by Mary Campisi
“More junk mail?”
She glanced at the mail, sifted through a few bills, advertisements for car insurance and credit cards, a woodworking magazine, and a padded manila envelope from her mother. She set the others aside and opened the manila envelope. “There’s something from my mother.”
“Oh boy.”
She reached inside the envelope and pulled out a slim white notebook with embossed roses on the cover. When she opened the notebook, she spotted four envelopes; three of them tattered and yellowed with age. The fourth was crisp and new, marked, read first in her mother’s elegant handwriting. “They’re letters.” There would be a past in them, perhaps a past she didn’t want to know about.
Nate touched her hand. “Do you want me to read them first? Or read them to you?”
His voice had turned gentle, his dark eyes clouded with concern. He understood that despite their painful and rocky relationship, Gloria was still her mother. He also knew at any moment Gloria’s supposed kindness could turn to venom. She shook her head. “No, I’ll read this one. It’s marked read first. That’s odd, don’t you think?”
He shrugged. “It’s your mother so who knows?”
She bit her lower lip, hesitated. “Do you want me to read it out loud?”
His smile covered her. “Sure. Go ahead.”
She opened the white envelope, removed the single sheet of paper, cleared her throat, and began. “My dearest Christine, if you are reading this letter, then I am dead.” Christine gasped and threw the paper aside. “Nate!”
He was out of the chair in two seconds and kneeling at her side. He pulled her against him and said, “I’m sorry, babe.”
She clung to him, trying to process what she’d just read. “She’s…dead.”
Nate stroked her back. “I’m really sorry.”
Christine sniffed. “Why would she tell me such a thing in a letter? And how did she know? Unless…” She eased from his grip and said, “You don’t think she killed herself, do you?”
“No.” He said the words with confidence and not a second of hesitation.
“How can you sound so certain?”
His dark eyes narrowed a fraction as though considering his words. Nate had a grim view of the world in general, including people’s motives, especially her mother’s. “I’m not trying to be disrespectful, but your mother loved her body too much to harm it.” He leaned over and picked up the letter that had landed on the deck floor. “Let’s let her tell the story. Okay?” When Christine nodded, he began to read.
If you are reading this letter, then I am dead.
Please do not think this is an attempt to elicit compassion or forgiveness from you. I know I deserve neither of those. I felt the need to be blunt in the beginning of this letter for fear you would toss it in the trash along with the notebook. THAT would be a tragedy.
I don’t know the exact date of my death, but that will be easy enough for you to obtain, if you so desire. As I write this, it is December 30th and I am enjoying the warm weather of Palm Springs with my companion, Elissa Cerdi. She is young, beautiful, full of hope and promise, and so naïve. She reminds me of myself at that age, as though the world were filled with opportunity and all I had to do was look for it. I know the comparison must sound implausible, even ridiculous, given my behavior and lifestyle. But it is true, or at least it was. If you choose to read the notebook, you may learn things about me you didn’t know. I learned things about me I didn’t know.
You may even learn to forgive me.
But first, there is more. I was diagnosed with inoperable lung cancer last year. It was a blow, one I refused to accept, until I realized there was no beating this one. I knew I had cancer when I visited you in Magdalena. It’s why I came. The doctors didn’t know how long I had and since I refused all treatment, I assumed I would not see another summer. I believe I was correct on that assumption. You may check the date of my death to confirm. People think it’s a horrible curse to know you are dying, that you’ve been given a number of days, or months, perhaps years, and the infinite timeline we believed was ours has been stripped from us, leaving us raw and exposed.
Once I understood there was no bargaining or buying my way out of this damn thing called death, I decided to stop wasting the hours I had left—hadn’t I already wasted decades?—and try to get things in order. Elissa convinced me to clean out my closets and donate much of my clothing and your father’s to charity. I did so, gladly. What use did I have for a closetful of evening gowns? I’ve begun wearing those velour lounge pants women are so fond of and I must admit they are quite comfortable. Of course, I only wear them in the house, and never if company is expected, but lately, there hasn’t been anyone but Elissa.
While cleaning out your father’s closet, I discovered three letters. One he’d written your Aunt Ellie many years ago. She must have given it back to him when she was dying, or maybe he found it among her belongings after her death. Oh, how I wish I had read this letter years ago, known of his feelings, known anything that might have changed the course of our destinies. But I didn’t know until now, and somehow, despite how your father and I ended up, this makes it more acceptable. The second letter was written shortly after your birth, when his heart was so full of love for you that I knew I must share it. And the third was a letter I wrote him a few weeks after we became engaged. I was a lovesick young girl who thought the man she loved would love her more if she lived and breathed for him alone, giving up her work, her passions, herself—for him.
Oh, how wrong that notion proved. I had forgotten how I once felt, forgotten all of those feelings until I found these letters. They proved something to me. Your father did love me once, as much as I loved him. There is great peace in that knowledge.
I have no right to ask you to forgive me my many transgressions, but do know I left this world in peace, with thoughts of you, my dear Christine.
You might wonder why I didn’t tell you of my terminal diagnosis. The answer is indeed quite simple. For once in my life I chose not to burden you, make you feel responsible, or duty-bound to ‘make life better.’
