by T L Swan
“Wow, that’s a big canvas. You paint?” Richard asks.
“Oh.” I shrug, slightly embarrassed. “Abysmally, but it relaxes me . . . so that’s the main thing, right?”
Richard chuckles. “Paint a picture of me delivering your letters every day.”
I laugh. “Okay, although you wouldn’t be able to tell what it was.”
“I’m sure you’re underestimating yourself.” He smiles, I sign for my letters and bounce up the stairs.
I read through the envelopes to find Saturday’s letter, as I like to read them in order.
My dearest Pinkie,
In light of my inability to call you, and not wanting to stalk you, serial-killer style, I have decided to go old school and write you a letter.
To receive a total package experience, please spray this letter with the spray that is enclosed in the envelope.
I smile as I imagine Elliot pouring his aftershave into these tiny bottles. I wonder, does he use a funnel? And who makes these tiny labels?
I notice a photograph wrapped in white paper and I tear it open.
It’s a picture of an open hand, palm facing up. It has terrible huge blisters all over it.
What the hell? What’s he done?
I read on.
Actual footage of my right hand.
I burst out laughing. “Are you serious?”
My love, things are grim.
My body needs you.
It’s been eight weeks since you touched me, it feels like forever.
I waited thirty-five years to find you.
How much longer must I wait to hold you again?
Forever yours,
Elliot.
xo
Emotion overwhelms me and I blink through tears.
I walk outside and put my canvas on the easel and pour myself a glass of wine, turn up Taylor Swift’s song “Style” on repeat, and begin to fill my canvas with paint. I smile as I listen to the words.
ELLIOT
I sit on my deck and stare out over Enchanted. It’s late, near midnight . . . but I can’t sleep.
I haven’t been able to relax in what feels like weeks.
I’m mentally drained.
Kate’s in Hawaii . . . and all I want to do is go to her and make her come back with me, but her brother’s words keep rolling around in my head.
I know I could go to her, talk her around, and bring her home . . . but she needs to want to be here.
She knows how I feel and yet, she still left me.
How could I have fucked this up so bad?
I think over the events of that first week after she left and, to be honest, I’m glad Kate didn’t have to suffer it. I’ve had to lodge court proceedings to silence the gossip about the love triangle; it’s been a media-circus nightmare.
I lift my Scotch to my lips and sip it slowly, and the heat burns my throat as it goes down.
I’ve been sending Pinkie letters, and baring my soul, but something’s not sitting right.
I’m missing something in this puzzle.
I have no idea what it is, but as the days go by and still no word from Kate, my agitation grows.
I refill my glass of Scotch and light a cigar, blow out a thin stream of smoke into the crisp night air.
My mind goes back to the picture she had framed for me for my birthday and I smile. I go and retrieve it from inside and stare at it in my hands.
It’s a photograph of me taken from behind, in a navy suit, staring out over the lake with the ducks around my feet. It’s early morning and the mist is rolling on the paddocks in the background.
Such a simple image and yet somehow it feels so intimate—her secret view of me when I wasn’t looking.
I turn it over and look at the back of the frame, and I wonder what the photo looks like without the glass on it.
I retrieve a knife and undo the frame and I take the image out, turn it over and see her handwriting.
Happy Birthday my darling,
I love you.
Always, Kate.
My chest constricts and I read it again . . . and again . . . and again.
Always, Kate.
Always means forever . . . until it didn’t.
I lift the cigar to my lips and inhale deeply. I’m sad and forlorn, full of regret.
My hands are tied, I can’t contact her. I can’t make her come home, no matter how much I want to. I have to do this on her terms and respect her decision.
She has to want to come home to me.
And I hate it.
I tip my head back and drain the glass, then I fill it again so fast that it sloshes over the sides.
Patience isn’t my strong point.
Two months.
I write to her every day . . . and yet, no word back.
Does she even get my letters?
“Thank you,” Christopher says to the waitress as she puts a plate of fortune cookies down in front of us.
It’s Friday night and Christopher has dragged me out for dinner.
I want to be anywhere else but here.
He passes the plate over to me. “Take one.”
“Pass.”
He shoves the plate in my face. “Fucking take one, you love this shit.”
I roll my eyes and take one, crack it open.
There is no such thing as a coincidence.
I raise my eyebrow. Ha . . . once upon a time I would have believed that.
“What did you get?” Christopher asks.
I throw my note over and he smiles. “Well, if that was the case, your life is one massive fucking web.”
I stare at him.
“You’ve got to admit, it’s pretty fucking freaky that you’ve been chasing this artist for years . . . and she turns up just when you found a girl you fell for. And you and Kate meeting online . . . out of all the people in the world, you met her. The woman you were already seeing.”
I frown as I listen. “It is weird . . . isn’t it?”
“I mean, what are the chances of that actually happening?”
