More Than Words Can Say

by Robert Barclay

  Her previous admission having both startled and frightened her, Brooke began sobbing openly. She abruptly stood from the table and turned her back toward him.

  “I don’t know!” she fairly shouted. “Can’t you see, goddamn it? I just don’t know anymore! Why oh why did you have to come into my life now, at the very time when I cannot have you? What is this war doing to us?”

  Greg stood and went to her, again taking her hands in his. “It isn’t the war that’s doing this to us, Brooke,” he said quietly. “It’s our hearts. War or no war, this would have happened to us anyway, my love. All that was required was for us to meet.” Then he turned and looked out her kitchen window. “But I made a promise to you on top of Red Rock Mountain, and I’ll do my best to keep it.”

  “You will?” she asked. Once again, she was finding herself quite unsure of what she really wanted.

  “Yes,” he answered. “But I don’t know if I’ll succeed. I just love you too much . . .”

  With that, he turned and walked back out the kitchen door. As she watched him go, she knew why he had left so suddenly. He had been about to take her into his arms again, and rather than break his promise to her, he did the only other thing that he could. . .

  “IS THAT THE end?” Chelsea asked.

  “Yes,” Brandon answered as he closed the journal and returned it to the coffee table. “Just one more to go.”

  “Just one more . . . ,” Chelsea said softly. “And then it’s over.”

  Brandon reached out and took her into his arms. “Are you all right?” he asked.

  “No,” she answered, “but I will be, one way or the other. They suffered, Brandon,” she added. “Even now, nearly sixty years later, I can feel their pain. Sadly, that’s all love is sometimes. Nothing but disappointment and pain. That’s how it was for me, too, before you came into my life. Always searching, but never finding . . .”

  “I know, darling,” Brandon said. As he felt her body start to shake, he held her closer. “I know . . . ,” he said again. “But I’m here now, and I’m not going anywhere.”

  As he held her in his arms. Brandon looked at the old journal, lying quietly atop the equally old coffee table.

  For some of us, is the search for love really nothing but suffering? he wondered. And if so, then is that all it ever was for Brooke and Greg?

  Holding Chelsea closer yet, he again looked at the old journal, wondering about its final entry.

  Chapter 30

  For Chelsea, the following morning was passing much like the recent ones before it. There had been breakfast with Brandon, and now a few light chores needed to be taken care of. She was in the bathroom, transferring a load of wet wash from her small, stacked washer into the matching dryer below it. Sometimes she hung her wash on a line outside, letting it gather up the natural scent of the evergreen trees as it dried. But today again looked like rain, so she had decided to let her new dryer do the work. Dolly and Jeeves were in the kitchen, fast asleep near the potbellied stove. Just as she was finishing, the wall phone in her kitchen rang, and she went to answer it.

  “Hello,” she said.

  “Chelsea?” someone answered. The male voice seemed familiar, but she couldn’t place it.

  “Yes . . . ,” she said.

  “Allistaire Reynolds here,” the lawyer said. “How are you doing up there?”

  “Oh, hello, Allistaire,” Chelsea responded. “Things are just fine. How about you?”

  “I’m good too,” he answered. “You’re getting your mail okay, right?”

  “Yes,” she said. “And thanks for taking care of that.”

  “And the registration and proof of insurance for the Chris-Craft came by now, I presume?”

  “Yes, those too, thank you.”

  “God, I’d love to see that boat,” he said.

  Chelsea laughed a little. “When I come home,” she said, “I’ll drop by your office and show you a picture.” But when Allistaire didn’t answer right away, Chelsea began to wonder what this call was really about.

  “Actually,” Allistaire said, “I need to see you before that.”

  “What are you talking about?” she asked, suddenly becoming a bit nervous. “Are my mother and father okay?”

  “Oh, yes,” he answered. “Nothing like that. But before you come, I must ask you a couple of questions.”

  “Why?” she asked. “What’s this all about?”

  “Patience,” Allistaire answered. “Now then, have you examined all of the things that your grandmother asked you to?”

