by Karen Welch
Walking to the house, she felt a shiver of dread. The letter was addressed in a small, precise hand, written by the same person who had autographed Lil's napkin. Stani Moss, after almost three years, had written her a letter. She went into the house, sat down at the table by the window, her knees suddenly threatening to give way. Turning the letter over in her hands, she tried to think of any reason he would suddenly have to make such a move. But there was no reason, he didn't even know she existed, or he hadn't until now apparently. She had managed to remain hidden, anonymous. There had been other magazine stories about his recovery and never had there been any mention of the rescue, only his struggle to overcome the injuries.
In her most recent letter to Penny, Emily had written that at last he was consigned to a distant memory. She was too busy, too challenged by her life now, to give any thought to something that had happened so long ago. She had admitted to herself, as she nursed the boy who’d suffered such horrible injuries in the motorcycle accident, that she was reminded of Stani. He had been so fortunate compared to this boy. As she had always believed, God had been watching over Stani that night, saving him for some better life in the future.
She had congratulated herself on putting the experience behind her, finally accepting that he lived in some other world, far removed from hers. She was content, finding her way in this life she had been so determined to build; and the more time that passed, the less importance she placed on those few hours when their lives had crossed. This letter, which she continued to hold in her hand without breaking the seal, was making a liar of her. The pounding of her heart against her ribs was proof of just how vulnerable she was. She stared at the address, as if by studying his handwriting she might find a clue to the intention of the writer.
She considered just for a moment the possibility of throwing it away, pretending it had never been delivered. Lost in the mail or destroyed in a postal accident. Movies had been made about such things, why couldn't it have happened to this letter too? But she knew she wouldn't do it, knew she would eventually have to read what he had to say to her after all this time. Penny had told her she'd seen a poster announcing an upcoming concert in Boston last summer. Lil had bought his latest recording, offering to loan it to her if she was interested. Emily had turned a deaf ear to these updates on his career, pretending to be indifferent but in fact glad to know he had successfully moved back into his life. He would be busy, traveling and making music all over the country, maybe even the world. Why would he take time to write a letter to a girl he didn't know?
The answer was right in her hand. All she had to do was open the letter. She took a deep breath, as if preparing to dive under water, and slipped her finger under the flap, gently prying loose the seal. A single sheet, barely filled with the small neat script and there at the bottom, the unmistakable signature.
Dear Emily,
After any number of false starts, I am convinced there is no conventional form for writing this letter. It is not a thank you, nor is it an apology. More, so much more than that, it is a plea for your forgiveness and understanding. To write a thank you for saving my life, to apologize on paper for waiting almost three years to say that thank you, would be an injustice to both of us.
I know very little of what actually happened to me during the hours after the accident, but I have learned the name of the person who took me in, kept me from freezing to death, and then never let herself be known. I'm certain you had your own reasons for what you did, but please don't deny me the opportunity now to express my gratitude and even my admiration.
Much of the past two and a half years has been a blur to me, but I am at least now sufficiently recovered to resume my career and try to take some control over my life. With the help of a therapist, I have made some strides in learning how to live the life of a man rather than merely that of a musician. He has recommended that even at this late date I try to reconstruct the days I lost that Christmas week, by returning to the scenes of the memories I have buried. In that effort, I have been to Washington and to the lodge where a party was held, a party I apparently attended but still cannot remember. I have made plans to visit the site of the accident. I understand that your home is nearby. Would you consider allowing me to visit you, talk with you; and could you find it in your heart to let me try to remember what happened that day and night I was with you?
Please understand that if this is something you would rather not do, I will respect your wishes. You should know that I do have some memory of you. At least I believe it to be your face I have seen in my dreams, your voice I have heard. I picture you kneeling next to me in the snow. I see you sitting near an open fire, watching over me. Is that you, Emily, or just someone I have imagined?
Please accept my thanks in advance for even considering my request. Take all the time you need to respond. I have waited this long without even attempting to contact you. I can certainly allow you as much time as you need to make your decision.
All my best,
Stani Moss
In all the fantasies she'd engaged in over the years, she had never envisioned hearing from him so directly. A chance meeting, or in her wildest moments his sudden appearance at her door; never a polite request for a visit and certainly nothing so formal as this carefully worded letter. She had suddenly been shown a side of his personality she’d never even considered. He was apologetic, humbly asking her forgiveness. He seemed to half-expect her to deny his request, turn down his plea for a chance to regain his lost memories. He said he thought he remembered her, and his description of those memories seemed accurate. She had always believed herself hidden from him although she had secretly hoped he might have at least wondered about her. With this letter, he had altered her perspective of the very things that had enabled her to live with her own memories.
What would it be like to have him in this room, to watch as he searched for memories, when her own were still so vivid? If he came, and they talked about what happened during those hours, would she be giving away her own recollection, the thing she had so wanted to protect from prying eyes? But he was part of that; he had a right to know, didn't he? Or had he forfeited that by waiting over two years to come in search of her? She was confused, shaken by this unexpected letter and his gentle, conciliatory tone.
