More Than Words Can Say

by Robert Barclay

  “Well, yes,” Chelsea admitted. “But I don’t think I’ve ever seen any of his other movies.”

  Brandon shook his head with mischievous disbelief. “Are you kidding?” he asked her. “To Have and Have Not, The Big Sleep, or The Maltese Falcon, for heaven’s sake? Are you actually telling me that none of those ring any bells?”

  “Not really,” Chelsea admitted with a little laugh.

  Brandon shook his head and cast his gaze toward the ceiling. “Dear Lord, I’ve fallen in love with an uncultured heathen!” he exclaimed. “Well, my dear, we’ll just have to remedy your lack of cinematic education over the course of time.”

  “Okay,” Chelsea said with a laugh. “You’ve got a deal.”

  For the next few moments they regarded each other happily, each of them knowing that they were just as comfortable with one another during the quiet times, too. It should be like that in a good relationship, Chelsea had always believed. But until now, she had never experienced it. When silence prevailed between two lovers because of contentment, it was a sure sign of happiness. But when it reigned due to tension, it was an omen not to be ignored. And just now, contentment was the order of the day.

  Brooke’s journal sat on the table near Brandon’s elbow. He picked it up and casually thumbed through it before again looking into Chelsea’s eyes.

  “The stuff that dreams are made of . . . ,” he said.

  Chelsea smiled. “More Bogart?” she asked.

  “Yes,” he answered. “But there isn’t much left here to read. In fact, it looks like there’s only three more entries. Shall we read the next one tonight?”

  Chelsea nodded. “Let’s take the wine and the journal out onto the porch.”

  After letting the dogs back in, Brandon joined Chelsea on the porch. He then turned to the next entry and handed the journal to her, whereupon Chelsea began reading aloud:

  Tuesday, August 11, 1942, 4:00 P.M.

  As I write these words, I can control neither my worry nor my excitement. The two conflicting emotions are running through my veins like adrenaline and tearing my heart in two. As if it might somehow provide an answer to my dilemma, I keep rereading the telegram that arrived a few hours ago. When I first saw it in the dock mailbox I nearly fainted, fearing the worst. But then I realized that anything untoward happening to Bill during his stateside officer’s training was unlikely, and I tore open the telegram with abandon and read it. Afterward, I pasted it into this journal as a keepsake.

  Chelsea turned the page and saw the World War II–era telegram that Brooke had in fact included. Before attaching it, Brooke had folded it so that it would fit within the confines of the journal. As Chelsea gently unfolded it, she saw that it was heavily wrinkled in its center, where the paste secured it to the page. After gazing at it for a few moments more, she began reading aloud again:

  WESTERN UNION:

  FRIDAY AUGUST 10 1942 STOP MRS. BROOKE BARTLETT, 18 SCHULYER LANE, SERENDIPITY, NEW YORK:

  OFFICERS TRANING ENDED STOP HAVE LEFT FORT BENNING FOR SYRACUSE BY TRAIN VIA DELAYING ROUTE STOP WILL JOIN YOU AT LAKE EVERGREEN FOR ONE NIGHT ON AUGUST 11 STOP THEN MUST RETURN TO SYRACUSE NEXT DAY AND BOARD TRAIN TO NYC FOR TROOPSHIP PASSAGE TO ENGLAND STOP ALL LOVE STOP BILL

  I can’t begin to describe how I feel! At last Bill and I will be together again, even if it is for just one night. But despite my happiness, I also worry about what will happen when he arrives. With Greg still in my heart, how will I react when I see my husband? Will my love for Bill be so strong and sure as always? Or will my heart shrivel at the mere sight of him, telling me once and for all that it is now Greg whom I truly love? Will Bill’s impending visit be the test that finally answers all my burning questions, the trial by fire that will forever define what’s really in my heart? And if so, what will the verdict be?

  The mere thought of such concerns has quickly tempered my joy, and in its place has again risen the terrible sense of guilt that I carry. What will happen when Bill appears here only hours from now? Greg will undoubtedly know without my telling him, because from his cottage he will surely see Bill arrive. My God, what will Greg then do? Will he actually come over, asking to be introduced? Or will he stay at arm’s length and not intrude? This scenario hadn’t occurred to me, although I now realize that it should have. As a testament to my anguish, my hands are shaking even now, as I write these words. . .

