“Charm,” Rain offered.
“Sure. How do you do that? How do you make it more of a bedroom community for northern Virginia? How do we attract more money from the city—maybe even more commercial development—but without upsetting the locals?”
Rain squeezed Malcolm’s leg under the table. “Honey?”
Malcolm shoved the rest of his cone in his mouth and wiped his hands on what was left of the napkin. “Good luck with that.”
“What do you mean?” Mr. Van Dam said.
“He means it’s a balancing act,” Rain said.
“I do?” Malcolm said.
“Yes,” Rain answered. “We walk a fine line between maintaining what makes the valley unique and emphasizing what tourists want. But I think you’ll find the most important thing is the people. It’s the people who make the valley special, not the restaurants or the businesses or even the changing of the leaves.”
Malcolm furrowed his brow like a cartoon character. “Is that straight from our website?”
“Yes, but I wrote it, so I can use it whenever I want.”
The night ended in the living room with Rain making plans with Mrs. Van Dam for the good-bye celebration. Their husbands sat in Malcolm’s office discussing building permits, county politics, and revisiting the list of furniture the Coopers had chosen to take with them to their new home.
After a breakfast the next morning that Mrs. Van Dam called both chaotic and delicious, her husband checked his watch and excused himself to the yard where he met a Fairfax-based general contractor.
Malcolm watched from the porch as the other men walked the property and Mr. Van Dam added another page of notes to his legal pad. Malcolm overheard talk of a paved driveway, a new building with meeting rooms, Wi-Fi, and a pool. When they walked around to the back of the house, Malcolm didn’t follow. Instead he returned inside and reread a letter from his parents’ collection. Then he debated whether to let the Van Dams read it, too.
• • •
July 10, 1968
Laurel,
I’m not even going to try describing how this place looks. You’ll have to admire it with your own eyes. It’s heaven.
I am spending the night in one of the guest rooms at the Inn at the absolute insistence of Mr. and Mrs. Condie. They thought I should experience the Inn at night. I’m afraid it might have closed the deal for me. It is so calm here, Laurel, a reverent feeling I don’t want to lose. I expect when I open the shade in the morning I’ll see fog rising in the field below the house and ghost-soldiers marching silently through it. I feel like I’m sleeping in a history book tonight.
I spent the afternoon and evening downtown at a diner on what I suppose is called Main Street. There is really only one street in the town and it runs through the center of everything. It’s also called Route 11 or Old Valley Pike, and it goes for miles and miles north and south connecting a whole string of other small towns to Woodstock. I believe Woodstock is the county seat.
This place has some fascinating history. I learned from a woman at the diner named Tiffanee (sp?) about a man named John Peter Muhlenberg (sp?) but who everyone called “The Fighting Parson.” Now that’s a nickname.
He came to Woodstock in the late 1700s to be the pastor. In 1776, which is just about my favorite year as you know, he delivered a sermon calling for volunteers to join the militia to the Continental Army. At the end of his sermon, he ripped off his church robe and revealed an officer’s uniform underneath. He shouted, “There’s a time to pray and a time to fight!” What a man he must have been!
The town hosted generals and soldiers from both sides of the war. And one guess who designed the town’s courthouse? Jefferson. It’s the most beautiful limestone I’ve seen.
Hon, this place already feels like home to me. The Inn needs some work in a few spots, but nothing your man cannot do alone or with help from Matthew and Malcolm. I see new art for the walls, some new furniture in the rooms, and new mattresses for the cottage. They look like one too many kids have jumped and peed on them, probably in that order.
And it’s silly, I know, but I can’t wait for you to see the mailbox. It was the first thing I noticed. It’s sort of rusty-red with a white dove carrying an envelope in its mouth. It’s the kind of mailbox that knows secrets. It’s the kind of mailbox that will hold our Wednesday Letters proudly and then beg you to read them aloud. See? I told you it was silly.
We probably don’t need to decide for another week, but we can’t wait long. The Condies would like to close the sale and be in Boulder within a month, tops.
I could die in this house. It’s got to be close to God.
See you in a few days,
Jack
Chapter 34
22 Days to the Celebration
Rachel’s first day of work at the Department of Justice was a whirlwind of paperwork, meetings, department orientations, and more paperwork. She met the remaining members of her team at a special lunch in a posh restaurant in Union Station next door to their building. There were eleven of them in total, all covered under the same grant Rachel had helped secure, and they came from myriad backgrounds in government, business, and academia.
Rachel relied heavily on Tyler to understand and adapt to the DOJ culture. Even though they were equals, Rachel often bypassed her boss to approach Tyler with questions about her new responsibilities. She appreciated his patience and willingness to hold her hand through the transition from full-time student to full-time employee of the federal government.
When they weren’t talking about work or sharing private opinions on their colleagues, Tyler casually reminded her of the good, stress-free times they’d shared in college. Rachel was amazed—and impressed—at how many memories he’d captured and was eager to recount.