Afraid that if she hesitated, she might find some excuse for not responding, she sat down at the kitchen table and wrote her brief reply. Carefully addressing the envelope, she found a stamp and drove into town, dropping it in the slot at the locked post office. It would be safe there until Monday morning, safe from her own temptation to make changes or withdraw her answer altogether.
She had written that of course he was welcome to come, that he need only tell her the exact date of his planned visit. She explained that she often worked away from home. She would make the necessary arrangements to be available. That was all. She could think of no appropriate response to his revelation that he remembered her. What if, when they actually met, he realized she was not the girl he said he had seen in his dreams? The prospect was too terrifying to consider.
She knew she was in danger of working herself into a state of constant anxiety. She tried in the next few days to stay as busy as possible, giving the house a thorough fall cleaning. She dug in the garden, turning the soil and pulling out the roots of the failed crop. Try as she might to exhaust herself, she could not sleep. Wandering the house at night, she seemed to see things through his eyes. Suddenly, what had been comfortable and familiar looked shabby and dated. He would be accustomed to the best money could buy. Would he pity her, living so far from civilization as he knew it, in this aging house with its simple furnishings?
The thought made her angry and she prepared herself to dislike him, ready to defend her chosen life in the face of his arrogance. In the end, she decided, they would part as strangers, just as they had begun, and she would finally be free of her foolish romantic ideas for good.
His reply came within the week. He said that if she could a
rrange her schedule, he would like to come the following Saturday. He should arrive by late morning, and would try not to take too much of her time. Again polite and formal, he said he was eager to express his gratitude in person.
Emily was ashamed of herself for having thought so badly of him. At the same time, she was terrified by the prospect of actually seeing him again. She tried to steel herself, drawing strength from the idea that this was the last time he would need her help. Once he had come and gone, that would be the end of it. She would have done what he asked, contributed to his healing, and he would go back to his world for good. At least this time she would have the satisfaction of sending him away with some knowledge of the girl who had pulled him to safety.
Chapter Thirty-one
Panic was not an emotion Emily had often experienced, but as she waited out the week before the anticipated visit from Stani Moss, she became much better acquainted with it. No amount of work, regardless of how strenuous, could relieve the sense of pending doom that quivered her insides. By Wednesday, she had decided the only remedy might be rehearsing what she would say to him, how she would greet him and answers to the questions she imagined he would ask. Standing in front of her bedroom mirror, she tried on various smiles, extended her hand in an assortment of welcoming gestures, and worked out the phrasing for her description of the events of that day.
Feeling a trifle more confident, she moved on to her costume. Never particularly concerned with what she wore beyond pleasing her own likes and moods, now she considered what he might be expecting. Not knowing if he knew anything about her at all made that approach impossible, so she tried to focus on making the kind of statement that best conveyed what she wanted him to know. She hoped to give the impression of quiet competence, a woman well-pleased with her life, and most of all a woman who was strong and self-sufficient. How to do that with the clothes in her closet was another matter entirely. As she held up various items, and then cast them aside, a theme began to emerge. Too short, too informal, too revealing, too summery, too wintery, and most often too old. Nothing she owned met the desired criteria. The closest thing was the relatively new black dress she'd worn to the concert the week before; but after a second consideration, she knew it was both too formal and too revealing.
The only choice—other than to opt for jeans, which she had already ruled out as not serious enough for the occasion—was to go into town and buy something new. She hadn't done any shopping recently, trying to watch her budget until she had more work. But maybe a new fall dress wasn't too extravagant. She was certain of one thing, if she went to Martha Jean's she was assured of coming home with something new. She never managed to leave there empty handed.
After lunch, she set off for town with a grocery list and some books to return to the church library. Maybe a few hours out of the house would help offset her anxiety, too. But she would avoid Jack if possible. She hadn't told him about the communication with Stani, and withholding that kind of news would be impossible if she ran into him today. He would see the circles under her eyes from lost sleep and detect the jumpiness of her nerves the moment he laid eyes on her. Even Martha Jean was likely to question her impromptu shopping expedition, but she'd come up with some excuse. Hormones always worked for Martha Jean, she recalled. She'd just blame it on hormones.
To her relief, the church office was empty, with the little “Be right back” sign on Mike's desk. She dropped off her books and headed for the boutique. In luck again, she told herself, as she was greeted by the high-school girl who worked afternoons. Martha Jean was at the post office the girl said. Emily told her she was just browsing and stooped to greet Marjorie, who was napping in a chair near the door. Going to the racks of fall fashions, she considered her options. Woolens in rich golds and greens, dark brown plaid and navy blue corduroy caught her attention. But all seemed too fashionable, too frivolous, somehow lacking the simple, unassuming yet mature quality she was seeking. And then she spotted a dress, heather blue flannel with a plaid collar and little red buttons on the bodice. Taking it to a dressing room, she slipped it on, and knew right away it was her choice. Going to the three-way mirror to check the hem line—it wouldn't do if it were too short—she was greeted by Martha Jean, who was instantly, and vocally, disapproving.
“Emily, you don't want that. It's too old for you.”
“I like it. I don't think it's old at all.” Turning to catch herself at all angles, she decided the length would do. The dress wasn’t too short; her legs were just too long.
