More Than Words Can Say

by Robert Barclay

  “I think I know what this is,” she said. “It’s the farewell letter that Brooke wrote to Greg the night she left Lake Evergreen.”

  Brandon nodded. “Could be,” he answered. “The same letter she placed in the porch door frame just before she headed back to Syracuse.” Brandon rubbed his forehead, thinking. “After reading it, at some point Greg must have decided to hide it in that old vase. And rather than sell the vase, I kept it, and the letter has been inside it all this time.”

  “But why would he leave it in the vase when he sold the cottage to you?” Chelsea asked. “It must have meant a great deal to him.”

  “Good question,” Brandon answered. “But maybe not so odd, if you think about it. He had no heirs, and I’m sure that he couldn’t bring himself to destroy it. By leaving it hidden in the vase, the letter would not only go on ‘living,’ but it would probably never be found, as well. And had it not been for Jeeves, all of that would still be the case. Year after year, this letter would have rested on your cottage mantel, alongside Brooke’s unfinished portrait.”

  Then Brandon smiled a little again as he shook his head.

  “That would have been very fitting, wouldn’t it?” he asked. “Even though we wouldn’t have known what we’d done . . .”

  Chelsea nodded. By now her hands were trembling a bit, and it was clear that she had been deeply affected by this unexpected discovery.

  Brandon looked at the old letter again. “Only God knows how many times Greg reread this over the course of his remaining years,” he added. “Hundreds would be my guess. He loved her so much, and he so desperately hoped that she might one day return to him, that he never married.”

  “Yes . . . ,” Chelsea said. “But what will we do with it?”

  Thinking, Brandon took a deep breath. “Well, I’d like to read it,” he said. “After all, it’s the last piece of the puzzle, and finding it was an amazing stroke of luck.”

  But as he looked back into Chelsea’s eyes, he saw some uncertainty there. On recognizing her reticence, he put one arm around her shoulders.

  “If you don’t want to know what it says, I understand,” he said compassionately. “But with your permission, I do. As best we know, it’s the last form of communication between Brooke and Greg.”

  Chelsea looked at the old envelope again, thinking. Suddenly, this letter seemed a good deal different to her than had the journal. Brandon was right—these were in all likelihood Brooke’s last words to Greg, but she wasn’t sure that she wanted to hear them.

  For the most part, over the course of the last few weeks she had come to terms with all of this, and she didn’t want that sense of peace to become uprooted again. She was happy with her new life and nothing must disturb that—even including what appeared to be Brooke’s final message to Greg. And there was something else holding her back, she realized. Unlike the old journal that Brooke had requested she read, this letter had been privileged correspondence between Brooke and Greg and was never meant to be shared by anyone else. And so, she didn’t want to read it. But at the same time, something inside her didn’t mind if Brandon did. When she looked back into Brandon’s eyes, she shook her head.

  “If you want to read it, that’s okay,” she said. Then she turned and again looked out across the porch and toward the ever-restless waves of Lake Evergreen. “But I can’t do it,” she added quietly. “At least not now. Maybe I never will.”

  “I understand,” Brandon said.

  After kissing her cheek, he left her and walked out onto the porch, where he sat down on one of his old rocking chairs. And then, after also looking out over the lake for a time, he opened the old letter and started reading . . .

  A SHORT TIME later Brandon wiped his tearful eyes and then replaced the letter in its envelope. He then looked out over the lake again, thinking.

  My God, he thought. Chelsea needs to read this . . . but will she ever have the strength to do so?

  When Chelsea saw that he had finished, she finally picked up the two glasses of bourbon and went to join him. By now the wind had risen, the waves had darkened some more, and it had grown colder.

  Or maybe now, after learning about the existence of that letter, the world just seems a little colder, she thought. She had come to realize something else, too. Although she knew that Brandon would gladly tell her what the old letter said, she would not ask him.

  Just then the wind rose again, winnowing its way among the evergreen trees. And when she reached over and took her husband’s hand into hers he squeezed it lightly, telling her that he understood. . .