  Perhaps I should go to Greg and tell him what is about to happen. But what could I say to him that wouldn’t hurt him even more? That Bill is coming tonight, and that I wish Greg to stay away? Is he to be banished like some pariah, even though he has done nothing more sinful than I? I can easily envision the pain in his eyes, should I tell him that. And like the pain I saw there when I rejected him atop Red Rock Mountain, that is something I never again wish to experience. And so I have resolved to say nothing to him of Bill’s impending visit, in hopes that he will be gentleman enough to understand and not come to us. And yet, despite our promise to each other, I still adore him. Can a woman love two men at the same time and not go mad?

  SEVERAL HOURS LATER, while sitting alone in the dark on his porch, Gregory Butler nervously lit his fortieth cigarette of the day. They usually calmed him, but not tonight. He was also rather drunk.

  Reaching out, he poured another two fingers of straight gin and then clumsily tossed it back. He needed the alcohol to dull his pain, and he knew that he would need even more of it later, as both the night and his sense of despair deepened.

  As twilight had fallen, he heard the unexpected sound of a car approaching Brooke’s cottage. When he saw a tall, young army second lieutenant exit the black Lincoln, it was as if someone had poured ice water into his veins. There could be no mistake, he knew. Brooke’s husband, Bill, had come to Lake Evergreen.

  It all made sense, he realized, and he castigated himself for not having predicted this possibility before now. On the first day they met, Brooke had told him that Bill’s officer’s training was nearly done. And although Greg understood little about military protocol, he knew that at the end of such training the newly minted “ninety-day wonders,” as they were being called, were granted either a furlough or to take their time reporting to active duty by what the army called “a delaying route.” Greg couldn’t know which option had been granted to Bill, but none of that mattered to him right now.

  More than once, he had nearly left his cottage and walked over to meet Brooke’s husband. It was more than mere curiosity that tempted him, he knew. Rather, it was an odd, almost macabre wish to put the three of them in the same room, to size up the other man, and perhaps most important of all, to try to gauge Brooke’s feelings. But in the end he would not go, because he knew that she would not want it. Despite how much he loved her, this night belonged to Brooke and Bill. If there remained a single shred of decency in him, Greg decided, he would summon the will to stay away, no matter how much it hurt him to do so.

  But he also knew that the moment of his greatest anguish was still to come. And that, more than any other reason, was why he sat waiting on his porch. The night was still, the moon was full, and the waves brushed the sandy shore ever so lightly. As Greg took another drag on his cigarette, its lit end glowed brightly for a moment, then faded again.

  In an attempt to put Brooke more at ease this night, Greg had purposely left all of his cottage lights off and parked his old Packard on the opposite side of the cottage, to make it appear as if he wasn’t home. He couldn’t know whether Brooke believed it, but he hoped so. For if Brooke thought he was away, she would have fewer worries this night.

  But the worst of it was yet to come, he knew. For when the lights went out in Brooke’s cottage, it could mean only one thing. Brooke and Bill were at last in each other’s arms, lying on the great sleigh bed in Brooke’s bedroom, enjoying each other, wanting each other, and pleasing each other in ways that they had not done for many months. Whereas Brooke had rejected Gregory Butler that day atop Red Rock, she would joyfully take William Ba
rtlett to her bed.

  And, as much as it pains me to think so, that is how it should be, Greg thought. I have no claim on that woman, no matter how much I might love her. Not only did she have every right to turn me away that afternoon atop Red Rock, she was correct to do so. Even so, not even the gin is helping to assuage the terrible pain I feel this night.

  When he again looked over at Brooke’s cottage, this time his greatest fears were realized. One by one the interior lights were extinguished, leaving the little house bathed only in moonlight.

  And so it is happening, he thought. But from where will I find the strength to endure this?

  As he turned and looked out over the waves, his eyes again filled with tears.

