“Scarlett.” I swallowed hard. “I never really stopped loving you.”
“Nor I you,” she said resolutely.
“I just wish—”
“You and I both realized that the world wouldn’t accept what we wanted.” She smiled faintly. “So we swore off stars.”
“I didn’t,” I countered.
“You did, though,” she said. “When you left.”
I shook my head slowly. She was wrong.
“You gave up on us.” She didn’t say it sensitively or bitterly. She just said it.
“I never did,” I insisted.
“I don’t blame you though,” she said, as if she hadn’t heard me. “I didn’t give you much hope, did I?”
I hated the thought that either of us swore off stars, that we renounced the possibility of us. I couldn’t fathom it.
“I used to believe in stars,” I breathed. “I believed in you and me.”
“So did I, Lia,” she said, her voice barely audible.
Our conversation came to an inconclusive end, and I walked out of the coffee house feeling more conflicted than I had before. Teary-eyed, I stuck the letter into my coat pocket and tried my best to forget. I didn’t want to waste another minute thinking about the woman I couldn’t be with.
PART II
Chapter 25
Brooklyn, September 1949
The war aged me more than time itself. When the United States first got involved in 1941, I thought about quitting my job at the paper. We faced a lot of turnover at the office after Pearl Harbor—the attacks left people terrified to even leave their homes, much less report from the field. I was seriously close to turning in my notice, but there were so many stories that needed to be told. So I stayed on the paper and continued my work during the war.
I spent most of my free time volunteering at the hospital, bandaging the physical wounds of young men. Most of them were nineteen or twenty, fresh out of their family homes. I’ll never forget their dusty eyes—glazed over with an understanding that only war can bring.
I thought little about Scarlett because my thoughts were consumed with battlefield bruises and head injuries. But sometime after the chaos calmed, I started thinking of her again. I went back to work and sifted through my old reporting notebooks—covered in pencil observations I’d made when I still believed in love. Slowly and steadily, I began to remember the girl I used to be.
As I sat at my old desk one evening, my apartment felt especially barren. It was unused, untouched by anyone but me. I reached into a rusty top drawer, looking for a pack of chewing gum or some other distraction. What I found was much more than I expected: Scarlett’s letter, postmarked Oxford–October, 1920.
For a while, all I could do was stare. I barely remembered stuffing the unopened envelope into a messy stack of papers and journals. Then again, nearly twenty years had passed since I’d shown her the letter. The world was a different place now.
Still in an odd limbo between cynicism and optimism, I turned the letter over in my trembling hands. Maybe I owed it to myself to open the wrinkled envelope. I couldn’t deny that I was curious about what her writing would reveal. Maybe it would throw me back into another time, or maybe it would break my heart all over again.
I put on a pair of boots and walked up to the rooftop of my apartment building. A gentle breeze rustled the envelope’s edges, daring me to open it. So I did.
Amelia,
I hope this finds you well in New York City. I apologize for not writing to you sooner . . . it’s been quite an interesting year. I have great news—women can matriculate from Oxford as of next week! October 20th, to be exact. Can you believe it? A long, long journey, but WE DID IT! I’m sure you’ve heard all about the decision, but I wanted it to come from me also.
I have something else to tell you, Lia. I lied to you before you left. I acted like we weren’t worth it, but in my heart I knew that we were. I was scared, but I should have fought harder for you . . . for us.
If you can ever find it in your heart to forgive me, please write back. I know that I ruined everything and betrayed your trust. For that, I am eternally sorry. But I still love you, Lia. I want to be with you too. Come back to England and we’ll run away together to any place you’d like. I PROMISE.
Forever Yours,
Scarlett
I stared at the paper in my hands, rereading that pivotal line.
we’ll run away together to any place you’d like.
But it was too late. Nearly thirty years of life had rendered me a completely different person than the girl I’d been back then. I was less fragile and much surer of myself. As a single, forty-nine-year-old woman, I had to be. Of course I was still open to love, but I also felt okay on my own. I spent most of my time supporting political campaigns for women’s rights. The fire Ox-ford sparked in me during college had never quite died out.
I paused for a moment and looked down at my brown boots. A tiny white paper was resting atop the worn leather. It must have fallen out of the envelope. I bent down to pick it up and quickly realized what it was. My heart stopped as what-ifs flashed through my head. I was holding a first-class boat ticket to England.
Come back to England and we’ll run away together to anyplace you’d like.
The strength I’d built up ruptured immediately. Before I could even think about how expensive that ticket must have been, its sentiment took over. Tears flooded my tired eyes as I turned the ticket over in my fingers. I searched the corners of my mind for an answer. All I wanted was a reason why we would have been impossible. A justification for the separate lives we were living.
If there’s one thing I know, it’s that history repeats itself. I had always thought of Scarlett and me as different planets in the same orbit. We had collided once; maybe we would collide once more, creating a bright explosion of redemption and memories and broken promises. Maybe we’d get a second chance to make up for the first one we never really had. I closed my eyes and tried to imagine it. Scarlett and me, together for real. For a moment, it almost seemed possible. We’d smile and laugh without regret. I’d kiss her shamelessly and love her boldly. Nothing would stop us.
