“I did, she invited us both to visit tomorrow.”
“I think you should go, I’ve got plans,” I said.
“Plans?”
“Daniel invited me for a drink.”
Dad chuckled and shook his head.
“What?”
“Miller and Daniel, now there’s a box of fireworks you’re about to ignite.”
“What do you mean by that?” I asked, following Dad into the kitchen.
“You don’t know?”
“No, so tell me.”
“Miller’s wife, who was having an affair, eventually left him, and it’s rumoured, took up with Daniel for a while.”
“No way. Hold on, Miller told me his wife had left him for a criminal or someone.”
Dad shrugged his shoulders. “Well, that’s not what I heard. It’s why they don’t get on.”
“I’m sure he said his ex-wife was with someone who was in prison.”
“Maybe she is now, but she ran straight into the arms of Daniel for consoling, told him a bunch of lies, according to Colette, then she divorced Miller and took his dog. Or was it his record collection, I can’t remember.”
“His dog.”
Miller had told me his wife had an affair; he omitted the part about Daniel, if it was true of course. Mrs. Hampton was either the font of all village knowledge, or a terrible gossip.
“They only started talking again a few months ago and I think it’s still very strained.”
“He told me that he met someone else after his divorce,” I said.
“He did, that was tragic. She died, can’t remember from what. Now, do you want cold meat and mashed potato?”
“That would be lovely. Why don’t I get that sorted, you go and pour us a glass of wine each.”
As soon as Dad left the kitchen, I sat to think. Miller had lost his partner yet he hadn’t said a word about that. I wondered why. Wouldn’t that have given us a connection, something in common? Or maybe he didn’t want to talk about it at all. The more I knew about Miller, the more I realised I knew nothing at all. Yet his kiss had been so consuming, so connecting, and passionate. It had felt so natural but he was effectively a stranger. How could that be?
There was something in the back of my mind that I just couldn’t grasp. Some knowledge that was wriggling its way to the front. It frustrated me, but all I could do was to concentrate on something else and hope whatever it was, would come to me.
I set about to prepare dinner and put Miller out of my mind. His kiss though, was there thanks to the tingle still on my lips.
Dad and I decided to eat off our laps in front of the TV. It wasn’t something we’d normally do, but there was a movie that we both didn’t want to miss. Dad moaned at the unreality and I gawked at the leading man in his ripped t-shirt and oil stained skin. We had fun and it was another day that I didn’t feel overwhelmed with Trey, Hannah, Christian, Helen, affairs, and deceit. When the movie finished, I picked up the plates and took them to the kitchen.
My head felt a little fuzzy just from one, large glass of wine, so I poured myself a glass of water. I was such a lightweight when it came to alcohol. I guessed it stemmed back to uni days when I was always the designated driver. When I should have been out challenging my tolerance, I was sober and sensible.
I stacked the dishwasher, let Lucy out for a ramble around the garden, and topped up her feed and water bowls. She would enjoy some leftover turkey and warm gravy. It was as I let her back into the kitchen that a thought came to me.
I rushed upstairs and retrieved all the letters I’d received from Lincoln and returned to the kitchen. I scanned through them.
Knew you as a child.
My wife died a couple of years ago.
Reconciling, of sorts.
I have many wrongs to right.
I shook my head. They were just a few words in a sea of hundreds. Was it just coincidence that Miller had either told me similar things, or I’d found out similar things? I’d convinced myself for such a long time my Lincoln was an elderly gentleman, who sat at a scratched old desk, in front of an open fire with a dog by his feet. My Lincoln resembled the man in the cemetery that day, the man caring for Anna’s grave, even though that wasn’t his wife. And, of course, Miller wasn’t called Lincoln.
…son called Lincoln…
Those words, said by the man at the cemetery floated through my mind.
“No way,” I said, aloud.
“No way, what?” Dad said, bring the empty glasses into the kitchen.
“Is Miller his real name?”
