The Love Letters: A Novella

by Ashley Pullo

  The Love Letters, by Ashley Pullo

  . . . . . .

  Copyright © 2015 by Ashley Pullo

  Cover Design © Nick Fantini

  Book formatting by Erika Q. Stokes

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopy, recording, or any information storage and retrieval system without the prior consent from the publisher, except in the instance of quotes for reviews. No part of this book may be scanned, uploaded, or distributed via the Internet without the publisher’s permission and is a violation of the International copyright law, which subjects the violator to severe fines and imprisonment.

  This is a work of fiction. The names, characters, incidents and places are products of the author’s imagination and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to persons, living or dead or actual events are entirely coincidental.

  For Eros

  Contents

  Introduction

  The Love Story

  The Love Letters

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  Historically, love letters exist as an intimate form of communication. Subconscious and sentient feelings converge together to establish a relationship that is not set by physical boundaries, but rather a union that is dependent on expression. And it’s from these hand-written letters that the greatest love stories unfold.

  For example, the following is a preserved papyrus letter from Ancient Egypt. Relying on the secrecy of a sealed correspondence, Queen Cleopatra expressed some of her sexual fantasies to her lover.

  Mark Antony,

  My heart and loins ache for another surreptitious romp by the Nile. One day soon, we’ll lounge on a tufted bed as a beautiful slave girl feeds us figs and ostrich eggs. Reunited at last, you shall ravage my ravenous soul with your mighty sword, leaving me sated and exalted.

  Cleo

  Sometimes love letters can be an immature response in conveying thoughts of jealousy – as displayed in this desperate plea of two star-crossed lovers gone astray.

  Romeo, Romeo, where for art thou Romeo?

  Seriously, dude. How can we have a scandalous love affair if you doth not show up? If you are sneaking behind my back to kiss that whore, Rosaline, I will find out. I’m a Capulet – I have eyes and ears working for me all over the land. You have until the midsummer’s night to profess your love, or else prepare to endure a serious tragedy.

  Hugs and kisses, not threats,

  Juliet

  Before the modern invention of the text-dump, the 17th century relied on the breakup letter for cutting ties. Notoriously known for his lack of romantic devotion, King Henry VIII sent his fourth wife a very impersonal note.

  Anne of Cleves:

  Congratulations! I like you enough NOT to behead your ugly face. Pack your bags and goeth far away.

  All the best,

  Henry VIII I am, I am.

  Love letters can also purport shame and humility – carefully chosen words begging for forgiveness and acceptance. The following is a very humble and apologetic love note intended for the future Mrs. Mary Todd Lincoln.

  Shorty,

  Tomorrow we will be married. Cowardliness tore us apart in the past, but eternal love will solidify our future. Your fire burns brightly, Mary – too bright sometimes. Like, maybe take a chill pill every few days and stop breaking all the Pre-Civil War dishes.

  But with all your shortcomings (see what I did there?) you honestly make me a better person. And despite your hot temper and your snobby, over-educated family, I adore you.

  Meet me in the parlor tomorrow at noon. I’ll be the weary-eyed chump in a stovepipe hat.

  Love is eternal. xx

  Abe

  Love needs passion, and often times, passion evolves from pain. The most torrid love affairs in history were frequently volatile, and usually teetering on the crazy/normal scale. In the following letter, F. Scott Fitzgerald admits that his need for Zelda was all-consuming. And even though they were residing less than a mile apart at the time, the longing for his muse was bigger than he could mentally handle.

  Zelda,

  I gave up the gin.

  Love,

  Fitz

  Carefully validated and certified by the Historical Society of Hearts and Flowers, the introductory excerpts are perfect examples of proclamations of love from several continuums. However, these examples could be considered shallow in comparison to the most poignant form of love letter – war letters.

  Ernest Hemingway is perceived as one of the most influential writers of the Twentieth Century. He often credited WWI for planting the inspirational and emotional fortitude to write The Sun Also Rises and A Farewell to Arms. These works exemplify the themes of love, loss, depravity, and the idea that a generation can be lost as a product of war.

