"Hansen, Maxine Joy - The Letter" - читать интересную книгу автора (Hansen Maxine Joy)
-The Letter-
By Maxine Joy Hansen
Published by Awe-Struck E-Books
Copyright ©1999
ISBN: 1-928670-47-4
["TOC"]Table of Contents["#One"]
Chapter One["#Two"]Chapter Two["#Three"]Chapter Three["#Four"]
Chapter Four["#Five"]Chapter Five["#Six"]Chapter Six["#Seven"]
Chapter Seven["#Eight"]Chapter Eight["#Nine"]Chapter Nine["#Ten"]
Chapter Ten
["#TOC"]
Chapter One
August 12, 1948
My dearest Jim,
I want you to know I did come to Tellman's Wharf last night. I have tried to start this letter in a hundred different ways, but it seems this is the best place to begin. I watched you from across the road, the gentle breeze ruffling your hair, your strong, broad shoulders set against the background of sky and sea. I thought of the safe haven of your arms, how they've felt when you've held me close, your heart beating in unison with mine. It was nearly my undoing. I almost ran across the street to you, daring to call out your name. But I stopped myself and the word became a whisper on my lips. Perhaps you won't understand when I tell you that love stopped me - the love I feel for you. The love that will always be a part of me.
I knew I could only hurt you if I crossed the distance that lay between us.
Do you remember when we sat on the bench outside of Hamilton's several nights ago? You were telling me about your dreams. You talked about people who dared to have a vision, a purpose, but never dared to follow it through. And people who dared, but whom the years had scarred so badly that they didn't even remember their dreams. I didn't tell you then, but it reminded me of Mrs. Kelly, a woman I knew when I was a child. My mother would give me a few pennies for candy and I would go to the shop where Mrs. Kelly worked. At the time she seemed ancient. Actually, she was only ten years older than I am now. She was thirty-two.
She was always very austere. Her hair was scraped back into a bun, her back rigid and straight. She would wear the most awful print dresses that hung limply on her thin frame. Sometimes she wore flowered prints and sometimes odd shaped patterns, always faded, washed-out colors. I was a little frightened of her. She was never cruel to me nor even cold. Reflecting on it now, she seemed numbed. Unfeeling. As if she had willed away every last bit of emotion. And so tired. She seemed so tired. But it was her eyes I will never forget. It was as though they were filled with a lifetime of pain. Their depths held such anguish that it reached out to me even as a child. I never understood how someone could feel that way. I never saw her smile. Never. And I remember promising myself I would - could - never be like that. Now I do understand. It's not a sudden change. It's not a matter of going to bed one evening and the next morning you simply awaken with a different attitude. It's not like that at all. And it's not even really one thing, as though something terrible has devastated you and you can't find the will or reserve to rebound. No, it's more subtle. It's a compilation of things. A disappointment here and there. A few scattered tears. Plans that get put aside until tomorrow. Decisions that seemed so right at the time. A tempting side road, a detour taken to avoid something else. And then one day the side roads and detours become normal, a matter of course. When you first realize this you put on a bright face and tell yourself it isn't true. You try to cheer yourself up and find the main road again. But you don't seem to be able to and you struggle, desperate to disbelieve what your heart is telling you. Until one day you simply stop struggling and try to pretend you can forget and accept, like Mrs. Kelly.
Jim, I'm not what I seem. I wish to God I was, for both our sakes. But I can never bring you the happiness you deserve. I lied to you. I'm not a young woman visiting her aunt from Maine. It was a story, the only thing I dared have the courage to tell you. I never meant to see you again after that first day. And then you showed up at Mrs. Cutler's. Bless her heart, she is such a good person. She cares so much and she has been so kind to me. When you told her how much you wanted to see me and asked for her approval as my aunt she went right along with it. She says you are a fine young man. She is so very right! She was just trying to help. She didn't know my true circumstances.
I promised myself just one more time, one more hour, one more kiss. Yet I couldn't help myself. I love you so much. It seemed so easy after awhile. The little fabricated stories, a small twist of the truth, what harm when it gave me another moment in your arms. And I swear to you, there were no lies in my feelings - in my love for you. Whatever else, my feelings for you are the purest truth there is. Remember that always.
There is no reason or sense to tell you about my past. Suffice to say, Rose Cutler is not my aunt. Nor is she any relation. She has simply become a good and dear friend. I have been staying at her rooming house as a boarder. When I met you I had been here for three weeks.
If there was any other way. . .but there is not. There simply isn't. I would give anything for that miracle and yet I take comfort in the miracle of the weeks I have spent with you. I am not unselfish enough to hope that you will hate me for what I have done. I could not bear to think of your feelings turning to loathing. Rather, I hope you will fancy that you have merely been in love with love itself. And that now you are ready for the deep abiding love of a very special woman. I know you will find her, Jim. There is no man more deserving. And I know you will be so happy together. She will be the greatest love of your life.
