by Karey White
Thomas studied her carefully and thought through her words. “Let me see if I understand. Some of our members won’t be able to have a pen friend?” Was that all?
“I feel awful!” Emma raised the handkerchief and dabbed at both eyes. “I’ve already decided that I’ll forgo my letter friend; it’s the only right thing to do, under the circumstances. But how will it look for the president herself to not have a letter friend of her own, when it was her aunt who arranged the whole thing?” Her face contorted into a number of shapes, all of which telegraphed distress. “And that still leaves two more people in our society without someone to write to.” Her tone seemed to imply that such a thing was just shy of being a savage, that every good American had a letter friend hailing from their northern neighbor.
To his credit, Thomas didn’t laugh at her distress. He didn’t so much as crack a smile. “So you need others to step aside, to not have a letter friend. Is that correct?”
Chin lowered, she looked up at him through her lashes. “Yes...” she said slowly, dragging the word out.
“I’ll step aside,” he said. It wasn’t as if he’d particularly yearned for a letter friend.
“Would you?” Emma stood, hands clasped before her. “But... but there’s more.” She sank to the bench again and opened her purse, which Thomas hadn’t noticed before, and she withdrew a stack of papers. “I made nearly every match so far. Somehow, I couldn’t seem to find the right match for Jane Martin.”
“She’s the last person without a letter friend, then,” Thomas clarified.
Emma nodded, eyes pinched. “I can’t bear to hurt that poor bird of a girl. What should I do?”
“I’m sure we have a letter friend request somewhere in the post office— sometimes people send requests asking for a letter friend.”
“Often?” Emma asked hopefully.
“No, not often,” Thomas admitted. Probably not in years, for that matter. “I’ll ask my mother, and I’ll assign that person to Jane.”
“But she’ll know it’s not from Aunt Bertha’s club.”
True. He squinted one eye as he thought. “I’ll try to come up with a letter friend request from Canada. She need never know it’s not from the same group.” At the society meeting, Emma had mentioned the city her aunt’s club was from, but he couldn’t remember it. With any luck, neither would Jane.
“You’d do that? Arrange it all, and no one would ever know how foolish I’ve been?” A flash of guilt crossed her face. “But wouldn’t that be lying? Lying is horribly evil; I couldn’t bear to think that I was being dishonest.” Yet her eyes remained trained on Thomas with an odd, hopeful expression.
“I’ll take care of it; no worries. Maybe I’ll walk up to Montreal myself and find someone for her to write to.”
“To Toronto,” Emma inserted. “And you could never walk that far.”
“Then maybe I’ll write to your aunt Bertha to find someone else for Jane to write to,” Thomas said, confident he could make this work. Anything to make Emma and her anxious feathers calm down and go home. Watching her wringing her hands in the post office made him uneasy, like he had an itch he couldn’t reach. “That’s her name, isn’t it? Aunt Bertha?”
“Yes, but she doesn’t have anyone else,” Emma said.
“All the same, leave the list here. I’ll write out official invitations for everyone, and I can help you hand deliver them to everyone tomorrow so no one is the wiser if Jane’s letter friend ends up being from a different city.” He was promising Emma an awful lot, but if it got himself free of her, doing it all would be worth the effort.
A smile broke slowly across Emma’s face until he could see her teeth, and her eyes lit up like electric lights as understanding dawned. “With private invitations, our members will be unlikely to compare addresses as they would at a meeting.” Her grin smoothed into a flirtatious smile, and one eyebrow went up. “And you’ll help me deliver them?”
“Sure,” Thomas said, his voice suddenly going up in pitch. He had no desire to be the object of Emma Tanner’s affections. “You can take half, and I’ll take the other half. We’ll get them all delivered in no time.”
Her smooth smile wavered for a moment, but in the end, her relief at getting out of a difficult situation must have outweighed the fact that he hadn’t flirted back. “You’re a good boy, Thomas Allred.”
He laughed. “Boy?”