  Although they knew each other less than a year and were crippled with problems, the love affair between Ernest Hemingway and Agnes Von Kurowsky will live indefinitely in Literature.

  Aggie,

  Cowards die a thousand deaths, but the brave die only once. Unless the cowardly lover marries another man, then she, too, will die in my upcoming novel – available in several translations in most booksellers across the world. Unjustly, some of the text was censored to spare your feelings. But I never censor my writing. FUCK YOU, AGNES.

  Ernie

  Love letters do not guarantee a happy ending. Reliant on fading memories and uncertain futures, lovers are forced to turn to the written word to document their affair. The raw emotions mixed with the euphoria of a fairy tale-romance can often fizzle into oblivion when met by the harsh reality of war. Years can pass, individuals can change, circumstances can alter the outcome, and time apart can be detrimental to a healthy pre-war relationship. Love letters, quite simply, tell an intimate story.

  One of the most tender and moving examples of a relationship sustained beyond the division of war is the romance between Zacharie Parker and Natalie LeGrange. Inside a fading green United States Marine Corps footlocker, approximately two-hundred love letters are bound with ribbon and protected by keepsakes.

  Love works in mysterious ways – a single touch, a mutual desire, or an honest friendship – perhaps the mystery is as simple as two people sharing a dream. For Natalie and Zach, their love began with a fateful train ride and a special book. And because of Le Petit Prince, their story lives eternally among the stars.

  THE LOVE STORY

  September 16, 2002

  Greenwich, Connecticut

  I have exactly two hours to learn French. I’m such a twit for claiming proficiency in the romance languages. But shit, what kind of employer even looks at the bottom of a résumé? Frankly, my francophone slang is neither romantic nor proficient, and there’s no freaking way I can make it through an entire interview conducted in French.

  When the secretary to the Vice President of the French Institute called to schedule my appointment, she ended the conversation with five minutes of frou-frou French – from which I gathered she was hoping for a Canadian liaison, or she was a fan of the movie Dangerous Liaisons. Fuck. I mean, Putain!

  I need this job, plain and simple. Je besoin de . . . ? Oh yeah, clair et simple. There, I nailed it. Maybe I should have paid more attention in my university classes instead of nursing violent hangovers of trashcan punch. Or maybe my advisor could’ve told me that honesty on a résumé is an integral part of employment. I’m honest, well blunt is more like it, but I filter most of my daily conversation. Je m’en fou.

  “Natalie?” Mom chirps. Her voice resembles the annoying squeak of a Disney fairy godmother, sweet but ineffective.

 
; She knocks on the door, but I remain silent. Even if I don’t answer, like if I’m busy in my room slitting my wrists or masturbating, she’ll usually continue to talk.

  “Natalie, sweetie? What time is your interview? Your father will be happy to drive you to the City! Or we could take the train and then go shopping! Natalie?”

  Zut!

  I pick up my high school cheerleading megaphone and answer her back in a deep, raspy chant. “The interview is in Midtown at two. I can manage. Go Mustangs!”

  Okay Nat, concentrate. French, French, French cuffs, French fries, French perfume, French liqueur, French manicure. Focus you nitwit! Ah ha, I spot my bootleg copy of Amélie and pop it in my VHS player . . . I can watch it without the subtitles and at least be in the ooh la la mindset.

  Mmm, the narrator’s voice is so sexy. French men really know how to make their words vibrate into a tingly pitch. A guy could totally recite some Sartre between my thighs and I would probably blow an orgasmic gasket.

  I love Audrey Tautou’s haircut, very chic and European, and she totally has the cheekbones for it. My cheekbones are bite-size apples and my face is round; long hair definitely works best for me.

  Ignoring the parental chatter downstairs, I focus on my interview. I twist my hair into a low bun but decide against the librarian ’do and opt to flat-iron my massive waves of hair – classy and sleek. The faint sound of my parents mumbling downstairs about my jobless predicament is getting old. Mom always defending my right to be an independent woman searching for my own way, and Dad pretending to oppose her, but secretly dishing out whatever I ask for. They’ve been horribly annoying lately, treating me like a teenager, but they’ve also been supportive in my quest for the perfect Manhattan job.

