The Wedding Letters

by Jason F. Wright

  © 2011 Jason F. Wright.

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any means without permission in writing from the publisher, Shadow Mountain®. The views expressed herein are the responsibility of the author and do not necessarily represent the position of Shadow Mountain.

  All characters in this book are fictitious, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

  Wright, Jason F. author. The wedding letters / Jason F. Wright.

  pages cm

  Sequel to: The Wednesday letters.

  Summary: Noah is preparing to marry Rachel. However, when a dark secret from Rachel’s past surfaces, Noah and his parents, Malcolm and Rain, must find a way to heal Rachel’s heart as well as save the wedding. Perhaps a scrapbook of wedding letters filled with good wishes and marriage advice will hold the key the couple needs to find love and happiness.

  ISBN 978-1-60908-057-0 (hardbound : alk. paper)

  1. Family secrets—Fiction. 2. Betrothal—Fiction. 3. Domestic fiction. I. Title.

  PS3623.R539W43 2011

  813'.6—dc22 2011009992

  Printed in the United States of America

  Publishers Printing, Salt Lake City, UT

  10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

  For Kodi

  Thanks for saying yes

  Table of Contents

  Acknowledgments

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Chapter 41

  Chapter 42

  Chapter 43

  Chapter 44

  Chapter 45

  Chapter 46

  Chapter 47

  Visiting Woodstock and the Shenandoah Valley?

  Praise for The Novels of Jason F. Wright

  Other Books by Jason F. Wright

  Acknowledgments

  Dear Reader,

  It’s been four years since the first hardcover printing of The Wednesday Letters. Little did I know how the book would change my life forever. Not only did it become my first New York Times and USA Today bestseller, it inspired thousands of you to send me your own Wednesday Letters and share your personal, inspirational stories of how a single letter altered the course of your life.

  I’m humbled by how many of you have reconnected with the long lost art of the handwritten letter!

  Are you ready for more? In The Wedding Letters, I will introduce you to a new tradition. It is the simple concept of gathering letters full of encouragement, advice, and personal anecdotes relating to marriage and relationships. Those letters from friends and family are compiled into a book or binder and presented to someone you love at their wedding. Who wouldn’t cherish such a collection of letters forever?

  This novel would not have been possible without the support of Sheri Dew, Chris Schoebinger, Heidi Taylor, Lisa Mangum, and many others at Shadow Mountain. Thanks, also, to the loyal readers who slogged through early drafts. They are, in order of ice cream preference: Cherie Call Anderson, Matt Birch, Laurie Paisley, Angie Godfrey, and Michael Armstrong. Kudos to my Editor-for-a-Day contest winner, Shelbie Ross. Her input on the very first draft was invaluable.

  Jeff Wright, older brother extraordinaire, gets his own paragraph for finding errors and holes every other eyeball missed.

  Finally, thanks to my number-one fan club for keeping me grounded in mac and cheese, french fries between the seats, gummy bears, and teen angst: Kodi, Oakli, Jadi, Kason, Koleson, Pilgrim, and Surf.

  Sincerely,

  Jason

  PS: I can’t wait to hear about your own Wedding Letters project for that special someone. Visit www.jasonfwright.com or find me on Facebook at www.facebook.com/jfwbooks.

  Or, write me the old-fashioned way:

  PO BOX 669

  Woodstock, VA 22664

  Chapter 1

  April 14, 2011

  Killing him was unavoidable.

  Noah saw the fat squirrel plop off the curb and lumber like a sumo wrestler across Ox Road. The animal reached the center line before doubling back into the path of Noah’s gold 2006 Dodge Dakota.

  “Dude!” Noah shouted above the thuds and clunks. He yanked the wheel to the right much harder than he intended. First he thumped the squirrel, then he hopped the crumbling low curb, before finally hitting a woman riding a bright green mountain bike.

  He was pale and mumbling a few of his mother’s replacement swear words as he jumped out of the truck. “Are you OK?”

  The woman, lying some five feet from the front right corner of the truck, rolled onto her back, one foot stuck between the bike’s rear tire and the chain. Her hand went to a bleeding raspberry on her left cheek. One temple of a cracked pair of Oakley sunglasses poked out from under her bike helmet.

  “Are you all right? I am so sorry. I totally did not see you.” He pulled his cell phone from his pocket and dialed 911.

  The woman unhooked her helmet below her chin and tossed it to the side. “Oh, really?” she said. She struggled to remove her backpack from both shoulders.

  Noah reported the accident and he thought he heard the 911 operator say she’d stay on the line until help arrived, but he hung up anyway. “Totally didn’t see you.” Noah dropped to one knee. “Is anything broken?”

  She tried to sit up but couldn’t free her foot. “You mean besides my bike?”

  “Let me,” Noah said. “Hold on.” He pushed the chain the rest of the way off its sprocket and tried to pull her foot forward.

  “That hurts, no! That hurts! What is wrong with you?”