“Fine.” She lifted one shoulder in a shrug. “A good man.”
“I aim to please.”
Emma stood and handed him the pages, which were covered with lines and arrows showing who was matched with whom, but it was nearly illegible, she’d scribbled so much— entire sections were scratched out and redrawn— to the point that it looked like a web made by a drunken spider. Deciphering who was supposed to write whom would take all night.
“Thanks again, Thomas,” Emma said with a wave as she headed to the door.
“Come tomorrow afternoon, about three for the invitations?” he called after her. “That’s when Dorothy takes over.”
Emma nodded, her entire bearing far brighter than a moment before, as if a storm cloud had blown away from above her head. “I’ll see you tomorrow then.” She headed outside, letting the door close behind her, the bells at the top jingling against the wood.
Through the window beside the door, Thomas watched her walk down the road. He couldn’t help but also watch men on the street, both familiar ones and strangers alike, tipping hats her way and calling to her or simply turning their heads as she passed to admire her looks. Emma Tanner was undoubtedly beautiful. So why didn’t he find his heart pounding when she came near him? Unlike Ernie Holdaway and several other members of the society, Thomas had never found himself at a loss for words around Emma Tanner. Maybe something was wrong with him, but somehow he couldn’t fathom being attracted to a woman solely because of a pretty face and fine eyes. He’d tried to imagine what marriage would be like with such a wife on his arm. Pure misery, that’s what. Sure, at church and social functions, he’d be the envy of the town, but inside their own walls, he’d be liable to pull out both of their hair if his wife was concerned entirely with reputation and appearance and spent her day ordering everyone about.
As Thomas returned to his chair at the desk, he shook his head, knowing full well that in spite of being the president of the Aid Society, Emma Tanner didn’t have a truly charitable bone in her body. Or maybe she had a tiny one, like one from her toe. The thought made him smile as he spread out her papers on the desk. She wasn’t a bad person, but she wasn’t purely altruistic, either. He looked over the papers and attempted to read her spiky, messy handwriting. With effort, he figured out most of Emma’s scratchings, and he guessed some, but when he was done, the final problem remained: there was no one to write to Jane Martin. He searched the desk and shelves of the post office for any letter friend requests but found none.
Could he ask someone else to give up their letter friend without Emma losing face? He’d have to swear that person to secrecy. Not a good idea. Thomas sat in his chair again and tapped the desk with the tip of a pencil for several minutes, thinking. He hadn’t seen a request for a letter friend in ages, but perhaps his mother knew of someone. He went to the front door, hung the sign that read Will Return Soon, and went out back to the family’s living area to the sitting room. He found his mother in the rocking chair beside the fireplace, which wasn’t yet lit, but which would need to be soon to ward off the oncoming evening chill.
She glanced up from her knitting and smiled. “Thomas. Is your shift over already?”
“Not quite,” he said, crossing to her. “Have you seen any letter friend requests lately? Are any waiting a reply?”
She lowered her needles to her lap. “Oh, no, dear,” she said with a shake of her head. “Were you hoping for to have a friend to correspond with?”
“It’s not for me,” he said. “It’s for the Culture and Aid Society.”
Turning her knitting in her lap to
begin a new row, she tugged on the ball of yarn sitting in the basket at her feet. “I haven’t seen any letter friend requests in ages. The last one was, oh, two, three years ago?”
It hadn’t been that long; he was quite sure of that. But Mother’s memory had started to fade. If she didn’t remember one, he wouldn’t be able to find one even if it existed. “Aw, well. Thanks anyway. Nothing to worry about.” He leaned down and pecked her cheek.
She smiled up at him and patted his face then nodded to the corner wood pile by the fireplace. “Would you mind bringing me some wood from outside?”
“I’d love to, Mama. And I’ll get a fire started for you too.”
“You are such a dear boy.”
He laughed at that as he headed for the door.
“I know, I know,” she called after him. “But you’ll always be my sweet boy, Thomas.”