“Next to none.” My mind begins to tick as I read the little fortune cookie note again.
There is no such thing as a coincidence.
I always believed in it, that everything happens for a reason. No event or person in your life happens by accident and yet, here I am.
I think hard . . . for a long time.
Why does it feel off, what am I missing?
But what if falling for Kate wasn’t a coincidence at all?
What if this is all the grand plan?
I read it again.
There is no such thing as a coincidence.
Hmm.
The next day I knock on Brad’s door. He opens it in a rush and his face falls as he sees me. “Hi.”
I smile. “Hi. I was wondering if you had a minute? I have a pressing question and you are the only one who I think will know the answer.”
“Umm.”
My eyes search his. “Please.”
He steps aside and I walk in and take a seat on the couch.
He sits down. “What’s up?”
“So . . .” I pause as I try to articulate my thoughts. “I have a feeling that I’m missing something.”
“What do you mean?”
“I believe I was meant to meet Kate.”
He listens.
“And I also believe that I was meant to meet the artist, but for what reason I don’t know.”
He frowns as if confused.
“Do you believe in fate, Brad?” I ask.
“Maybe.” He sits back in his chair. “Didn’t think you would be the kind of man who would, though.”
“Hmm.” I think for a moment. “Is there something I’m missing?”
“What do you mean?”
“I don’t know, I keep getting the feeling I’m missing something, but I don’t know what it is.”
Brad exhales. “She reads your letters.”
“She does? What did she say?”
I smile as hope fills me.
“You know, for the first time since Mum and Dad died, she sounds back to herself.”
“What do you mean?”
“She’s working nights and learning how to cross-stitch like Mum used to do. She even started painting again.”
What?
“She paints?”
“Oh, just mucking around, she definitely doesn’t see herself as an artist. But she used to love it as a teenager.”
“I never knew this about her,” I whisper, fascinated.
“I think she’d forgotten all about it. Oahu and time alone has been good for her.”
I smile as I imagine her painting at an easel . . . hmm. “She reads my letters, hey?” I should go. I pause, thinking of what else I can say. “Well, if you think of anything, can you call me?” I ask.
“I will.”
I exhale heavily as I stand.
“I thought you would have given up on her by now,” Brad says.
I turn to him in surprise. “I’m in love with her, why would I give up?”
“You did before.”
“I never gave up. I had to meet that artist and I don’t regret it; I never touched her and returned to Kate. Given, I did take too long to return . . . but still, my intention never wavered.” I shrug. “I guess I just needed some time to get my head around it too.”
He walks me to the door, and I hold out my hand to shake his. “Well, you’ve made my day, knowing she reads my letters means a lot.”
“No worries.”
“And if you think of anything . . .”
“Sure.”
I turn toward the door and glance up and see a photo on the sideboard.
I walk over and pick it up, stare at it, my mind a clusterfuck of confusion.
What?
It’s a picture of Brad and Kate, with Harriet Boucher.
My eyes meet his. “How do you know this woman?”
“Who?” He frowns.
I point to Harriet. “How do you know her?” I demand.
“She’s our sister, Elanor.”
Chapter 27
“What do you mean?” I frown.
“That’s Elanor, our sister.”
“Since when?”
“What are you talking about?”
“This woman.” I tap her face on the photo. “That’s Harriet Boucher, the artist I met in France.”
“What?” He screws up his face in confusion. “What do you mean?”
“The artist, the one whose paintings I love, it’s this woman.” I tap her face on the glass again. “Her name is Harriet.”
“No. It’s Elanor, you’re mistaken.”
I stare at the photo. “I swear, it’s her.”
“It’s not, you’ve got the wrong woman, maybe someone who looks similar. Elanor doesn’t paint . . . not at all.”
“Oh.” I think on it for a moment. “Hmm, maybe it isn’t her.” I give an embarrassed shake of my head. “I feel like I’m going crazy lately.”
He smiles. “That’s okay.”
I nod.
“I’ll let Kate know you dropped by.”
I give him a lopsided smile. “I just want her to come home.”
“She will.”
My eyes hold his.
“Give her time, she’ll come back.”
I smile, feeling a little better, and I shake his hand. “Thanks for listening. I’m completely out of my depth here with Kate, I don’t know what I’m doing.”
“You’re doing okay, keep doing whatever it is that you’re doing.”
“Thanks.” I walk back out to the car with a spring in my step.
She reads my letters.
Trust your gut.
I frown; why did that thought just come to me? Trust your gut.
It was Harriet . . . I know it was.
What if?
No . . . couldn’t be.
I march back and knock on the door.
“What now?” Brad sighs as he opens it.
I bring up a picture on my phone and show it to him. “Have you ever seen this painting before?”
He screws up his face as he tries to focus on it. “I don’t know.”
I scroll through to another pic. “What about this one?”
He shrugs. “Not sure.”