Tyler didn’t know every detail of her private life, but he knew enough to know a door had been opened. One afternoon over a snack and soda in a conference room, he’d asked if the wedding was cancelled or simply postponed, and Rachel admitted she wasn’t sure which anymore. All she knew is how much she appreciated his willingness to listen. She’d always known he was intelligent and well-traveled, that he spoke French—badly—and had no baggage. But she’d never known what a good listener he was, and he offered to listen often.
They only touched on the topic of Rachel’s father. She couldn’t bring herself to tell Tyler everything, but she at least told him he could stop looking. Rachel was glad Tyler just said OK and didn’t press her for details. She wanted to imagine that her father might still be alive somewhere, still scribbling and sending the occasional postcard, but she knew that was impossible.
Rachel called Noah on the way home from work at the end of her first week. His eager, boyish voice made her smile. “Hey you.”
“Hey back. How are you? Where are you?”
“Heading home from work.”
“Everything all right? You survived?”
“I survived. It’s pretty nuts already, but I’m making it.”
“Good. Nuts is busy. And busy is good, yeah?”
“Busy is good. That’s true.”
“So what’s it like?” Noah asked.
“It’s a little frightening, honestly. It’s reports and meetings and calls.” She paused before adding an “Oh my!”
“Ha,” Noah grumbled.
“Just one?”
“Not even—I just don’t know how to give half a ha.”
Rachel enjoyed a laugh and sat on a bench by her downtown metro stop.
“What are the people like?” Noah asked.
“They’re fantastic.”
“How’s Tyler Clingman?”
“Clingerman.”
“Whatever.”
“He’s fine, Noah. He’s actually been a big help to me.”
“Oh, I bet he has.”
“He’s been a good friend to me, you know. He’s handled a lot for me this first week to help me get settled.”
“What a gentleman,” Noah said, though he was a
ctually thinking, What else has he handled?
“Anyway. Next topic. How about you? What are you up to, funnyman? Watching Dr. Oz? Ellen?”
“How dare you, Rachel Kaplan. You know I’m a Rachael Ray guy.”
“Tsk-tsk, Noah,” she said and admitted, if only to herself, she missed the banter.
He switched the phone from one ear to the other. “I’ve missed you, Rach.”
“Thank you.”
“Thank you?”
“I’ve missed you, too, Noah.”
“You get my e-mails about the party?”
“I did.”
“And?”
“I don’t know yet.”
“Rach, it’s coming up quick. And it’s important to me. It’s going to be a big day for everyone. People are coming from all over to say good-bye to the Inn.”
“I know, but it’s a weekday, Noah. And I just started work. I don’t know if I can really disappear for a whole day.”
Noah counted yet another reason he wished they weren’t having this discussion by phone. “You do realize you were prepared to take off an entire week for a wedding and honeymoon, right?”
Rachel replied with an embarrassed silence.
Noah sighed. “I’m sorry. I just want you there.”
“But does anyone else?”
“Of course they do. They want to see you. They want to share the day with you.”
Rachel unbuttoned the jacket on her power suit and took a big breath. “I seriously don’t get that.”
“Get what?”
“I don’t get why they’d care to share the big shindig with me. Or why they’d want to share anything with me. Not after all this. Not after the way I left.” She measured and remeasured her words. “The Inn scares me now.”
“Why?”
“Truthfully? It reminds me I haven’t seen my mother since . . .” She cleared her throat. “I’m embarrassed about it. I’m embarrassed about all of it.”
Noah stepped outside of his apartment and looked up at the overcast sky. “Are you outside?”
“I’m getting ready to hop on the metro and ride home.”
“Look up.”
She did and noticed for the first time all day how dark and overcast it was.
“What do you see?”
“Probably what you see. We’re only what, five miles apart?”
“Is it cloudy?”
“Yes, Al Roker, it’s cloudy. But no rain. At least not downtown.”
“Here either. But it’s super dark.”
“Same here.”
“Remember what I said about overcast skies?”
Rachel flipped her metro card between her thumb and index finger. “Yes.”
“We’re still here, Rach, whether you see us or not.”
“I know.”
“Come to the party. It’s important to me.”
“I can appreciate that.”
“A&P wants you here, too.”
Rachel laughed again. “I know. She’s been leaving me long and bizarre voice mails every day.”
“But they’re hilarious, right?”
“That they are.”
“I get them, too. It’s an A&P thing.” Noah took a beat and then a chance. “She’s still putting together our Wedding Letters, you know.”
Rachel breathed that in.
“She’s got more than ever, she says. More than my mom and dad. Way more than Samantha and Shawn. Might have to go to another book it’s getting so fat.”
Rachel’s voice was soft and with the ambient noise near the metro, Noah had to ask her to repeat herself. “I said, why is she still worrying about it?”
“Because she’s A&P. Because she has hope like the rest of us.”
“Noah—”
“And because she didn’t want to tell all those people not to bother. The letters are keepsakes no matter what. You’ll like them, I promise you will. I’m illustrating a cover even.”
