stomach, this nagging sense I should remember him. Not in a time-traveller kind of way. (If I could go back in time, I would relive years with Dad, not visit the Regency period.) No, what I feel seems more nostalgic, like candy floss at the carnival or the smell of sunscreen. Maybe I heard about Elias a long time ago.

  Maybe his words reflect my own experiences.

  For the record, I do not think Elias wrote about me, nor am I using him as a rebound from Rashad.

  His letters spur questions, though. I can’t help but wonder if our lives are like motorcars weaving around each other, destined to collide. Take us, for example. You and I shouldn’t have met. We grew up in different countries, separated by an ocean. You came from a large Italian family. I was raised by a single dad. And yet, despite the odds, we found each other. What if time works in a similar manner? What if we’re all but a step away from colliding with history?

  Another fun thought.

  I better stop this babble and get to work. My to-do list seems a mile long. First on the agenda: unclog the kitchen sink. (Pretty sure Dad poured macaroni down the drain.)

  Cadwallader will be a showplace once I’m finished with it. You must come for a postgrad holiday so I can boast about my newfound talent for renovations. ;)

  Josie

  P.S. Be honest with Noah. You won’t know if your dreams align unless you share them.

  (Sent from iPhone)

  * * *

  * * *

  From: Josie De Clare

  Sent: Thursday, June 23, 10:07 AM

  To: Faith Moretti

  Subject: How to DIY a Hermit Life

  I managed to clean up the goo, Faith. Took an hour of rigorous scrubbing (and a half bottle of bleach), but the stains are gone, the pipes are unclogged, and I avoided further plumbing disasters. That said, I’m right proud of myself. YouTube and Dad’s boiler suit transformed me into a plumber—amateur but adequate. Maybe I’ll start a pipe-unclogging business.

  Renovations will continue later today. I want to pull up the shag carpet in the drawing
room. It’s a burnt-orange colour and reeks of cat urine. The sooner it’s gone, the better. (I’m surprised Dad didn’t tear out the carpet when he got here. He loathed 1970s design.)

  Norman installed Wi-Fi in the drawing room yesterday, so I’m officially connected to the civilized world. He even hooked up an old television. It doesn’t have cable, but it plays VHS tapes.

  Where do I buy movies on tape? eBay?

  I didn’t want Norman to leave, so I begged him to stay for tea. He must’ve realized I was deprived of human interaction, because he talked with me for over an hour. Then he took me to the downstairs wardrobe and unearthed a box of Dad’s belongings. Nothing spectacular. Only a shave kit, mobile charger, and wool jumper.