  Chapter 39

  As the days progressed, the Adirondacks were enjoying a marvelous stretch of Indian summer, allowing those who owned places on the water to swim and boat just a bit longer before the inevitable arrived. Soon the last vestiges of warmth would fade for good, the few remaining leaves would all be gone, and winter would come calling.

  Three weeks had passed since Chelsea and Brandon had married, and regarding Brooke’s story, it had been a bittersweet time for Chelsea. There was no more of Brooke’s journal to read, and in a way that had been comforting. But she missed it, too. Every time she and Brandon had delved further into Brooke’s life, Chelsea had acquired an ever-deepening bond with the wonderful grandmother she had so recently lost. On the other hand, her evenings with Brandon were now free of Brooke’s request that Chelsea learn what had happened here those many years ago. Now it was just the two of them, and Chelsea treasured each night with him.

  Even so, she still had not read the letter that she and Brandon had so unexpectedly found in Brandon’s cottage. She was of course curious, but she also didn’t need or want anything to upset her perfect little world—no matter how much closer it might make her feel to her late grandmother.

  And there was another reason why Chelsea hadn’t read the letter, she realized. Unlike the journal, which Brooke requested she read, that letter had been private between Brooke and Greg, and Chelsea still felt uncomfortable about violating that trust. Strangely, she hadn’t felt that way about Brandon’s reading it, and gentleman that he was, he had said nothing more about it since that fateful afternoon. Since then the old letter had resided inside Brooke’s tin box, along with all of her other things from the past.

  It was late afternoon and Chelsea was standing on her porch, where she had stationed the easel and the other painting things she had purchased that day when Brandon had taken her into Serendipity to meet Emily Rousseau. She was working on a painting of Lake Evergreen as seen from her porch, and it was coming along well. Dolly and Jeeves lay nearby on the porch floor, sound asleep.

  After a time, Chelsea put down her brush and relaxed in one of the porch rockers. It was a rather cloudy and windy day that caused the waves to cap and the trees around her little cottage to bow and sway more deeply than usual. But as happy as she was, Chelsea remained haunted by some worries.

  After three weeks of wondering, she was still at odds with herself about whether to tell Brooke’s story to Lucy—to say nothing of letting Lucy actually see the old photographs or read the journal for herself. Chelsea knew full well that Brooke had left the decision in her hands, but she had given Chelsea no inkling of her opinion. Lucy had been stronger and happier when Chelsea and Brandon had visited her and Adam in Syracuse. But although Chelsea had talked to Lucy several times on the phone since then, she remained unsure whether those changes in her mother had persisted. Chelsea hoped so, but she also knew that a few phone calls weren’t enough to decide. One always needed to actually face Lucy, to talk to her, to listen to the tone of her voice, in order to take her full measure. And even then, Chelsea knew, one could easily get the wrong impression. That’s just how Lucy was.

  Brooke had said in her second letter that she had always preferred to think of her husband, Bill, as Lucy’s father, and Chelsea knew why. It had been Brooke’s sense of shame that had fostered and nurtured that attitude over the years, and Chelsea sympathized.

  But because Ch
elsea’s perspective on the matter was different from Brooke’s, her feelings differed, too. Chelsea had never known Bill and she had seen very few pictures of him over the years. Unsurprisingly, Gregory Butler now held a more vivid and prominent place in Chelsea’s mind and heart, and she was not surprised by that. Reading Brooke’s journal and seeing the photos of her and Greg together had provided Chelsea with a sense of familiarity regarding Greg that had always been quite impossible for her to develop about Bill. However, she had not taken sides about which of the two men to call “Grandfather.”

  When she had asked Brandon his opinion about telling Lucy, he had politely told her that it would be best if she made up her own mind first. Only then, he had added, would he tell her whether or not he agreed. Because this was such a personal matter, he didn’t want to color her thinking, he said. That had frustrated Chelsea a bit, but at the same time she understood.