Somewhere in a small corner of your heart, I pray there will be room for a memory. Not of this letter, nor of deceit or recriminations. But of a summer's day. That perfect summer's day when you had the three decker ice cream cone, with that sticky chocolate sauce, whipped cream, and that cherry perched on top very precariously. Mr. Tellman thought we were crazy and we were both laughing so hard, trying to finish this ridiculous creation before it melted.
You teased me about trying to eat the middle flavor first and, of course, we had to split the cherry in half. You even kissed the whipped cream off the tip of my nose. That's what I want you to remember. The laughter, the creamy, smooth texture of the ice cream, Mr. Tellman's fretting, warily eyeing us with that damp cloth in case we spilled something on the counter. I'm sure he was envious of our outrageous treat and wanted a bite. It was the most perfect day of all of our perfect days. I had no past at that moment. Only the sheer exhilaration of the present and you. That was Me, Jim; giggling and conspiring with you. The best and truest of "me" there has been in a long time.
Promise me-and yourself-that you will make all of your dreams come true. I believe in what you want to do with your life, and I know you can do it. Reach for the stars, Jim. They are yours for the taking.
All my love, all my life
Anne
Kathryn Belle Cartwright trailed a small, slender finger down her cheek to brush away the errant teardrops that had begun to fall. She quickly folded the letter, returning it to her purse while glancing at the gentlemen seated adjacent to her on the plane. Fortunately, she didn't have to worry about staving off any uncomfortable questions. He was burrowed into his seat, well satisfied after the filling meal he had just consumed and pleasantly dozing. His open briefcase lay on the empty seat between them as an added cushion, affording her some extra privacy.
Shifting slightly in the somewhat cramped space, she leaned her head against the cool window and rolled her eyes. For the hundredth time she could not believe what she was doing.
"Ladies and gentlemen, we'll be starting our feature film in just a few moments. We would ask at this time that you ensure your window shades are drawn. If you are in need of headphones your hostess will supply them. Our feature today can be heard on channels one and two. Enjoy the movie." The perky but authoritative voice of the stewardess subsided, followed by the click of a speaker knob.
Kathryn welcomed the subdued lights in the aircraft cabin, deciding to forgo the movie and concentrate on her spur of the moment plans. Yesterday! It had started out to be such a simple, restful, and glorious day. The first day of a much needed vacation. She had saved up three weeks - time to relax, refresh herself and decorate her apartment. She had been in this apartment for six months now, ever since the amicable ending of "the relationship." Funny to call it a relationship when in actual fact she and Charley were together for over ten years, more than most married couples. After the split, while staying with her parents, Kathryn searched extensively for somewhere to call home.
While she and Charley had enjoyed their large two bedroom apartment nestled in the Hollywood Hills, Kathryn had gracefully turned it over to him, wanting instead to find something that reflected more of her personal taste; something that made for a new, independent beginning. She found what she was looking for almost by accident. After a tiring and frustrating Saturday afternoon spent looking at three "luxury" apartments which didn't come close to the meaning of the word she headed her car towards the Pacific Ocean. It had been a particularly warm winter's day and the first taste of tangy salt air served to calm her frayed nerves. She spotted the apartment complex barely minutes after the ocean came into view. While not immediately adjacent to the water, only the highway and the beach front properties separated the four story building from the pristine sand and silky waves. Slightly weathered with age and the elements, the apartment building featured a welcome exterior of malted chocolate edged in dark fudge trimming.
The inside was everything the outside had promised, with spacious rooms and a cozy ambiance. A beautiful picture window that framed the ocean scene added the perfect finishing touch and Kathryn knew she had found her "home." Definitely not Charley's type of place; just one of the differences that made their friendship appealing and interesting, but their relationship somewhat strained at times.
For six months Kathryn planned the moment when she would have time to lovingly decorate the apartment with more than just the essentials. Unfortunately, with her hectic schedule at work and the added daily travel time, all she had to offer were several modern mismatched pieces of furniture and accessories. It had been all right though and Kathryn certainly felt comfortable, but gentle off-white walls, a soft oatmeal flecked beige carpet, and strategically placed nooks and crannies begged for just the right treasures.
She discovered the first of these treasures last weekend during a visit to a local antique shop. The beautiful mahogany secretary was something she could not pass up and, miraculously, it fit within her allotted treasure hunting budget. The friendly proprietor, a bespectacled, balding man in his mid sixties, agreed to deliver it to her apartment the following Saturday when she was sure to be home. As promised, it had arrived by 10:00AM that morning, accompanied by two burly delivery men who patiently positioned it to Kathryn's exact specifications.
After they left, she carefully cleaned the aged wood, placed selected books on the two shelves and began to fill one small side drawer with odds and ends. That's when she found the letter. Only a fraction of it was showing; it had slipped through a small seam on the right side of the drawer.
The pages, originally a lightweight white bond with faint writing lines, were in excellent condition for their age. Except for being slightly yellowed, they could have been written only weeks ago. The handwriting was strong, purposeful, and Kathryn could envision the determination and resolve behind every carefully thought out word.