In a stage whisper, Martha Jean went on with her protest. “I just sold that dress, in a fourteen, mind you, to Tom Jeffers' wife.” She gave Emily a knowing glare. Helen Jeffers, a sweet lady with a huge heart, was singularly unattractive, with a horse face and thinning gray hair.
“Oh.” Lost for words, Emily again studied the dress. It fit high under the bodice, and the skirt barely skimmed her waist, flaring to the knee with a graceful sweep. She liked it. “Still, I think it's what I want. You know how I love blue.” Fingering the plaid collar, at a neckline neither too high nor too low, she chewed her lip and stared at herself in the mirror.
Behind her, an elderly gentleman sat in the provided armchair, waiting for his wife, who occupied the second dressing room. With a twinkle in his eyes, he spoke up. “Miss Clark, I beg to disagree with you. She looks fine in that little frock, just fine. A right highland lassie, I'd say.” Morrisett MacIntyre, the now-retired head of the local lumber company, was descended from a family who had settled in the valley just after the Revolutionary War. But he held proudly to his heritage and even invoked a hearty brogue on occasion. “That touch of tartan is just the thing, brings out the color in your cheeks, Emily.”
“Why thank you, Mr. Mac. How are you today?” She turned and bent to lay a hand on the man's stooping shoulders. A staunch Presbyterian, Mr. Mac, as he was known to everyone, had been a long-time church elder, and his wife had taught Emily in grade school.
“Doing well, but the missus is not quite up to par. I thought maybe a little shopping and dinner at the cafe might cheer her up.” From the dressing room, a muffled voice raised a halfhearted objection and the old man chuckled. “Bribery,” he whispered, patting Emily's hand.
Turning back to the mirror, she caught Martha Jean's still doubtful gaze. “I suppose it would do for church. Maybe with the right shoes. It needs red shoes, Em.” In a flash, ignoring Emily's protest, she retrieved a pair of shoes from the window. Sleek, gleaming red leather pumps, with delicate t-straps and three-inch heels, they were elegant and alluring. But in the back of her mind, Emily suddenly heard Joey Salvatore's voice, saying “Not even very tall” and withdrew the hand that had reached reverently toward the shoes.
“Flats, I think. I don't like walking in heels, you know.” Striding across to the shoe display, she picked up a pair. “These.” Red flats, with a little tassel on the tongue, and no heel whatsoever. The last thing she wanted to do was gaze down into the eyes of Stani Moss.
When she stood again in front of the mirror, beneath the admiring appraisal of both Mr. and Mrs. MacIntyre, the shoes on her feet, she knew she had found her costume. The outfit said clearly that she was a simple, well-bred country girl with few pretensions. No one terribly special, but not a shrinking violet either.
“Well, I guess it does suit you, Em. I just like to see you show off that figure of yours more. Still, you'd look like a million dollars in last year's gunny sack. I'll wrap it up for you. Oh, and by the way, Jack's over in Charlottesville today. He'll be sorry he missed you.”
She left the shop with a lighter step, satisfied that at least she would have more confidence in the impression she made. A little voice reminded her that she didn't care what he thought of her, but she knew that wasn't quite true. If this were to be their only meeting, he should leave knowing the woman who had dragged him out of the snow was a person of taste and breeding, not some country bumpkin in patched overalls. With a little smile, she reminded herself that on certain d
ays she could pass for just that, but not this Saturday morning. When she opened her front door to him for the first time, she wanted Stani Moss to see her as much more than that.
Chapter Thirty-two
John thought Stani looked as if he hadn't slept at all. He was pale and tense as he stared out the window at the passing scenery. John had questioned to himself the wisdom of visiting the site of the accident, especially after so much time had passed; but Stani was determined to follow through with his quest in hopes of allaying whatever demon had been driving him these past months. Somewhere along the way he had decided his survival was unjust. He couldn't understand, he said, why he had been spared when the other two had died. He drove himself as if he had to prove himself worthy of the life he'd been given. For the first time, Milo had been forced to slow Stani's pace, discourage him from making too many commitments. Wisely, Stani had decided to seek the help of a professional, and he seemed to find some peace once he began to follow the steps laid out for him. John himself had provided the information he'd gathered for Milo after the accident, but Stani insisted on visiting each place he had been during those lost hours. Now he wanted to see the actual spot where the car had gone off the road. And he had contacted the girl, after John had run down her address, and he planned to meet her today. As always, John was watching him closely, ready to intervene if he sensed Stani had gone too far.
When he pulled the car off the highway and stopped at the barricade, John hoped that would be close enough for Stani. But he opened his door and stepped out onto the gravel, looking around in silence. He began to walk deliberately down the road, toward a tall pine tree that still bore the scars of that night. Almost ten feet above the ground were broken branches, marking the place where the car had ended its flight. John walked beside him, waiting for him to speak. But Stani seemed lost in the effort of envisioning what had transpired here. Staring up at the tree, he appeared to be listening, his head tilted to one side, his face grim. Finally, he turned away and walked slowly to the bottom of the hill, where the land rose sharply above the roadway, and stood for a time gazing up into the sparse woods.