  His question startled her. “Yes,” she said, “but how do you know about them? Did you peek at her letter to me, before I read it that day in your office?”

  “Of course not,” he said. “But what I really need to know is whether you have in fact looked at everything in its entirety.”

  As far as I know, only the last journal entry remains, Chelsea thought. Brandon and I are planning on reading it tonight. . .

  “Not entirely,” she said. “But by the end of the day, I will have.”

  “Good,” he said. “Can you possibly come to my office tomorrow?”

  “I suppose so,” she said. “Would it be okay if I brought someone with me?”

  Silence reigned again while Allistaire considered his answer. “Who would that be?” he finally asked. “Have you met someone up there?”

  “Yes,” she answered. “His name is Brandon Yale, and he’s a doctor. He owns the cottage next to mine.”

  Again, there was silence for a time. “Is he trustworthy?” Allistaire asked.

  “Yes,” she answered. “If he wasn’t, I wouldn’t ask.”

  “Then I guess it would be all right,” Allistaire answered. “And now for my second question: Have you decided whether to keep the cottage?”

  “Yes,” she said. “I love it up here.”

  “All right, then,” he said.

  “So now can you tell me what this is all about?” she asked.

  “Yes,” Allistaire answered. “But even I know only a part of it.”

  “Which is . . . ?” Chelsea fairly shouted into the phone.

  “I have another envelope for you from your late grandmother,” he said.

  “What?” Chelsea asked.

  “It’s true,” he said. “When you visited the office that day, I actually had two envelopes of hers for you in my safekeeping, rather than just the one I gave to you. This second one is also sealed. Brooke brought it to me some four years ago, just before you were about to turn thirty. She said that I was to divulge its existence to you only after you had seen some things at Lake Evergreen. And yes, Chelsea, I am still unaware of what those things are. Would you care to tell me about them? I must say, all of this is becoming ‘curiouser and curiouser,’ as the saying goes.”

  Stunned by what she had just heard, Chelsea paused for several moments before answering. “No, Allistaire,” she answered. “One day, perhaps, but not yet.”

  “All right,” he said. “But I need to pencil you in for tomorrow. Will noontime be okay?”

  “Yes,” she answered, “provided Brandon can work his schedule around.”

  “Then noon it is,” he said. “But if your friend can’t make it, call me and we’ll reschedule.”

  “I will,” Chelsea answered rather absently, her mind still racing. “But, Allistaire . . . ,” she said.

  “Yes?” he asked.

  “What’s this all about?”

  Allistaire sighed into the phone. “I wish I knew, Chelsea,” he said. “You’re already privy to far more than I. Either way, my guess is that by the end of our meeting tomorrow, you’ll know a lot more.”

  “Until tomorrow, then,” she said.

  “Until tomorrow,” Allistaire answered, and hung up.

  Stunned, Chelsea shakily hung up the phone. She then went and sat at the dining room table, Brooke’s journal just inches from her grasp. She suddenly wanted to read the final excerpt even more than ever, and she knew that it would be a
ll she could do to resist doing so until Brandon came home.

  Rising from the table, she walked into the living room and stood before Greg’s unfinished portrait of Brooke. This time, Brooke’s eyes seemed to look straight down at her, as if she were trying to tell her something.

  But what? Chelsea wondered as she continued to regard the portrait. Just when I think that I’m about to learn it all, you do this to me. As she turned and again looked at the old journal lying so peacefully atop the dining table, she shook her head slightly.

  Even now, Gram, you still reach out to me from the grave, Chelsea thought. But what is it that you’re trying to tell me?

  Chapter 31

  Well, this is certainly a bolt out of the blue,” Brandon said. “Who’d have guessed that Brooke left another letter for you? And yes, I’ll be glad to come along with you to Syracuse. I’ll fix it tonight. One of the other doctors owes me a favor, anyway.”

  “Thank you,” Chelsea said. “I can’t imagine going to Allistaire’s office without you.”