The envelope bore no return address; centered in the middle was the name of a Mr. James Hazlett, followed by 10 Magnolia Lane, Clearwater. There was no stamp and no sign that there had ever been one, but "Anne" had stated right in the letter that she was having a person named Tommy Lin deliver it. The contents were still sealed when Kathryn found the envelope. Her first inclination had been to telephone the antique dealer in the hope that he could advise her of the previous owner of the secretary. Whatever the circumstances, the letter belonged with its rightful owner if possible. Her call had proved fruitless. The helpful and sympathetic gentleman had purchased it sometime back from another dealer, and a paper trail leading to the earlier ownership was somewhat hazy.
Sighing, Kathryn had put down the phone and brushed back her chestnut shoulder length curls in exasperation. Someone else probably would have just pitched it, but Kathryn was not someone else. An incurable romantic, she was stubborn in the bargain and curious. Hesitant to open someone else's mail, but not having a clue where Clearwater was or how else to proceed, she carefully broke the seal. Barely ten minutes later, her vacation plans forgotten, Kathryn Cartwright had become a woman with a mission. What had happened that day? Perhaps Tommy Lin had never delivered the letter; maybe he was distracted and put the contents in a drawer, failing to return for it later for reason. Maybe Anne had decided not to send it or James Hazlett had come calling in person before she had been able to give it to Tommy. Possibly they were even married with grandchildren. Or had James Hazlett received it and, in his pain, refused to open it cramming it instead in the drawer of the secretary. Somehow that didn't seem likely. For some unnerving reason Kathryn knew she had to find the answer if possible. Her more level headed friends and co-workers would have called her crazy. Well it wouldn't have been the first time.
Leafing through a handy atlas, she located eight Clearwaters in the United States, and picked the two largest communities to focus on. Dialing long distance information, the first city she chose bore ten Hazletts, none with the initial "J" and none on Magnolia. In fact, she learned there was no street called Magnolia in that particular Clearwater. With some misgivings, but determined nonetheless, she turned her attention to Florida where the second similarly named town was located. There were several Hazletts including two with the initial "J". Not one of them lived on Magnolia Lane. Her heart beating faster she dared to ask the operator if indeed there was such a place as Magnolia Lane in Clearwater, Florida. Her spirits soared when she learned there was. What now? Call all of the Hazletts in Clearwater, Florida with a condensed version of her story and hope they didn't think she was nuts? Engage an irate James Hazlett on the phone perhaps, or worse, a Mrs. Hazlett who would not be pleased at stirring up old memories of girlfriends past? She could just file the letter, she reasoned. Forget it, even pitch it. After all it had been fifty years. But the contents had affected her deeply. It was almost as if the mysterious Anne had herself entrusted Kathryn to finally deliver its message. She hesitated only briefly before picking up the phone again.
In between calls to the airlines, packing and making some personal arrangements, she wondered at her decision. She was actually going to get on a plane, just like that, travel to Florida and meddle in something she didn't even know about. She wasn't even sure she had the right Clearwater, but with the highest population, and the right street name it was a logical starting place. Certainly, she reasoned, it was better than tearing up the letter or hiding it back in the drawer and sitting in mystery for years to come. Early the next morning she left her car at one of the airport car parks, took a shuttle to LA International Airport and was in the air shortly after 8:00AM on a non-stop flight headed to Clearwater via the nearby city of Tampa, Florida.
With the three hour change in time, Kathryn's plane didn't land until 4:00PM. Unsure of her Florida surroundings, she rented a car and spent the night at a hotel near the airport, leaving early the next day for the thirty minute drive to Clearwater. Even in the morning Clearwater Beach was a beehive of activity. Tourists of all ages, shapes and sizes were heading for the sparkling white sand and clear blue Gulf waters. Others made their way from small motels and hotels that lined the main strip, eager to enter one of the inviting coffee shops. Her own stomach grumbling, Kathryn joined them for a hearty breakfast. Slowly winding her way through the beach community, her appetite curbed, she found a familiar hotel sign from the West Coast and registered. Still somewhat uncertain, this little bit of home served as an anchor of sorts. Not usually prone to homesickness when she traveled, this adventure was different and she felt she could use all the anchoring she could find.
Barely an hour later, showered and refreshed, map in hand, she headed her rented burgundy compact car to Clearwater proper and Magnolia Lane.
Colt Riverton heard the muted sounds of the television and breathed a sigh of relief. His daughter was occupied in the living room and wouldn't witness the fiasco he'd created in the kitchen. At least he'd been smart enough to grab the frying pan arm with a mitt before carrying it over to the sink. Too bad he hadn't waited until the oil was hot enough before laying in the pancake batter. He scraped as much of the stuck mess off as he could, and then set to work washing the pan.
Fortunately, in his wizened state he had enough batter to start again. Four strips of bacon lay innocently in another smaller pan, and he wondered if you had to add oil to that before you cooked it. He shook his head. Maybe he should have skipped this and headed to the restaurant. It was just that they had eaten breakfast out so much in the last couple of weeks since the move, not to mention lunch and dinner. He wanted to surprise Jesse with a good home cooked morning meal. The kind they used to have whenever they came off the road trips with the Club. The kind she enjoyed so much.
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