I scroll through again. “This one?”
“Hmmm . . . don’t know.”
“Fuck’s sake, think.”
“Why?”
“I think . . .” I pause. “I know this sounds ridiculous and maybe I am completely off track here. I think—”
“What?” he cuts me off.
“I think the paintings I’ve been buying off Harriet . . . are Kate’s.”
He chuckles. “You’re delusional. And correct, that is ridiculous.”
“Can you ask her?”
“What do you mean?”
“Without telling Kate why, ask her if she painted these pictures.”
“Don’t you think that if Kate was a famous artist, she would at least know?”
“Can you just do it? What’s your number? I’m sending you the pictures now.”
He finds his phone and saves the images I send him. “What will I ask her?”
“Um.” I try to think. “Just say you found these pictures; does she know who painted them.”
Brad shrugs and texts Kate.
Hey, I found these paintings in a charity shop.
They looked familiar, are they yours?
My heart is hammering hard and I pace. “What did she say?”
“No answer yet.”
I close my eyes and walk back and forth as my hands run through my hair.
“She’s typing, the dots are moving.” He holds his phone out and we both stare at it, waiting for the answer.
Now, there’s a blast from the past.
Yeah, they’re mine. I painted them years ago.
God knows why Mum insisted on keeping them.
I can’t believe Elanor thought someone would actually want them.
Lol, hilarious.
The air leaves my lungs and I grip the wall to steady myself.
Brad drops to sit on the couch and we stare at each other, eyes wide.
“So this means . . .” Brad frowns as he connects the dots.
“It was always Kate,” I whisper. “Of course it was.”
KATE
I wait on the porch and look up the road. “Where is he?” I glance at my watch. Richard didn’t bring me a letter yesterday . . . and he’s late today.
I didn’t realize how much Elliot’s letters brighten my day . . . or how much they mean.
I twist my hands in my lap as I wait. “Come on,” I whisper. “Where are you?”
What if he’s met someone else?
Regret fills me that I haven’t responded to him at all. I should have said something, if even only a thank you. What must he think with no correspondence back?
A car comes around the corner and I hold my breath—it’s a different car.
Red.
It’s not Richard. My shoulders slump with deflation.
The car pulls up to a halt outside my place and I frown as I watch. Who is it?
Elliot gets out of the backseat and my breath catches.
What?
He looks up and his eyes find mine . . . Oh.
Seeing him in the flesh opens old wounds and an unexpected rush of emotion sweeps through me. My eyes well with tears.
Glued to the floor, I stand and watch him as he leans in and takes out an overnight bag and pays the driver, and I want to run to him . . . and kiss him and tell him everything.
But my feet are set in concrete, frozen with fear. The hurt he caused me, magnified all over again. I thought my disappointment and anger were over—maybe not.
He stands on the curb with his bag in his hand, staring up at me, and as the car drives off, he gives me a so
ft smile.
And with my heart in my throat, I smile.
Oh . . . I’ve missed him so.
He slowly walks up the steps and I walk down them and we meet in the middle.
“Hi,” he whispers.
“Hi.”
“I came to bring you home.” His eyes hold mine as he swallows a lump in his throat.
He’s nervous.
My eyes well with tears, because suddenly everything is crystal clear: he is my home.
Elliot Casanova Miles is the great love of my life, and I don’t know how it worked out that way, but I honestly don’t think I can go on without him. I wouldn’t want to.
“Took your time.”
A slow, sexy smile crosses his face, and he wraps me in his arms and holds me tight.
And he squeezes me and I melt into him as our lips touch.
“Don’t ever fucking leave me again,” he whispers.
“Don’t make me.”
He kisses me, his tongue slowly sliding between my lips as he holds my face in his hands and, oh . . . the way he kisses. I had nearly forgotten.
Elliot Miles kisses from his soul.
Every chink in his armor, every weakness he keeps inside, all the passion in the world. I can feel it all. And fuck, do I love it.
We kiss again and he pulls me toward him, hugs me tight in his arms as the horror we’ve been through becomes too much.
The emotion between us . . . too much.
Sacred.
“We need to talk,” he says as he takes my hand and leads me up the steps.
“I know.”
His eyes flick back to me as if questioning my statement.
Huh, what was that look?
I frown as uneasiness runs through me: he’s here to tell me something.
There’s more.
Did he sleep with his artist?
My heart begins to race as I brace myself. Somehow, I don’t think our reunion is going to stay happy.
We walk into the living area and he turns toward me. “Sit down, baby, I need to tell you something.”
I drop to the couch without question.
Thump, thump, thump sounds my pulse in my ears.
He goes to his overnight bag and takes out a large, yellow envelope and passes it to me. “Images of Harriet Boucher.”
“Who?” I frown.
“The artist I was looking for, these are the images that were sent to me from the private investigator.”