“I guess so, why do you ask?”
“I’m beginning to think the man who writes these letters to me is Miller.”
I showed Dad the passages in the letters and explained some things that either Miller or he had told me.
“I don’t know, Dani, that’s a pretty obscure conclusion to come to. I mean, I know I said his partner died, I don’t know if they were married or not. So he knew you as a child, but this is a small village, everyone knows everyone. Are you sure you’re not just grasping at straws because you want to know who this Lincoln is?”
“The man at the cemetery said he had a son named Lincoln, yet no one knows of two Lincolns living in this village.”
“Well, I don’t have an answer for that. What would you do if this was Miller?”
“I don’t know. I think I’d be upset, if I’m honest. I’ve poured my soul out in these letters, told Lincoln things I’ve not been able to tell anyone, even you. I’d feel cheated, deceived, again.”
“I guess all you can do is ask him but I hope you’re wrong. And you’ll need to be careful, you don’t want to alienate him. Those letters have been a comfort to you, is it really so important to know who wrote them? Let’s say it was Miller, wouldn’t you want to focus on the fact that you have two, as such, people that support you? And who’s to say that what he’s written aren’t, like you, words he can’t express in person?”
I didn’t answer because I couldn’t.
“Can I borrow your car?” I asked. I’d made a decision.
“You can, obviously, but I’m not sure you’re doing the right thing,” Dad replied.
“I don’t know if I’m doing the right thing, but something changed between Miller and me today, and I now need to know if this is him,” I said, waving the letters in front of me.
Dad opened a cupboard and retrieved his car keys. I pulled on a jacket and gave him a kiss on his cheek.
“Thank you. Don’t wait up for me, but I’ll call if I need you,” I said, knowing that was want he’d want to hear.
Dad nodded and walked me to the front door. He watched as I opened the barn and drove his car onto the drive. I hadn’t driven in a long while, but it didn’t take long to find the headlights and head off down the lane.
My palms started to sweat and the closer I got to Miller’s house, the more nervous I became. As I rounded the corner, and his cottage came into view, I slowed the car.
“This is daft,” I said to myself.
I scanned the lane, looking for somewhere I could turn around but the only place was Miller’s drive. I saw lights on in the room at the front of the house, if I pulled onto his drive, he’d see the headlights. If I killed the lights, I was sure that he’d still hear the car. I was committed.
I pulled onto his drive and turned off the car. I sat for a moment, taking some deep breaths before opening the door and walking to his front door. Before I could change my mind, I knocked.
Miller opened the door wearing a pair of jeans and a crumpled t-shirt. His hair was wet, as if he’d recently showered.
“Dani?”
“What’s your name?” I asked, probably more abruptly through nerves than was necessary.
“Sorry?”
“What’s your name,” I repeated.
“Do you want to come in?” He stepped to one side and I walked into the hallway.
“Are you Lincoln?”
He didn’t answer im
mediately. “Can I get you a glass of wine, or tea, since you’re driving?”
“I don’t want a glass of wine, or tea, I want to know if you are the one who wrote me these letters.” I held them in front of me.
“Come through,” he said, walking away.
I followed him into a living room. There were two standard lamps lit, and a fire roaring in the hearth. A book was placed face down on a brown leather sofa, and a small glass filled with a brown liquid and ice sat on a wooden table in the centre of the room.
“Take a seat,” he said, indicating with his hand towards the sofa.
“Did you write these letters?” I asked again, while standing in the middle of the room.
He sighed. “Can I read them?”
“No. Answer my question, please?”
Miller sat on the sofa; he leant forwards and picked up the glass, taking a sip of the liquid. He rested his head back and closed his eyes for a moment. I wasn’t sure if that was him savouring his drink, or contemplating what to say.
Without opening his eyes, he answered me.
“Yes.”
Just one word was all he gave me, and I deflated. I sat at the other end of the sofa, my legs all of a sudden so weary.
“Why?”