His heart warmed. “Yes, Mother, I will. Always.”
As he gathered the wood and carried it inside, and then as he set to starting a small fire to warm his mother’s feet, the wheels in his mind turned and turned on the problem of the letter friend and Jane, until, just as the flame caught, a simple, obvious solution presented itself.
He would write to Jane. She wouldn’t know it was him, of course. He could easily imagine a fake address she would write to. He’d slip her letters to himself when she dropped them off at the post office. He’d probably have to tell Dorothy about it in case Jane mailed a letter during his sister’s shift. Yes, this would work. He would write letters in return and deliver them to her as if they’d come from Canada. Technically that would be dishonest, but surely Jane would tire of the exercise, stop writing, or if worse came to worst, he could have the imaginary letter friend move to some remote location, one with unreliable postal service. No harm done. Emma would save face, and Jane would have her letter friend.
The fire grew before him in the grate. He stared at it as thoughts warred in his mind. He might as well have had an angel on one shoulder and a devil on the other— only he didn’t know which voice was the angel. They both seemed like the right choice. Which should he choose, remain entirely honest but disappoint Jane and embarrass Emma, or create a tiny, inconsequential lie, one which would likely fall into nothingness within a few months anyway, and spare both Jane’s feelings and Emma’s pride?
He stood and brushed off his hands. He found himself caring far more about Jane’s feelings than Emma’s. Why? He hardly knew her as anything but the girl who’d attended school and church across the room since he was a boy. Thoughts and worries tumbled in his head as his mother’s needles clicked rhythmically behind him. He slowly admitted the reason he didn’t want Jane’s feelings to be slighted: she’d been the object of plenty of peer disdain over the years. He’d seen her ignored and teased by school girls for no reason other than that she was easy prey. Now as a young woman, she didn’t seem to have any friends in the Aid Society. He found himself wishing he’d stood up for her in the past. He wouldn’t let her be pushed aside again.
But could he make it happen? The idea of creating a fictional persona to write to her sounded nonsensical, but the more he considered it, the more merit the idea had. Yes. He would adopt a pen name and write to Jane. He’d be kind. He’d listen to the chatter of the young ladies at club meetings and elsewhere to know what kinds of things they would like to read about in a letter from a male friend. It would last a few weeks, and then he’d find a way to end it. No one would ever have to know.
His mother looked at the fire and reached her fingers toward its warmth. “Thank you.”
“You’re welcome, Mama.” Thomas’ feet carried him back to the post office, because his mind was elsewhere. Even though closing time wasn’t for another forty minutes, he flipped the sign over the window to read Closed then locked the door.
He returned to the desk, knowing he should finish the day’s work, but all he could think of was Jane Martin, of how quiet and shy, even melancholy, she often seemed. Before he lost his courage and turned yellow bellied, he opened a drawer, pulled out a sheet of ivory paper, and began to write with Dorothy’s blue fountain pen. By the time he finished his letter, he’d need to come up with a proper nom de plume.
Chapter Three
10 Weeks Later
For once in Jane’s simple, often disappointing, life, fortune had finally smiled upon her. She sat in her room, door closed, and held in her hand her tenth letter from Charles Percival Wharton— her tenth in as many weeks, while all of the other ladies in the society were still waiting for their third. The others couldn’t blame their friends’ slow response times on the postal service, now that planes delivered air mail so quickly. Some of the Aid Society members had yet to receive a single letter. Half of the members wrote to ladies, and most who wrote to men seemed to have found their letter friends to be stuffy old bores.
But not Jane. Somehow, she had been given the name of a man who was not only an eligible bachelor, but one who was also wealthy, educated, and utterly charming. He appeared in her daydreams instead of princes now. They hadn’t yet exchanged photographs, so she didn’t know precisely what he looked like beyond his own description, something she was certain he’d been all too modest about. Sure, he mightn’t be as tall, dark, and devastatingly handsome as her mind had conjured. Such concerns mattered little when one considered that Charles had the honor of a knight and the heart of a poet. And somehow, through their correspondence, she’d found a voice to her thoughts about so many things, subjects she could talk to no one else about.