  Frustrated by the news, Chelsea ran one hand through her hair. Rather than being intrigued by Allistaire’s phone call, she was clearly upset. She couldn’t imagine why there was a second letter from Brooke or why Brooke had wanted her to examine the journal and view all the old photographs before being allowed to read it. Allistaire had done a good job of following Brooke’s orders, it seemed, and he had been right about a couple of things. Chelsea was indeed already privy to far more information than he. And by the end of their meeting tomorrow, she too believed that she would know much more about her grandmother’s past. Just then she remembered something Allistaire had said over the phone, and it set her to thinking.

  Brandon noticed the change in her expression. “Is there something else?” he asked.

  Chelsea nodded. “Allistaire said that he had an envelope for me,” she answered. “He never said anything specifically about a letter.”

  “Really?” Brandon asked. “An envelope? I guess after you telling me about the first letter, I just assumed . . .”

  “So did I,” Chelsea said. “But that might not be the case. Anyway, I guess we’ll find out tomorrow.”

  They had eaten dinner at his place and they were sitting on his porch, watching the sun set. All afternoon Chelsea had been highly impatient to read the final entry in Brooke’s journal, and it had been all she could do to resist the urge until Brandon had come home.

  When she heard him arrive, she had immediately gone over and told him about Allistaire’s phone call. Brandon had been as surprised as she, but he said that he wanted to eat dinner before reading the journal. He had suggested that they also take some time and talk first. And now that dinner was over, Chelsea was actually glad that they had waited. She had to admit that she felt calmer and better prepared for whatever lay ahead. She also realized that Brandon had sensed her nervousness, and this had been his way of calming her. Even so, Brooke’s old journal still lingered at Chelsea’s cottage, its final entry waiting to be read. After the two of them sat in silence for a while longer, at last Chelsea looked over at Brandon.

  “It’s time . . . ,” she said.

  “I know,” he answered. “But before we go, you must promise me a couple of things.”

  “What?” she asked.

  “Please let me be the one to read it,” he said. “I think that it will be easier for you that way. And if it should become too painful for you, tell me and I’ll stop. There’s no need for you to suffer through it just because I want to know, too.”

  Thinking, Chelsea looked out at the waves. Unlike everything else in her world, they never seemed to change.

  “All right,” she said quietly.

  Fifteen minutes later they were seated on Chelsea’s couch. Brandon had lit a fire, and a freshly opened bottle of red wine and two glasses sat before them on the coffee table. Brandon picked up the journal and turned to the final entry. As he looked at the pages, he shook his head.

  “What’s wrong?” Chelsea asked.

  “It’s barely legible,” he answered. “Her tears fell on these last few pages. And her handwriting is extremely poor, as if she had been shaking. Something important happened just before she wrote this, Chelsea.”

  “Can you make it out?” Chelsea asked hopefully.

  “Yes,” Brandon answered. “But you’ll have to forgive me if it’s slow going.” With that, he began reading aloud:

  Sunday, August 16, 1942, 4:00 A.M.

  My hands are shaking terribly as I write these words, and so many of my tears are falling upon the pages that what I record here may be forever lost the very moment it is written. Be that as it may, I feel that I must get my thoughts down now, before I lose my courage.

  Three more days have passed, and so much has happened this night that I know my life has been forever changed. Two terrible things have occurred; one was of my making, and the other was not. And I am as desolate over one as I am the other . . .

  I have vowed to leave Lake Evergreen immediately after penning these words. And I’ve decided that before I go, I must collect this journal and whatever photographs I have of me and Greg and hide them somewhere here in the cottage. I simply cannot take them home. For I know that I would be compelled to look at them again, and that would drive a stake through my heart . . .

  IT WAS NEARLY midnight as Greg sat on his porch. The wind was high, causing the waves of Lake Evergreen to cap strongly. He had been unable to sleep and had come out for a cigarette. Since Bill’s visit to Brooke, he had been smoking more than ever. It helped to calm his nerves, especially when he thought of Brooke’s and Bill’s bodies lying together.