“Because you needed me to.”
“I didn’t need you to,” I said.
“You needed someone to answer you. I found your letter, in fact, I saw you place it in the bottle. I was curious.”
“And you just decided to write back?” I could hear the sarcasm in my voice.
“Is that so terrible? Your letter tore at my heart, and you know what? Maybe I needed someone to write to as well.”
He stared hard at me.
“All this is a bloody lie. You’ve deceived me, just like…”
“I am nothing like your shit of an ex-husband, Dani. Don’t insult me by comparing me to him. There is not one lie in those words, so I’m not sure how you got to deceit.”
“You called yourself Lincoln. I met a man…”
“You met my father, he told you he had a son called Lincoln, and he wasn’t lying to you. My name is Lincoln Miller Copeland. I have gone by the name, Miller, since primary school. I got fed up, even at that age, of being called by my father’s name, of both of us answering when someone called us, of not having my own identity.”
“He lives in an old people’s home. You told me he lives at the bottom of your garden.”
“I told you he lived, past tense, at the bottom of my garden. He moved into a home just a few months ago, because he prefers that and it’s better for him. I can’t care for him the way he needs, or so he thinks.”
“You said, in your letter, that your wife died of breast cancer.”
“So she did, two…well, three years ago now.”
“But you divorced…”
“I’ve been married twice, for my shame, and both fucked off and left me.”
“Fucked off?”
“Abandoned, whatever words you want to use. It’s all the same.”
I could see the anger and sadness mixing in his eyes. His features hardened, and the tension was palpable. His jaw worked from side to side, and his fist had clenched around his glass to the point his knuckled were white.
“I feel exposed. I’ve said things in my letters that I haven’t told anyone, yet all the time you pretended to be someone else.”
“How have I pretended to be anything other than who I am?”
“You didn’t tell me you’d written those letters, you fucking kissed me, you…”
“None of that connects, Dani. And you kissed me back just as fucking passionately, didn’t you? You wanted me as much as I wanted you. Deny that.”
I opened my mouth to speak but couldn’t. Miller shuffled up the sofa, I pulled my knees up to block him.
“I wrote those letters, not expecting to ever meet you. I knew who you were, like I told you earlier today, I’ve known you for years. I’ve thought about you a lot over those years. It was a childhood crush, I knew that, but in mind, with every shitty day I lived through, I wondered what my life would have been like had you been in it. You, without knowing it, got me through nights in prison when all-out war was going on, both in my mind and outside the cells. You, Dani, stopped me from killing myself when life was so fucked up and I was so drunk nothing made sense. So I found your letter and I thought I could give back some of the help you, unknowingly, gave me.”
“But…”
“But then your dad asked me to quote for your barn. What was I to do? I could have refused, I could have said I was too busy, but I didn’t want to.”
I watched his shoulders rise and fall faster than they should have. I saw a pulse beat frantically in the side of his neck. His eyes, however, had softened. Gone was the darkness, instead I saw a pleading. I shook my head.
“I think it was a shitty thing to do,” I said, quieter as the fight had left my body.
“Shitty? Shitty would have been to ignore your cry, no, scream, for help. Shitty would have been to have stopped replying to you earlier, when you still needed to hear those words and read those letters. Shitty would have been to have abandoned you, when you needed me.”
“I don’t need you,” I said, my voice rising.
“You don’t need me, Miller, the man sitting here now, watching your heart rate increase, watching your pupils dilate, watching your body start to shiver even though it’s fucking warm in here? Or Lincoln? Because we are one and the same, and every word written in those letters was healing, cathartic, freeing, for both of us. And from the heart, Dani. From. The. Heart.”
Without me realising he was so close, his body had pushed my knees to my chest. I was squashed into the corner of the sofa with nowhere to go.
“From the heart,” he whispered.
I stared at him, all the while trying to slow my heart down, trying to stop the shiver that raced over my body. Miller placed his hand on the outside of my thigh; he slid it to my waist.