Before I got too lost in the hypothetical, I opened my eyes to take in Brooklyn’s autumn air. It was dark and I knew that I should probably go back inside. But before I turned around, I did something that I’d forbidden myself to do years earlier. Ever so slowly, I raised my gaze up to the night sky. It was radiant, breathtaking, and everything at once. Tears ran down my face as I let myself stare at the brilliant stars once more.
THREE weeks had passed since I opened that emotional letter. I was still trying to figure out how to put it all behind me. Why on earth did I have to find that letter in the first place? I was simply organizing my parents’ study, and there it was. I was sure they hadn’t kept it from me on purpose. After all, they had no idea who Scarlett Daniels even was. It must have been an honest misplacement. Oddly enough, though, the letter almost seemed to find me.
I had tried to be amicable with her that day in the coffee shop. In my opinion, we had been great friends before it turned into something more. But not according to Scarlett. God, she was so stubborn sometimes. If she refused to at least be friendly, the situation was out of my hands. She was a married woman now.
I eventually resumed my routine and went back to work. The journal I wrote for—Eastern Weekly, a politically-driven paper with medium-sized circulation—had offices in both Brooklyn and Manhattan. I had recently been promoted to managing editor, which was still a shock to me, considering that some of the men in the office didn’t think women should be working at all. Needless to say, I valued my job more than many things. I’d opted to work in Brooklyn, since it was a casual office environment and much closer to my apartment.
I’d become heavily involved with the National Women’s Trade Union League after graduating college in the twenties, advocating for improved wages and working conditions for women. From there, I’d gone on to in
tern at a local paper, and had worked my way up to staff writer. I loved interviewing political figures and writing about current issues. It felt like I was making a contribution, even if it was a small one.
After women won the right to vote, I assumed equality would flourish. But that wasn’t the case. Many were satisfied with the newfound suffrage, unmotivated to continue the fight. It appalled me. My passion for my work was one of the things that had ended my relationship with Beck.
Our office was male-dominated like any other, but I made an effort to involve as many women as possible in the journal’s production, especially now that the war was over. Besides secretarial jobs, I had fought for the creation of other positions that benefitted from female employees. The paper had become more balanced in the many years I’d worked there, and now that I was managing editor, I hoped to effect even more change.
Work occupied most of my time, but I preferred it that way. I tried to see the few friends I’d managed to keep in my life on the weekends. I couldn’t even remember the last time I’d seen Robbie. He enlisted in the military shortly after marrying Ness—something that she’d unsuccessfully tried to talk him out of. Robbie never quite moved on from his brother’s death, and enlisting was his way of feeling closer to Ben. Robbie’s marital rift resulted in a heartbreaking divorce—he left for the war, and Ness left him. Between our mutual romantic failures, everything had just sort of fallen apart.
My parents and I had continued to have a tumultuous relationship for many years. I was never quite content after coming home from Oxford, and I think they realized that early on. While I was cordial with Beck, we hardly talked anymore. Moving in with my parents after our breakup had its challenges, but I didn’t have any other options at the time. They never found out about our long-term relationship, and I was happy to keep them in the dark. These days we were spending a lot of time together, and even getting along well now that they were much older. I cooked dinner for them at the restaurant every other Sunday. They never did open another location like Robbie predicted they would. I think that money had always just been a little too tight.
I arrived for an overdue visit on a particularly warm fall evening.
“Lia.” My mother hugged me tightly. “You’re late!”
“Sorry Mom.” I sighed. “Another busy day at the journal.”
“It’s the weekend, honey! You shouldn’t even be working.”
“I’m researching a new piece about women’s wages. It’s—”
“Please, Lia. It’s Sunday . . .”
She flashed me a concerned expression.
“Sorry, but you know I love my work.”
“Maybe that’s the problem,” she said under her breath, just loud enough for me to hear.
“Mom?”
“You know how I feel, sweetheart. You should be married to a nice man and have grown children of your own by now. But instead you’re spending hours working in an office!”
“I’m making a difference at the paper,” I said firmly.
We’d had this frustrating conversation many times over the years.
“At least you had the chance to meet men when you were living in the city—”
“I moved there for school, Mom. Then I tried to focus on my job, remember?”
“Well,” she signed. “Maybe you shouldn’t have—”
“Let’s not talk about that tonight, eh Mary?”
My dad walked in right on cue. “How are ya, sweetie?” He planted a sloppy kiss on my forehead.
“Good, thanks, Dad.” I smiled.
My mom rolled her eyes and muttered something else before returning to the kitchen. I heard an unnecessary clattering of pots and pans until she calmed down.
“So why haven’t we seen ya in so long, huh, Lia?”
“It’s only been a few weeks,” I said, chuckling.
“Much too long.” My dad shook his head and grinned.
“I—I’ve been a little preoccupied.”