Thurman Jacobs will contact you in due time. Perhaps that young man of yours would like to see Chicago and the house where you grew up. And, perhaps Lily would, too.
Love,
Mother
Nate folded the letter, eased it back into the envelope, and picked up the next one. He pulled Christine closer, kissed her temple. “Should I read the next one?”
She didn’t want there to be a next one, but there was. “Yes.”
Dear Ellie:
It’s 3:45 a.m. California time and I can’t sleep. I’d like to blame it on the time change, but that wouldn’t be the truth. Not even close.
I’ve met a woman.
You’re probably wondering why I don’t just wait a few hours and then pick up the phone and tell you all of this. That would make the most sense, and I’m always a logical person, aren’t I? The truth is, I can’t wait. I must tell someone and I must do it this way, when the emotions are bouncing inside with such force, they’ve made me lightheaded. I want you to feel this exhilaration, this joy, this boundless energy, and I want you to feel it from something other than work.
I can’t wait for you to meet her. She’s full of ideas and energy and possesses a keen intelligence that captivates me. Do you know she’s talked of heading to London to work for a brokerage house? As happy as I am for the opportunity this would present, I’ve been walking around with a pit in my stomach since she gave me the news. How can I let her go? How can I live with her an ocean away for who knows how long?
The answer just hit me—I can’t.
I’ll be home in eight days, and then I want you to meet Gloria. She’s brought me such happiness, and I plan to marry her.
Love,
Charlie
Christine listened to Nate read her father’s words, her heart heavy with sadness. The woman in the letter didn’t sound like her mother at all. What had happened to
her? Had she given up, given in, or given away too much of herself, until there was nothing left but a stranger, and an unlikeable one at that? Her father had loved her mother once, and yet that love had not survived. Had her mother’s affair with Uncle Harry killed that love, or was it already dead? And if it were, how and why and when? Was it a slow, painful death filled with remorse and disillusion, or was it a quick severing of emotion, fast and final?
“Do you want time to digest what you’ve heard?” Nate asked, his voice warm and steady. “We can finish this later.”
Her husband was trying to protect her, but the only protection lay in knowing the truth, or the truth as Gloria Blacksworth had seen it. That could prove useful, even powerful for whatever other unknowns her mother had left behind.
“No, go ahead.”
He picked up the next letter and began to read.
Dear Ellie:
I wish you were here to share in my joy. Christine Elizabeth is all that is innocent and precious in this world. I have never known such happiness. These past several months have been difficult, but my new daughter has given me reason to believe once again in the goodness of mankind. She is a true Blacksworth from the shiny darkness of her hair to the crystal blueness of her eyes. I am truly blessed and at peace.
Love,
Charlie
Had her father been truly pleased with her or more relieved she looked like a Blacksworth?
I’m happy, Dad, truly happy. If I’ve learned nothing else from yours and Mother’s marriage, it’s that relationships are like gardens. They require constant tending and vigilance to prevent weeds, encourage growth, and promote a bountiful harvest. I love you, Dad. I love you.
Nate set the letter aside and reached for the final one.
Dear Charles:
I miss you so. The wedding plans are progressing well, with my mother already dropping hints about a one-year anniversary baby and your father agreeing that the Blacksworth lineage must continue posthaste. I simply give them a vague smile and tell them there will be babies in due time. Your brother insists on commenting, even though he knows I’m uncomfortable with the personal nature of the subject. I think that’s why he does it. Well. I will not let him ruin my thoughts of you.
I know this trip was necessary, but I miss you so. Thirteen more days until you hold me in your arms and I can tell you how much I love you.
Until then, my darling,
Gloria
Christine swiped a hand across her face and blinked hard. The woman in this letter was filled with love and hope and excitement, but nothing about her resembled the Gloria Blacksworth Christine had known. Nate folded the letter and stroked her back. “You should read the book,” he said, his lips brushing her hair. “It might help settle things for you.”
She sighed, wrapped her arms around his waist, and murmured, “Or make things worse. It could just confuse what I thought I finally figured out. I’m not ready for that, maybe I’ll never be ready. Besides, how do I even know she didn’t write in the book after she learned she was dying?”
He was silent for a few seconds before he said, “I thought of that.”
“That’s a horrible thing to think about my own mother, isn’t it?”
“It’s worse if it’s true.” He paused. “Gloria wasn’t your average mother, let’s not forget that. She can still pull strings and mess up lives, even from the grave.”
“I know.”
“Whatever you decide, I’ll be here for you.”
“Thank you.” Nate would support her decision whatever it was. There was great comfort in that, and it gave her courage to do what she needed to, even if it was the last thing she wanted to do. “I guess we’re going to Chicago.”
“I figured as much. Just say when, so Jack can take over at the shop.”
She eased away so she could look at his face. “You really don’t mind?” Nate didn’t need to tell her he had an aversion to Chicago and her past life. He’d never been there and had shown no interest in changing that, despite the open invitations from Uncle Harry.
“Of course I mind.” His dark gaze burned into her. “But you’re my wife and we’re in this together.”
“And Lily?”