“You needed me, and you know what? I needed you. And that has nothing to do with some silly childhood crush. We were both grieving, hurting; don’t tell me you didn’t find those letters a comfort. Don’t tell me you didn’t want to receive them, that you didn’t look forward to receiving them.”
“It’s creepy,” I said, not sure where the word had come from. “You said you’d followed me around when I was a kid, and this kind of feels like you’ve taken advantage of me.”
“Taken advantage of you?”
“Yes.” I straightened my back in defiance.
“Anything I’ve ever done has been because I care. But if you feel differently, then I guess you ought to leave.”
He sat back so abruptly it was as if I’d slapped his face. And I guessed I had. He stood and paced for a moment, before picking up his glass, and draining his drink. I was about to stand when he threw the glass into the fire. It shattered, it hissed, sparks flew out covering the stone hearth. I cried out in shock.
“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to scare you,” he said, not looking at me.
I stood, not sure what to do.
“Let me drive you home, it’s dark out. I can bring the car back in the morning.”
“I’m capable of driving in the dark, it’s how I got here,” I said.
He kept his back to me. “How did you find out?” he asked, his voice so quiet it was difficult to hear at first. “Was it Daniel?”
“Daniel? No. Does Daniel know?”
He nodded his head. “My brother the saint that ain’t found one of your letters. Guess that’s why he decided to step in and protect you from me.” His laugh was bitter.
“Did your first wife have an affair with Daniel?”
“No. She was having an affair, just not with Daniel. She then had the decency to leave me and ran to Daniel, her confidant. She told him I’d abused her, verbally, emotionally, whatever. He believed her because he thought I was a fuck-up anyway. I guess they got close, super close. Close enough
for me to walk in on them one time. See, Dani, I know about betrayal and deceit, which is why I thought I was doing a good thing by replying to your letters.”
He walked from the room, leaving me standing there. I walked to the living room door.
“What about your wife? You told me she was called Anna. Your dad was visiting Anna’s grave. How coincidental is that?”
“Very coincidental. My wife was called Annabelle. My dad picked a grave that didn’t look like anyone had visited it for years. I thought it was a strange thing to do, but it gave him some comfort. My mother is in Devon. I told you we moved away, yes? My mother died there. My dad never envisioned coming back here; it was too painful. But he, we, did, and he couldn’t bring her with him. She was cremated and her ashes were scattered.”
By the direction of his voice, I took it that Miller was in the kitchen. I could hear the clink of glass and wondered if he was pouring himself another drink.
“I don’t know what to say or think,” I said.
“Say nothing, think nothing. I’m not going to apologise, Dani. I don’t think I’ve done anything wrong but try to do good. If you can’t see that, you need to leave.”
I couldn’t, at that moment, see that. My thoughts were shrouded with confusion. I was attracted to Miller; I was enthralled with Lincoln. I couldn’t reconcile them. I walked to the front door and gently closed it behind me. I got in the car, and with tears blurring my vision; I drove home.
Chapter Twenty
Although the hallway light was on, there were no others. I opened the front door leaving the car in the driveway. I locked the door behind me and crept up the stairs. I could hear the gentle snores coming from Dad’s bedroom as I tiptoed past. I shrugged off my clothes, not bothering to shower, and pulled on a pair of shorts and a tank top. I climbed under the duvet, leaving the side light on and read through the letters again. It wasn’t the elderly gentleman that I pictured but a tortured Miller. It was obvious when I thought about it. He had actually told me some of the things he’d written about, just not as elaborately. Maybe he’d wanted me to figure it out. Perhaps he’d been calling out for help as loudly as I had been. If what I knew was true, he’d been to hell and back, several times. He hadn’t told me a great deal about Annabelle, but I figured they hadn’t been together for long before she’d died. I imagined that to be so hard. He’d had a second chance with her and it had been wrenched away.
Letters to Lincoln Page 21