  As she reclined in her rocker, Chelsea realized that on the face of things, it all seemed so simple. Tell her mother Brooke’s story, and then show her the journal and the photos. But it wasn’t that straightforward, and Chelsea knew it. There were only two choices. She could tell Lucy everything and hope for the best, or she and Brandon could carry what they knew to their graves. There could be no in between, no half measures regarding all of this. And if Lucy was devastated by it all, then Chelsea’s decision to tell her would be the cause. And could she live with that? she wondered endlessly.

  Chelsea sighed. What to do? What would I want, if I were in my mother’s shoes? Then she thought about it some more, and at last she made a decision.

  I would want to know, she thought. I would want to know it all, no matter where the answers might lead me. And so for better or worse, I will tell her. I think she deserves that, no matter how she might react. . .

  Just then she heard the kitchen screen door open and close. Brandon, she thought happily. At once the dogs bounded up from the porch floor and rushed to greet him. Then Chelsea heard Brandon laugh, causing her to smile.

  Brandon came onto the porch, gave Chelsea a quick kiss, and sat down beside her. After he and Chelsea exchanged some notes about their respective days, Brandon looked over at Jeeves.

  “Jeeves!” Brandon ordered. “Fetch!”

  Jeeves let go an energetic, “Woof!” and then trotted into Chelsea’s kitchen. They soon heard the refrigerator door open and close, whereupon Jeeves promptly reappeared with a cold bottle of beer clamped firmly between his teeth.

  Brandon smiled and took the beer from him. “Good boy!” he said. As he twisted the cap free of the bottle, he looked over at Chelsea. “Want one?” he asked.

  Chelsea shook her head. “Not yet, thanks,” she answered.

  After sitting quietly for a time, Chelsea gave Brandon a more serious look. “I’ve decided,” she said simply.

  “About Lucy, you mean?” Brandon asked.

  Chelsea nodded. “I’m going to tell her,” she said. “All I can say is that if I were Lucy, I’d want to know.”

  “I’m glad,” Brandon said. “And now that you’ve told me, I think you made the right decision. But I’ve also been giving it some more thought, and I have a suggestion.”

  “Which is?” Chelsea asked.

  “I’d ask her to drive up here and tell her then,” he answered. “Plus, when you tell her, it should be just her and you. This will be a very emotional moment for you both. And yes, I know that Brooke’s story happened here, which might make hearing it harder for Lucy. But I think that the peacefulness of this place will help.”

  Again, Chelsea nodded. “Thank you,” she said quietly. “What makes you so smart, anyway?”

  Brandon gave her a short smile, then he took another sip of his beer. “Have you forgotten already?” he asked. “I’m the Yale guy who went to Harvard! Now then, can I help you with the dinner?”

  “Sure,” she answered. “How does some MacArthuroni and Cheese sound?”

  “Like heaven on earth . . . ,” he said.

  Chapter 40

  As Chelsea stood upon the sandy shore, she shuddered slightly.

  The sun had begun setting over the far horizon of Lake Evergreen, the lower edge of its fiery sphere seeming to literally descend into the restless waves. Autumn was seeing her last days, and winter would soon be here. Next week, she and Brandon would at last be forced to move into his house in Serendipity.

  The breeze coming off the lake felt unusually cool tonight, providing yet another portent of things to come. As was oftentimes the case, it bothered the lake surface to create the slightest of whitecaps. Chelsea had been standing alone here for some time, watching those whitecaps endlessly reach and fall, and now that sunset had come she felt not only relief but also a clawing sensation of dread.

  Shuddering again, she hunched her shoulders and gathered her woolen sweater closer. It was not so much the early evening’s chill that made her shiver as it was the nature of the task that lay before her. She had resolved to do this thing, even though it might desperately hurt someone she loved very much. For what felt like the hundredth time today, she tried to strengthen her resolve.

  At last, she had called her mother yesterday and asked her to visit the cottage for a night or two. Her argument had been simple but effective. She would be closing the cottage soon, she told Lucy, and she very much wanted her mother to see it first. After some hemming and hawing Lucy had finally agreed and said that she would come up the following night.