  CHELSEA PUT DOWN the journal and stared out at the ever-restless lake. Brandon could sense that she was upset, so he remained quiet, allowing her the first word. After picking up the journal and examining the telegram for a time, Brandon put the journal back down again. It was the first time he’d seen an actual telegram such as this one, and he soon found that its existence brought Brooke and Greg’s story into much sharper relief for him, just as he believed it had also done for Chelsea.

  “That’s where the excerpt ends,” Chelsea said at last. “So Emily was right. Bill did come here to be with Brooke. And in all certainty they made love.”

  When she finally turned to look at Brandon, her face was filled with sadness. “I can’t help but feel sorry for him,” she said quietly.

  “For Greg?” Brandon asked.

  Chelsea nodded. “And if Greg knew Bill was there, I can’t imagine how much pain it must have brought him.”

  “I know,” Brandon said. “But he had no right to her.”

  “Yes,” Chelsea answered. “I know that, too. But the heart wants what it wants, Brandon. That’s always been the way of things, and I suppose it always will be.”

  “And that must have been the night your mother was conceived,” Brandon said.

  “Yes,” Chelsea answered.

  “But even now we don’t know how your grandfather Bill died,” Brandon mused. “Or why Brooke left here so suddenly and never returned. It’s still quite the puzzle.”

  Chelsea nodded again. “In the end, we all just assumed that discussing Bill’s death was too painful for her, so we stopped asking.”

  “Perhaps one of the last two entries will tell us,” Brandon said.

  “Maybe,” Chelsea said. “But that’s not what I need just now.”

  “No?” Brandon asked.

  Chelsea stood from her chair. Lifting his chin, she kissed him slowly, languorously.

  “No,” she whispered. “What I need tonight is you . . .”

  As Brandon stood and took her into his arms, she laid her cheek on his shoulder.

  Chapter 27

  It is good to see you again, ma chère,” Emily Rousseau said to Chelsea. “I’m so glad that you called and asked to visit me.”

  Two days later, Chelsea and Emily were sitting at Emily’s dining table, enjoying some mint tea and blueberry scones. Chelsea had called this morning, asking if she could come by. The lunch crowd had come and gone, but Emily’s waitresses and chef still remained to clean up and start preparing for tomorrow. Chelsea could occasionally hear noises coming from the floor below, confirming their presence.

  After taking another sip of her tea, Emily smiled knowingly. “And unless I’m mistaken,” she added, “there is a glow about you that wasn’t there the first time we met. That wouldn’t have anything to do with your next-door neighbor, would it?”

  Chelsea felt herself blushing. “Well, yes,” she answered. “As a matter of fact, it does. You’re very perceptive.”

  “We women can sense things that men never see,” Emily answered with a smile. “Your grandmother, God rest her soul, no doubt had that same look about her one day. It would have been right after her husband had visited her at the cottage, just before he shipped out for England. Sadly, Bill died. But nine months later, Brooke was blessed with the birth of your mother. Then Brooke was involved in her awful accident, and everything changed for her yet again. That period in her life was a series of drastic ups and downs, poor thing.”

  “That much I already know,” Chelsea said, “although I haven’t gotten through the entire journal.”

  “Well,” Emily said, “I can’t know what the rest of Brooke’s writings might hold for you. More than I am able to offer, no doubt. But when you are done reading it, there is one thing that I would ask of you.”

  “What is that?” Chelsea said.

  “If you learn why Brooke left Lake Evergreen so suddenly that summer and never returned, I would very much appreciate knowing,” Emily answered. “I held our friendship so dear, and I could never understand her motives. Years later, during one of my visits to Syracuse, I did ask her why. She apologized but refused to elaborate. Because she was so adamant about it, I respected her privacy from that point on. But if you do learn why, please satisfy this old woman’s curiosity and tell me about it, would you?”

  Chelsea reached out and patted Emily on the hand. “Of course,” she answered. “But the truth is, I was hoping that you could tell me about that. Was there in fact anyone else who knew her up here and is still among us?”