  “What hurts?”

  “Does it matter, you idiot? The foot, the ankle—it all hurts.” She put one hand on her forehead and the other back on the raspberry on her cheek.

  “You might be in shock. Just stay down.” Noah jumped up and moved to the other side of the bike’s bent frame. He lifted and twisted it a few degrees until the woman could remove her foot without contact.

  She sat up, braced herself with her palms flat on the sidewalk, and looked up at the sky. “Really God? Today? Really?”

  Noah sat near her. “Take a deep breath. I feel so terrible. My gosh. Really terrible. The ambulance should be here soon.” He stuck his hand out. “I’m sorry, I’m Noah Cooper. I didn’t get your name.”

  “When exactly would you have gotten my name? Before or after running me down?” She rubbed her hands together, dislodging tiny pebbles, before shaking his hand. “Rachel.” She held his hand firmly an extra beat before adding, “And you nearly killed me.”

  “Yeah, sorry, I realize that.” He pointed to the lump of sumo squirrel in the road. “I was avoiding him.”

  “You didn’t.”

  �
��Yeah, I realize that, too.”

  Rachel stretched her neck to the left and right, and they sat quietly until Rachel began removing her shoe.

  “Can I help?”

  Rachel’s eyes said, Haven’t you helped enough?

  “I’ll just move the truck. Be right back.” Noah heard Rachel mutter something that was definitely not one of his mother’s replacement swear words. He hopped in the truck, put it in reverse, rolled off the sidewalk, and backed into a parking space. An ambulance and a Fairfax County police cruiser arrived on scene just as Noah returned.

  While the EMTs treated Rachel, an officer named Kusel stood next to Noah, asking questions and filling out an accident report.

  “Just look at it,” Noah said, leading Kusel to the squirrel. “It’s the fattest thing I’ve ever seen.”

  Kusel smiled, made a note on his report, and quipped, “You obviously haven’t met my ex-wife.”

  The two men laughed and Noah glanced at Rachel, who was watching them as she was being strapped onto a backboard. Her look could have killed a thousand fat squirrels.

  “No, we’re not—” He gestured at the roadkill. “Oh, forget it.”

  Kusel continued scribbling his report, followed that with a quick ticket for Noah, and said he’d be trailing the ambulance to the hospital to finish his paperwork.

  “Can I come too? I want to be sure she’s going to be all right.”

  They both looked at the ambulance. With the rear door open, they could see three EMTs hovering over Rachel. One knelt at her feet, fastening a black brace to her ankle, another appeared to be checking her pulse, and the last made notes on a clipboard.

  “You’ll take care of the bike?” Kusel asked.

  “Sure.”

  “Fine. Toss it in the truck and hop in with me.”

  The two followed the ambulance along the edge of the George Mason University campus, then on to the parkway toward Inova Fairfax Hospital. Noah explained that he’d been heading to an exam study group. He quickly sent a text to a friend with the news he’d be late.

  “What are you studying?”

  “I’m graduating, hopefully in a couple weeks, with a BFA.”

  “Fine arts?” Kusel asked.

  “Yeah,” Noah said, impressed.

  Officer Kusel noticed. “Not all cops are idiots,” he said. “No matter what the ex says.”

  The small talk continued. Noah explained he was from Woodstock, Virginia, about ninety miles to the west. “Ever been out on 66? Just keep going until you hit 81, then go south fifteen or twenty miles. There’s Woodstock.”

  Kusel cocked his head. “The same one where—”

  “No, not that Woodstock,” Noah stopped him. “Not the one where people got hammered and mud-wrestled in their underwear.”

  “Too bad,” Kusel chuckled. Moments later, he pulled up behind the ambulance parked under the Emergency Room canopy and turned off the cruiser. “Here we go.”

  They followed Rachel on her rolling stretcher through the ER’s automatic doors and into a treatment bay. They stood aside as she was carefully transferred to a hospital gurney. Then an EMT gathered a signature, handed over a report, dropped Rachel’s backpack in a chair, and disappeared.

  “Everything looks fine,” a nurse said to Rachel, scanning the report. “Nothing urgent. A doctor will be right here, OK, sweetie?”

  Rachel cringed.

  For five minutes Noah stood just outside the curtain and listened as Officer Kusel took Rachel’s colorful statement. When he finished, he said good-bye with a greasy wink, slapped Noah on the back as he passed, and strode toward the nurses’ station.

  Noah stepped in, closed the curtain behind him, and approached Rachel’s bedside. “You hanging in there?”

  “You’re still here? I thought you’d be arrested by now.”

  “Ha-ha. Of course I’m still here.”

  “You really don’t need to be.”

  “Yes, I’m pretty sure I do. Are you in pain?”

  She shook her head and relaxed. “No, they gave me something on the ride over.”

  “What else can I do? I am really sorry about all this.”

  She contemplated. “Can you go to a meeting back on campus for me?”