  It’s my dream to live in Manhattan like Samantha Jones, planning large parties and speaking for the ill-spoken. One would think with an unfiltered mouth like mine that I would be the last person to represent fuckups, but I actually excel at remedying outlandish behavior. I’m dying to live Downtown with all the sexy single men, spending my evenings in fancy restaurants and my weekends exploring the more cultured hot spots. I want to find the man of my dreams and live in a loft and take cooking classes and buy expensive shoes and be mistaken for a model and be on the cover of Forbes and party with some rock stars and basically be the entire compilation of Sex in the City. But until then, I’m rooted in Sucksville, Connecticut, with a plethora of Polo shirts and tennis clubs at my disposal.

  Fils de salope!

  I hurry to my closet and search for the most Frenchy thing I own, whatever the hell that means . . . or maybe I could dress as a mime and pretend to be mute! Alas, the dark purple pencil skirt and cream chiffon tank will have to do. If it wasn’t a blazing hot September day, I would wear my zigzag-patterned stockings, but this weather demands the bare minimum in clothing.

  I layer on some pearls and perfume, and then grab my alligator clutch and the matching pumps. A small dab of lip gloss and a little mascara – at least I’ll look pretty for my Translation Inquisition.

  Tiptoeing down the flight of stairs with my pumps in hand, I fail to escape the “go get ’ems” by my optimistic parents.

  Mom opens her arms for a hug and exclaims, “Natalie, you look beautiful! We are so proud of you! Today is your day to shine! Always smile and be gracious!” Oh for Christ sake, she needs to pull back on her Oprah-isms.

  “Nat, what your mother is trying to say – no matter what happens, you always have a place here with us and a job waiting for you at the office.” Dad shoves his hands in his pockets and grits his teeth.

  Hilarious, I’m not quite cut out for commodities and such. Or working for my dad. Or living with my parents. Or shooting the shit with my mom.

  I plaster on a fake smile and say, “Guys, I will find a job and be outta here in a few months. Trust me. Now, where are my boxes of textbooks?” I dash to the kitchen to grab a Diet Snapple from the refrigerator and study the Metro North train schedule pinned to the memo board. “Shit, holy fuck! I need to be on the train in ten minutes!”

  “Language, Natalie!” Mom shakes her head and scrunches her nose. Even though my mom has never been south of the Mason-Dixon, she firmly believes I could be the next debutante of Savannah if I watched my vulgar mouth.

  Dad scurries to the garage, fondling for his keys. “I’ll drive you, the boxes are in the garage. Let’s go, Nat.” I chase behind him, ignoring mom’s plight for another hug and rummage through the first dusty box. Anatomy, Philosophy, some shitty paperbacks, yes! I find something en français.

  “Okay, I’m ready. Let’s go!” I plop down in the passenger seat and instantly adjust the air-conditioning in my direction, hogging the frigid coolness of the entire car.

  “Natalie, I’m not backing out until you buckle up.”

  Merde! Vas te faire foutre!

  “Fine. I’m buckled, now drive.” I snap in the seatbelt and put on my sunglasses. It’s exactly a four-minute drive to the station, but there’s no doubt Dad will chat me up until all the energy is sucked entirely from my soul.

  Dad thumps his fingers on the steering wheel and asks, “Have you talked to Chloe? I’m sure I could convince Marty to let her stay with us. You girls could be women of the night in New York City.” He smiles goofily, not understanding what he just implied.

  “Women of the night are hookers, but you’re probably right, Uncle Marty would totally be cool with his daughter and niece running a brothel.”

  I glance out the window at the Greenwich mansions disguised as unpretentious cottages. Family homes, mainly, because there are absolutely no single men in this town – only married men with younger mistresses.