His lips twitched. “I have no idea why your mother would suggest Lily visit the house where you grew up, but there’s no way that girl is letting us out of the driveway without her.”
She leaned up and kissed him. “Thank you. I can’t imagine life without you.”
He cupped her chin with his big hand and smiled. “Then don’t.”
Chapter 12
“Wow! Is this where you lived?” Lily had never seen a house this big in real life. It was way bigger and fancier than Mrs. Pendergrass’s place. “Just you, Aunt Gloria, and Dad?”
Christine looked at Nate who made that frown face when he didn’t like something and said, “Yes. I lived here, and it was only the three of us.” Nate pulled up the winding driveway and parked in front of the four-car garage, still wearing that frown face.
“You had four cars?” Her sister cleared her throat and didn’t answer. Why was her face getting all pink? “Christine? How many cars did you have?”
Nate turned to Lily and said in a not-happy voice, “Lily, too many questions.”
“It’s okay.” Christine touched his arm and talked to him in the soft voice that made him touch her hair or her cheek. Or sometimes he even kissed her on the mouth. That was because Nate loved her sister. He loved Lily and Anna, too, but Christine was his wife. “You can ask me anything you want.”
Nate shook his head and muttered, “You have no idea what you’ve just said.”
Lily ignored her brother and smiled at Christine. “Is there an elevator inside? And a swimming pool?”
“What? No, of course not.”
“Oh. Pop said his son’s house in California is one of those fancy-dancy places with an elevator and a swimming pool.”
“Sorry, no elevator and no pool.”
“That’s okay.” Lily opened the car door and scooted out. “Uncle Harry said this house has lots of secrets in it. I’m going to see if I can find where they’re hiding.”
Nate said a bad word under his breath, but Lily still heard him. “Nate. No swearing or I’ll tell Mom when we get back.”
“Come here and carry your suitcase. The servants aren’t going to wait on you.”
“There are servants?”
Christine walked to the trunk of the car with Anna in her arms. “No, no servants, just us.”
“And Uncle Harry, right? And Aunt Greta? And my cousins.” She held out a hand and ticked their names off on her fingers. “AJ, Lizzie, and Jackson.”
Nate ruffled her hair and said, “You know you aren’t related to every single person you meet, right?”
She grinned. “I have lots of relatives now. Before Christine came, there was just you and Mom.”
“I know, kiddo.” His voice turned soft and his dark eyes got darker. “It’s just that we really aren’t related to everyone. Aunt Gloria isn’t really—”
“Hey! Look who’s here.” Uncle Harry stood in the doorway, and for a second he reminded Lily of her father. Gulps of sadness made her swallow and her eyes got wet. Oh, Daddy, I miss you so much. Uncle Harry’s eyes were the same blue as hers, the same as her dad and Christine’s, Anna’s and baby Jackson, too. Mom called them “Blacksworth eyes” and said a person could spot them from a mile away. Lily thought that was too far, but if her mother said it, then it must be true.
“Give me a hug, Lily girl.” Uncle Harry stepped outside and Lily set down her suitcase and ran to him, flinging her body against his. “How’s my girl?”
His voice was louder than her dad’s and Uncle Harry said silly stuff that made her laugh. Once he showed her how far he could spit water. Lily hugged her uncle tight and said, “I missed you.”
He kissed the top of her head and said, “Ditto, kiddo.”
She pulled away, thinking about the new cousins she had
n’t met and Uncle Harry’s wife, who was now her aunt. So many people to meet and all of them family. She thought of Christine’s mom who had been kind of her aunt. Sort of. Nate said she wasn’t and he made that funny face like he did when he wasn’t happy, but Lily still thought she was. But now the pretty lady with the sparkly jewelry was dead, and that’s why they’d driven to Chicago, so they could see Christine’s house and to see her mother, who was in a vase by the fireplace. How could a person fit in a vase unless it was a really big one? When Nate wasn’t around, she’d ask Christine about it.
“Harry. Good to see you.” Nate held out a hand and Uncle Harry shook it, then gave him a hug.
“Glad you finally made it here. Wish it were under different circumstances.” He shook his head. “Damn crazy thing. Who would have guessed she was sick?”
“Do I have to get in line to see my favorite uncle?” Christine stood by Nate with Anna in her arms.
“You mean your only uncle.” He laughed and gave Christine a big hug and then took Anna in his arms and said in a soft voice, “I’m your Uncle Harry. You sure are a beauty and quiet, too, not cranky like your old man.”
“Nate’s only cranky sometimes, not like before,” Lily said. She peeked around Uncle Harry’s shoulder and spotted a little girl with long curly blond hair. “Hi. I’m Lily.” She moved toward the girl and asked, “What’s your name?”
The girl grinned, flung her arms in the air and twirled three times, singing, “My name is Lizzie. Lizzie, Lizzie, Lizzie.”
Lily giggled. “You’re silly.”
Lizzie began hopping from one foot to the other. “Lily, Lily, Lily.” She stopped and stared up at Lily, her brows wrinkling. “Are we cousins?”
Lily nodded. “Of course we’re cousins. Christine is my sister. Uncle Harry is my uncle—”