  Even so, he was not sorry that he had gone to see her three mornings ago. He had desperately wanted to see if there was any change in her after she had been with her husband. Would she seem happier? he wondered. Or would she be even more depressed and torn than before? He hadn’t known the answer, but there was one thing about which he had been sure. He had needed to confront her that morning, and nothing could have stopped him. Especially now that her husband was gone. And to his great disappointment, he had gotten his answers.

  Despite his jealousy over Bill and Brooke’s reunion, in a way he felt sorry for them. To his mind, their time together must have been a form of both pleasure and pain. Pleasure at the mere sight of one another. Pleasure at holding each other, and talking, and laughing, and making love after so long. But he also believed that it must have been torturous for them as well, because it was so fleeting. And because of that, had Bill’s visit perhaps proven to be more of a curse than a blessing for Brooke? Only she could provide that answer, Greg knew. But given the promise he had made to her, he daren’t ask that question.

  His heart was still hers, of that he was certain. And he believed that it always would be, despite the impossible situation in which he and Brooke found themselves. Since falling in love with her, more than once he had considered selling his cottage and going back to New York to live full-time. But he loved it here, and knowing that she would likely return every summer—and that he would not—would surely cause him even greater pain. And so he had resolved not only to stay for the rest of this summer but to also return here each year, just as he knew Brooke would do. And perhaps, given enough time, the two of them could find some sort of harmony.

  Just then he smiled lightly. He was still hearing the music, he realized. Brooke’s lights remained on and her old record player had been going all evening, which was largely why he had been unable to sleep. She had been playing the same blues record over and over again, and Greg recognized it as the one that Brooke once said was Bill’s favorite. As New Orleans blues floated from her cottage toward his, Greg lit another cigarette off his earlier one, wondering why she wasn’t asleep.

  Just then he heard Brooke’s squeaky porch door open and close, causing him to turn his head and look. To his surprise, he saw Brooke coming down the porch stairs. She was wearing only a negligee, and as she descended, her steps seemed w
obbly and unsure. She then paused for a moment at the bottom of the stairs, her bare feet in the sand, her eyes cast toward the sky, the moonlight pointing up the delicate folds of her white negligee. Had the scene not been so bizarre, it would have been quite beautiful, Greg realized.

  But as Greg watched her, he instinctively knew that something was very wrong. Then to his great horror, he saw her tentatively cross the sandy beach like some unearthly sleepwalker and wade straight out into the high, dark waves of Lake Evergreen. A huge sense of worry rose within Greg as he then saw her strangely pause for a moment, the waves brushing strongly up against her, causing her to sway to and fro in the water. And then, with the moonlight still highlighting part of her lovely form, she again started her trancelike walk and began going even deeper.

  Fearing the worst, Greg tore from his porch and ran to her as best his bad foot would allow, his heart in his throat. By the time he reached her she was nearly chest-high in the deadly water. Wasting no time, he slipped one arm beneath her knees, lifted her up, and held her close. He tried to look at her face, but when his eyes met hers, her only response was to begin sobbing uncontrollably and bury her face in his chest.

  Deciding not to speak, Greg hurriedly carried Brooke back to the cottage, where he laid her down on the couch before the fireplace. Although the fire had not gone out, he quickly added a couple more logs, ensuring that it would last a good while longer. While turning off the record player, he noticed that a half-consumed bottle of whiskey stood alongside it.

  After retrieving a towel from the bathroom, he did the best he could to briskly dry her off and again tried looking into her dazed eyes. To his dismay, Brooke was still crying uncontrollably. In an attempt to calm her, he gently wiped the wet hair away from her face and placed his hands on either side of her head.

  “Brooke . . . ,” he said gently. “Why did you do that? You could have died . . .”

  She had begun shivering strongly, the desperate tears running from her eyes impossible to distinguish from the drops of cold lake water that still lay upon her face. But even now, she did not speak.