  When we moved to Connecticut from Toronto, it wasn’t really a big deal at the time because I was going to college, and I would never really call this place my home. I have maybe two girlfriends, and they’re both bitches. Last summer I had the misfortune of dating a guy in the neighborhood, and holy shit, he was so boring with all his talk of golf and his constant need for me to pet his cock. I have to get out of here soon, or one of those wood-shingled mini-mansions will be my coffin.

  Dad laughs at his mistake and quickly adds to his comment. “I meant to say that you and Chloe could have a lot of fun together. Tell me, what would you be doing at this company? Do you want me to fire some questions at you?” Luckily, I see the entrance to the station and simply find it easier to flash him a smile and pat his leg.

  “Dad, I will get a job.” But what I really want is a life.

  He turns into the small parking lot fit for a movie set as I put on my pumps. Dad stops as close as possible to the ticket booth with the car idling. I grab my book and tea and delicately exit into the sweatfest of commuter hell.

  “Natalie, you’ll be great. Call us when you leave.” Dad reaches toward my door and gives me a thumbs-up. I blush as a young kid passes by and returns Dad’s fatherly gesture with a middle finger. He’s like thirteen, but seriously?

  “Eh, nique ta mere, you little jerk,” I yell after him. I lean into the car and smile at Dad. “Thank you for . . . everything.”

  After shutting the door, I head to the ticket booth and purchase my roundtrip golden ticket for a whopping fifteen dollars. Climbing the platform to my destiny, I say a silent prayer that everything will work out.

  Three paragraphs into Le Petit Prince, a sexy voice with a hint of boyish charm interrupts my concentration.

  “Cute.”

  I’m pretty sure there were only five people waiting for the train at Greenwich, so which asshole marked me as someone that wants to chat? I look up to see who’s disturbing my French cram session, and holy fuck, my panties may drop by telepathy.

  The stats: sandy brown hair long enough to form a little flip near his ears, smoldering navy eyes, bitable pink lips, slight shadow on his rigid jaw, thick neck . . . keep going, broad shoulders, fitted shirt, hairless chest . . . lower, muscular thighs, bulge in his crotch . . . look at his hand, ding, ding, ding, NO RING!
This guy doesn’t know it, but he’s been the muse of most of my private sexual pleasure.

  “Sorry?” I challenge.

  “Your book.” He motions to the book resting in my lap. I mean come on, it was the first thing I grabbed and now it’s going to be my ruin.

  “Oh. Just a little light reading for the train.” I smile, hoping he catches my sarcasm.

  “Right. I have a couple Dr. Seuss books in my bag, but I still haven’t mastered the comings and goings of Dick and Jane.” His smirk is full of arrogance yet completely adorable. As he casually brushes his leg against mine, he asks, “You look vaguely familiar, Greenwich High?”

  “No, I went to school in Toronto,” I reply.

  “Ah, tennis club?” His eyes travel up my legs and then stop somewhere around my boobs. I cross my legs in the other direction, totally toying with his boyish charm. My calf rests against the outside of his knee, so he spreads his legs further apart in order to trap me inside him again. Hot.

  “Do you honestly think I engage in physical activity with knockers like this?” I smile seductively as his head snaps back in laughter.

  He licks his lips and runs his hand through his hair. “Damn. Well I’m sure I would enjoy you bouncing around on a tennis court.”

  C’mon, I know all the sleight of hand tricks, I’ve mastered them. Now it’s my move. I lean forward and place my hand on the inside of his thigh, right above his knee.

  “I’m Natalie. We should fuck. And then maybe go to the library.”

  Now, before I’m deemed the supreme whore with no business being so incredibly forward, this shit works. Get it all out in the open. No confusing expectations and no prolonged banter only to find out they’re gay or married. Take the power and make him earn it! Besides, I love the way a man tries to mentally process information while his dick instantly commits to whatever I want.

  “Holy shit, I thought women like you were an urban legend. I’m Zach, and before we make plans to go the library, let’s discuss the sex.” He squeezes my legs between his thighs, not the least bit thrown by my forward behavior. Zach leans forward and places his large hands on his knees, teasing the edge of my skirt with his thumbs. “Tell me, Natalie, why were you in Greenwich?”