  “Sure,” Noah answered with utter confidence. “Anything. Name it. I’m your guy.”

  “Great, hand me my backpack, Superman.”

  He did and she rifled through it, producing a folder bulging with notes. She held it out to him. “Can you defend my master’s thesis?”

  Noah didn’t know whether to run, cry, or run away crying. “You’re kidding.”

  “No, I’m afraid I’m not.”

  He sat in a chair near the bed. “I am so sorry. So totally and completely sorry.”

  Rachel shoved the folder back in her bag and held it out for him. He took it and set it on the floor.

  “Don’t worry. It’s covered,” she said. “I texted my advisor from the ambulance. Turns out there are not many things that get you this kind of reprieve, but being run over by a truck is one of them.” She half-smiled at him, and for the first time since the accident, Noah exhaled fully and took a deep, calming breath.

  Noah reeled her into playing get-to-know-you while they waited over a half hour for a doctor.

  Noah told her how thrilled he was to be graduating with an art degree and about his dream of publishing children’s books. “I’m the next David Wiesner.”

  Rachel gave him her last name. “It’s Kaplan.” She also mentioned her graduate degree, an MA in sociology, and her master’s thesis: “Private Sector Cures to Inner-City Violence in Washington, DC.”

  “Does me hitting you with my truck count as inner-city violence?”

  Rachel laughed, even though she really didn’t want to. It wasn’t much, Noah thought, but it was definitely a laugh. He nearly lost himself in the realization that her eyes were as bright and big and beautiful as he’d ever seen.

  Eventually a doctor came. He checked the bruise on Rachel’s cheek, applied a fresh bandage, and manipulated Rachel’s ankle in every possible direction before ordering X-rays.

  An hour later, the same doctor told Rachel she had a high ankle sprain, but no break. He wrapped it, advised her to apply ice and to stay off it for a few days. He gave her an extra bandage, crutches, a prescription for an anti-inflammatory drug, and sent her home.

  Noah helped Rachel into a cab and surprised her by getting in the other side.

  “Are you kidding me? We’re sharing cabs now?”

  “I’ve got your bike in my truck. You want it back, don’t you?”

  “You’re insufferable!” She laughed, but was already thinking: More like irresistible.

  They took the cab back to his truck near the GMU campus. Noah drove them to a CVS pharmacy, insisted on paying for the prescription and re-freezable ice pack, and then followed Rachel’s directions to an apartment complex a few miles away.

  He helped her up a flight of stairs to her front door and held it open as she hobbled inside. Without turning around or stopping her momentum, she said, “Yes, you can come in.”

  Noah put the ice pack in the freezer and filled a small bag of ice to use in the meantime. He also slid the coffee table close enough for her foot, and, without being asked, searched for and found a pillow to go underneath it. Though she begged him not to, he scavenged through her refrigerator and found Chinese food. “How old?” he asked.

  “Three months,” she called back into the kitchen.

  “Ha.”

  “It’s from last night.” Again without her blessing, he warmed the food in the microwave and the two shared what was left of orange chicken and noodles.

  Noah asked about roommates and learned Rachel hadn’t had one since finishing her undergrad. He didn’t comment, but it was clear to Noah from the unusually nice college apartment and its furnishings that Rachel didn’t need a roommate to make her monthly rent.

  Rachel asked about his roommates, and Noah said that with th
eir divergent schedules he hardly knew them. “They put a check on the corkboard every month, that’s about it.”

  Noah asked about Rachel’s family.

  She said very little.

  Rachel asked about his, and Noah talked for ten minutes.

  An hour after arriving, he left with a pledge to get the bike fixed and return it ASAP.

  A week later, after twenty-two text messages from him and ten increasingly friendly messages back, Noah returned with a good-as-new bike, a pair of Oakley sunglasses, and something he’d visited six toy stores to find: a fat, plush, stuffed squirrel.

  Chapter 2

  Domus Jefferson was quiet.

  There were times when Malcolm and Rain loved the silence. They often looked forward to the weekends with no guests, no late night crises, no 3:00 a.m. ding-dongs at the doorbell. On those nights they’d lie in bed and bathe in the spirit of the Inn and in the spirit and history of Thomas Jefferson, whose image and interests lined the walls and crammed the bookshelves.

  Rain and Malcolm had built an entire marriage at the Inn. It wasn’t just a bed-and-breakfast; it was a home. It was the only home they’d shared as a married couple.

  Recently, however, what had settled in the air at the Inn just south of Woodstock, Virginia, was a sadder sort of quiet. It was the quiet only doubt knows, the quiet that portends uncertain change.

  Since the bailouts, failures, presidential election, and economic collapse of 2008, business had been slower than ever. Malcolm had been a part of Domus Jefferson since his parents had bought it in 1968. He had been thirteen years old then and had seen wild swings in business and occupancy rates through the years. He often reminded Rain that the ups and downs were part of the life of owning and running an inn.