  Emily shook her head. “Not that I know of,” she answered. “Even Gregory Butler once told me he did not know why she left so abruptly. He too seemed very hurt by her so sudden and unexplained departure. Perhaps it was because of Bill’s death that she went home so abruptly, but that still doesn’t explain why she didn’t bid either of us adieu or why she never returned. And I know that she very much cared for us both and that she could have had no reason to want to hurt us. All of which makes it only harder to understand.”

  Disappointed, Chelsea sat back in her chair. Although she liked Emily very much, her hopes about learning more from her were quickly being dashed. She had been optimistic that Emily hadn’t told her all she knew the time before, because Brandon had been with her. But even now, Emily had little more to offer regarding Brooke Bartlett’s last days at Lake Evergreen.

  Chelsea had called Emily that morning asking to see her, and Emily had eagerly agreed. Two days had passed since Chelsea and Brandon had climbed Red Rock Mountain. It had been a momentous day for them, and like any two new and infatuated lovers, they were deliriously happy. Last night they had again made love, more slowly and languorously this time, in Chelsea’s old sleigh bed as the moonlight highlighted their naked bodies. It had again been all that the two of them could have hoped for and more. And this time Brandon had stayed the night with Chelsea, and she had awakened in his arms.

  But they had read no more of Brooke’s journal, largely because Chelsea decided that she first wanted to visit Emily and see if she could shed any more light on why Brooke left Lake Evergreen in the dead of night, never to return. Having spoken to Emily again, it now seemed to Chelsea that the only remaining answers were going to come from Brooke’s writings. But there were few entries left to read, leading Chelsea to wonder if the answers would ever surface at all. And so far as Chelsea and her mother knew, once Brooke returned to Syracuse for good, her journal writing had ended.

  While taking another sip of her excellent mint tea, Chelsea looked around Emily’s five-room apartment. Located above the Blue Rooster, it was a lovely and comfortable place that seemed to suit Emily’s needs perfectly. Her only companion was her tricolored cat, Josephine, named after the illustrious wife of Napoleon, who at this moment was so eagerly rubbing her lithe body against Chelsea’s shins. There were many old photos in the apartment, most of which were of Emily’s long-dead parents. What photos Emily had of Brooke she had already shown to Chelsea, but they had provided no new information. Chelsea was about to give up and leave when another question occurred to her.

  “The book you gave me,” she said to Emily. “The copy of Leaves of Grass with the two coneflowers pressed inside it—when did Brooke give it to you?”

  Before answering,
Emily took another bite of her scone. “Well,” she answered, “in a manner of speaking, she never actually gave it to me.”

  Chelsea shot Emily a questioning look. “What do you mean?” she asked.

  “As I told you last time, I was already familiar with the book,” Emily answered. “On the same day that your grandmother left here for good, I found the book on the back steps that lead up to this apartment. Brooke had carefully wrapped it in a paper bag and left it there for me to find. I could be certain that it was hers, because Greg’s inscription to her was written on the first page.”

  Chelsea sat back in her chair, wondering. “And the two coneflowers?” she asked. “Did Brooke give you those at the same time?”

  Emily nodded. “Yes,” she answered. “They lay under the front cover.”

  “There was no note?” Chelsea asked.

  “No,” Emily answered.

  “Did you ever ask her why she gave them to you?”

  “Certainement,” Emily answered. “But all she would say about it was that she wanted me to have them for safekeeping. And then she added something that I never quite understood.”

  Chelsea leaned forward a bit. “And what was that?” she asked.

  “That the flowers and the book were important to her,” Emily answered. “And so, as a way of keeping them together, I pressed the flowers deeper in the book, and they remained that way until I gave both the book and the flowers to you. When your grandmother gave me the flowers, they appeared to have been picked only hours before.”

  Chelsea was surprised by that. “They weren’t already dried and pressed?” she asked.

  “No,” Emily said. “I remember that part with certainty. The flowers grew old and dried in my care, not Brooke’s.”

  Chelsea tried to deduce something from that but couldn’t. As she again looked around the apartment, another concern struck her.

  “Forgive me for asking, Emily,” she said, “but what will become of the Blue Rooster when you’re gone? It’s such a wonderful place . . .”