“With work?”
“Sort of . . .”
“C’mon, Lia. What’s been going on?”
“An old letter, actually. From a very old friend.”
“Which old friend?” He looked genuinely confused.
“You don’t know her. Just someone from Oxford.”
He gave me a curious look.
“I found it in your study a long time ago . . .”
I heard a porcelain dish hit the floor.
“You okay?” I called to my mom.
There was no reply, and I started walking toward the kitchen.
I felt my dad’s firm grip on my shoulder. “Let’s just leave her be, darlin’.”
He led me into the restaurant’s banquet room, and we sat down at one of the rustic wooden tables. I fiddled with my navy tea dress as he stared strangely at me.
“What’s wrong?” I asked quietly.
But he didn’t answer. Instead, my father ran his fingers across the flawed wood in front of him.
“Dad?”
The delectable smell of fresh pasta drifted in from the kitchen. Mom was making her specialty, Orecchiette a la Lia. I used to help her in the kitchen when I was younger, usually resulting in catastrophe. This dish was one of our few successes, so she’d named it after me. She loved telling customers the story of how I kept throwing chilies into her saucepan until the entire kitchen smelled of nose-tingling spice. Just smelling it now, I could taste the simmering sauce and feel its peppery flavors dance around my mouth. My head turned toward the kitchen, anticipating the scrumptious dinner ahead of us.
“I know about Scarlett,” my dad said faintly.
It was enough to send me reeling around in my chair. I looked at my dad’s weathered face, searching for a slight grin or twinkle in his eye. But there was nothing. I knew that he was serious.
“What do you mean?” I ventured, trying to hide my surprise.
“Lia, I know,” he said again.
“But—how?” I didn’t understand how this was possible.
“I read the letter all those years ago.”
“What?” I couldn’t comprehend what he was saying. “But it was sealed.”
“And then I noticed that the letter was gone,” he said. “My fault for not moving it before you organized our study.”
“Dad . . . I don’t—”
“I guess it slipped my mind.” He shrugged. “Thirty years is a long time . . .”
“Dad!”
I felt like he was ignoring me. “I felt bad for reading it, hun. That’s why I resealed it. I wanted to throw it away—I really did. But I just felt too damn guilty each time.”
“Why would you—”
“We thought you seemed different after coming back from Oxford. You were withdrawn . . .”
“But why would you be suspicious of a letter?”
My dad looked down, avoiding my inquisitive eyes.
“We just—”
“Tell me,” I said firmly.
He stared down again until the tension was intolerable.
“Robbie.”
His name in this context made me feel sick. My stomach tightened, as a lump grew in my throat.
“He wanted to help you.”
“Help me?” I felt betrayed. Betrayed by Robbie and deceived by my parents.
“Lia—”
“Don’t,” I said loudly.
“Honey, you have to understand—”
“Understand what? That you ruined my chances of ever being satisfied with this life?” I was fuming now. “You have no idea what you did!”
“We were trying to protect you!” It was the first time I’d heard my dad yell in years.
“How could you read that letter and not even tell me about it?”
He just stared at me, eyes watery underneath his furrowed brow.
My mother walked in with a platter of fresh pasta. “Amelia—”
“You knew?” I hissed.
She looked at the floor and said nothing.
“I was
depressed for an entire year after I came back,” I cried.
“We just didn’t want—”
“I don’t want to see either of you for a long, long time.”
I felt like a moody teenager again—fighting with my parents over something important that they deemed trivial. I couldn’t form another coherent thought. I stormed out of the restaurant as they called after me, with no intention of ever going back.
Chapter 26
SCARLETT
I replay that day in my head. It’s been almost twenty years, but I still feel like I’m there: 1930, London—before the war. I walk into the coffee shop and there she is, lovely like always. But it was never physical beauty that drew me to her. It was the way she looked at me . . . what she saw in me . . . what she made me see in myself. Her confidence, intelligence, and unwavering belief in us.
I walk coolly by each table and give the obligatory smile here and there. It’s just part of being under the public eye. She looks nervous, uncomfortable even. I wonder if she senses my anxiety, despite my best attempt to mask it.
Of course she notices the ring. I have to wear it in public—James would be beside himself if the photographers caught even a glimpse of my bare hand. Her face falls as I tell her about him. I want to explain everything, but it’s not the right time or place.
And that letter. I nearly pass out when she sets it on the table. I stare at her and she stares back at me with that same piercing gaze she’s always had. Why is it still unopened? I don’t understand.
Then Amelia tells me that her parents had the letter from all those years ago. That she accidentally found it in a cluttered desk in their study. That she never even had a chance to read it. It’s too much to swallow.
It’s not that I don’t want to see her again. On the contrary, I’ve wanted to see her for so bloody long. I’ve wanted to be with her every second of every day. But there’s so much more to consider now. There’s James and my neurotic agent, Joe, to worry about. I can only imagine what they’d do if they found out about Lia and me. Not to mention everyone else who might try to bring us down.
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