  When she felt that the moment was right, Chelsea would show her mother the journal and the photographs and explain everything to her. This had been a heart-wrenching decision to make, and although she was determined to go through it, all day today Chelsea had had to keep reinforcing her will. For better or worse, the most important talk that she would ever have with her mother would soon take place. And as much as Chelsea wanted Brandon by her side for this, she had agreed that he should not be present.

  At last she turned away from the lake and slowly looked around. Brandon and Jacques had already hauled the dock ashore and boarded up the boathouse windows. Beautiful Brooke again lay in her boathouse cradle, beginning her winter’s hibernation. Then Chelsea turned and looked at her cottage. She had lit a robust fire, its smoke gently curling free of the chimney only to be lost to the strengthening breeze. The cottage would soon also be locked shut and its windows covered, lending it the same abandoned appearance that it had possessed when Chelsea first arrived there. She also relished watching the evergreen trees for a time, their still-green needles providing a welcome bit of color against the drabness of an encroaching winter.

  Taking a deep breath, she closed her eyes and lovingly recorded these images into her memory because she would soon leave this place for the winter and eagerly begin counting off the days and months until her return.

  After a time, Chelsea opened her eyes and turned back toward the pristine lake. Not only had she come to love it here, her persona had changed much during these last months. She was a different woman now, and like her love for Brandon, the other changes that had been engendered within her would forever remain a part of her life. She then looked down at her right hand, and she smiled a little. She still carried the short scar that had formed from when Jeeves had bitten her that first eventful day. Like the many other, deeper changes in her, she would also carry that scar for the rest of her life. And that was quite all right.

  So much happened here this summer, she thought. And so much more will happen tonight. But what will come of my decision? I have resolved to tell Brooke’s story to my mother, but am I wrong? Will the final result be only that I hurt her? Or has she at last become strong enough to accept the truth?

  She then looked down at the familiar tin box she held, and she lifted its top. It now contained Brooke’s journal and telegrams, the old photos, and both of Brooke’s letters to Chelsea. Inside too lay Brooke’s final letter to Greg.

  She didn’t know why she had brought the box out here with her. Perhaps holding it close g
ave her some added degree of courage. Or maybe just feeling it in her hands helped to keep her connection to Brooke alive in her heart. For she would need both those things tonight, and she knew it. Because now, rather than seeming like precious possessions from the past, all of the items in the box felt like little individual threats that conspired against her, trying to rob her of her bravery. As she felt her resolve weaken yet again, her hands began to shake.

  Just then she heard a horn blow, and she turned to see Lucy’s Mercedes approaching the cottage. While the car neared, Chelsea closed the box.

  She’s early, Chelsea realized. And here I stand, with all of Brooke’s secret things in my hands. May God give me strength . . .

  With a worried heart, she went to greet her mother.

  Chapter 41

  When Chelsea reached Lucy’s car, Lucy had already removed her two Louis Vuitton suitcases from the trunk and stood waiting for her. Chelsea sighed and shook her head a bit. Even if Lucy was only going somewhere overnight, she always found it quite impossible to travel light. True to form she was overdressed, wearing a navy suit, a matching raincoat, tall heels, and a rather broad hat. It was hardly Lake Evergreen garb, Chelsea thought, but that was Lucy for you. After Chelsea embraced her, Lucy let go a huge sigh of relief.

  “My Lord,” Lucy said. “This place isn’t easy to find, is it?”

  Chelsea smiled a little. “I know,” she answered. “But it’s worth it.”

  Lucy looked narrowly first at the little cottage and then toward the lake. Before she could comment, the chilly offshore breeze kicked up again, threatening to separate her from her hat. Lucy grabbed its brim and then she shuddered a bit.

  “It’s colder up here,” she said. “And windier. But I guess that’s to be expected.”

  “Yes,” Chelsea said. “Fall is finally ending.” Still awkwardly holding the tin box in one hand, she picked up the larger of Lucy’s two suitcases. “Come inside and I’ll make us some hot tea.”