“Noah—”
“And Angie’s said she’s still coming regardless. Wedding or no. They’d already bought the plane tickets. And of course they’re bringing the baby. I remember how well you and Baby Taylor hit it off.”
“Ha,” Rachel said. Then she stood up, wedged the phone between her chin and shoulder and rebuttoned her coat. “I don’t know. I’m just starting to put things together, to feel normal again. I’m finding some . . . I don’t know if it’s peace or what you want to call it, but it’s . . . it’s an understanding. Like finding out who I am again.”
“You know who you are, Rachel Kaplan. That never changed.”
But it did, she thought.
“All right,” Noah said after a moment of silence. “Think about it?”
“I will.”
“Dinner soon?”
“I’d like that.”
“I’ll call you?”
“Sure.”
“I love you, Rachel. You know that, right?”
“I do.”
It was not the I do he wanted to hear, but he couldn’t deny it felt better than nothing at all.
Chapter 35
13 Days to the Celebration
Malcolm was sitting at his desk when headlights lit up the front of Domus Jefferson and the Shenandoah County sheriff’s SUV came to a stop in the spacious gravel parking area. Malcolm watched his sister kill the lights and sit in the car for a minute or two before opening the door and stepping into the night air. He moved to meet her at the front door, but when he pulled it open, she wasn’t on the porch, she was walking across the north side lawn heading toward the guest cottage. He watched her open the front door, flip on a light, and shut the door behind her.
“Who’s here?” Rain startled him from behind.
Malcolm pointed at the guesthouse. “Sammie.”
“She need something?”
“I don’t know.”
“Is she all right?”
“I don’t know that either.” Malcolm turned and kissed her forehead. “I’ll find out.” He descended the porch alone and made his way to the small two-bedroom guesthouse he and his sister had once shared as children.
“Knock-knock,” he said, opening the door. Malcolm found Samantha in full uniform lying on her back on a double bed in her old room. “Do you have a reservation?”
“Don’t need one.” She smiled.
“Oh, really?” Malcolm leaned against the open door.
“Nope, I know the owners.”
“Ah, yes, the owners. Good people.”
“Eh. The wife’s sweet,” Samantha said, “but the husband’s a hoser.”
“Hoser? What are you now, a Mountie?”
“Shut it.”
“So why the visit? Shawn finally kick you out?”
“You wish.”
“I do?”
“You know you’d love to have your sister back here tormenting you like the good ol’ days.”
“I thought I did most of the tormenting.” Malcolm slapped her hip. “Slide over, sheriff.” He laid down next to her and pulled the pillow out from underneath her head.
“You’re such a doof,” she said, yanking it back and doubling it over so there wasn’t enough to share.
“Doof,” Malcolm chuckled. “Haven’t heard that one for a while.”
“Yet it never goes out of style,” she said. They laid side by side, looking up at the ceiling.
“Everything all right, sis?”
“Yeah, just been meaning to come by all week. Been thinking about this place.”
“The Inn?”
“The Inn, the cottage, the hill, Mom and Dad. . . . I haven’t been in the old room in a long time.”
“I’m surprised you recognized the place. Rain took down your Johnny Depp and Heathcliff posters years ago.”
“It was Tom Cruise and Garfield, thank you very much. And that was a long time ago. Long before Katie Holmes and long before he became a Scientologist.”
“Garfield’s a Scientologist?”
Samantha pulled
her pillow out and whacked him.
“What?” he protested. “I don’t judge.”
Laughter filled the cottage and Samantha put the pillow back in place, this time leaving half for Malcolm and inviting him to take it with a pat. They looked back up at the ceiling. “Remember those glow-in-the-dark stars I had?”
“Uh-huh. Mom bought them for you to make you like the room.”
“Yep. We went to Ben Franklin. Must have been just a couple nights after we moved here. I actually liked the room just fine, but I kept telling her the more stars I had, the more I’d like it. So she kept buying them. Had my own little galaxy up there.”
“I remember. They were still there when you and Will split up and you and Angie moved back here for a while. No glow left, but they were there.”
“How appropriate,” Samantha mused.
They lay in silence, both following thoughts to stale memories.
“Angie loved it here. She missed Will, but she loved living here. I had to drag her away and into that townhouse.”
“I think Mom and Dad spoiling her to death had something to do with that.”
“Maybe so.”
Another verse of silence came and went between them.
“Funny how much you hated this place at first.” Malcolm turned to her. “Now look at you.”
“Of course I did. That’s what you’re supposed to do when you’re ten and you get ripped from your home.”
“Ripped from your home? OK, John Walsh.”
“What? It was tough moving here. My life was in Charlottesville.”
“Uh, Sammie, you know I moved too? And I was a teenager with actual friends. Most of yours were imaginary.”
“Most of yours were imaginary.” She mocked his voice. “I had friends. Theater friends mostly, but good friends.”
“Maybe so, but you settled in quickly. We all did.”
“This place sure helped,” Samantha said.
“It sure did.”
They reminisced in familiar rhythm about sleepovers and fights, holidays and snowstorms, pranks and parents.
The Wedding Letters Page 17