After holding the letter in her hands and relishing the anticipation for several minutes, she finally broke the seal. Unable to contain her excitement, she stood and paced the eight-foot length of her room, back and forth, as she reread just the greeting: Dearest Jane.
Dearest! He’d called her dearest! He didn’t seem to be the teasing type. She didn’t think so, anyway. So he had to mean it. Who would have ever thought that a man would call her dearest? She read the full letter, determined to finish the whole thing before stopping again, although of course she began from the first word.
Dearest Jane,
What a delight to receive your latest letter! It arrived at just the right moment, after a dreadful thunderstorm, which made me feel most in need of a cheerful friend’s visit by a roaring fire. In spite of our relatively short acquaintance, I feel like I can already predict what you are thinking. You had some melancholy feelings yourself when you composed your last letter. Am I right?
Any letter from you cheers me so, and this was no exception. Your words always have a way of doing that. I never suspected that our friendship would come to mean so much to me, and in such a short span. Surely the time will come that another man will win your heart, but I hope that when that day comes, that man, whoever he may be, will allow you simple correspondence with an old friend.
He went on to talk about his ailing mother’s health and how he worried about her memory failing. How he cared for her and the family the business, which he never did spend much time talking about. Jane often wondered what type of business it was so she could picture Charles working at his desk doing whatever it was he did— for he had mentioned a desk. She knew that much. He replied to several anecdotes she’d shared then shared some of his own. Finally, near the end of the seven pages— seven delicious pages, front and back— she reached a portion where he discussed some of his favorite writers and asked if she enjoyed reading as much as he did.
His list of favorites included several works with which Jane was somewhat familiar with but had never read: Pilgrim’s Progress, The Diary of Samuel Pepys, and Roderick Random. She was eager to find copies of each and read them so she could share her thoughts on them with her Charles, who had quickly become the dearest friend she’d ever had. In some ways, the only real friend she’d ever had.
He closed his letter with a short final paragraph.
Please write as soon as you can. I know you will, of course. You always do, and I anticipate each le
tter, as I keep saying. Do tell me about your reading habits and which writers you enjoy.
Yours,
Charles
Even though it was a nice, plump letter, it ended far too soon. Jane had the urge to sit at her desk and write him immediately, but she stopped herself with the thought that she had nothing to say, not yet. She had to find those books he’d recommended and read them quickly. Perhaps she could take in a play at the theater so she could tell him about it; he’d mentioned how much he enjoyed the theater.
She sat on her bed and reread the letter, committing as much of it to memory as she could so she could recall entire sections at will. She lifted the ivory paper to her nose and inhaled the musky scent of Charles’s cologne, which he always dabbed on the corners. She closed her eyes and smiled with contentment. She could live her life this way forever, she was quite sure— sharing her innermost thoughts and feelings with a friend with whom she didn’t have to pretend and who didn’t expect anything else from her. Who didn’t know she was plain and therefore had no preconceived notions about her.
If their friendship was to continue, she’d need to find a way to prevent him from ever insisting on exchanging photographs. As much as she yearned to know what he looked like, she wouldn’t pay the price of sharing her dull appearance in exchange for that knowledge. No, sending him a photograph was a completely unacceptable proposition. She slipped the letter into her desk drawer beneath the ribbon holding the stack together. She smoothed her hair and checked her reflection in the mirror on the wall. Her cheeks seemed slightly pinker than usual, making her slightly less drab. Almost pretty. Not quite, but almost.
One more thing Charles does for me, she thought with a smile.
As she headed downstairs to the kitchen to help her mother with supper, Charles remained in her thoughts. She rolled out two pie crusts, deciding to somehow mail the second pie to Charles and hope it arrived in one piece. He deserved a pie, and more. Or perhaps she should try mailing something less fragile, like cookies.