The Love Note

by Joanna Davidson Politano

Gabe and I had written on occasion, his short missives in reply to my long and rambling ones, but I never had a sense of what he actually felt concerning me, or what he intended. Every time he spoke of his horses, I sensed an undercurrent of energy that I couldn’t bear to interrupt. I simply assumed I’d read the truth in his face if I saw him again. Much as I adored the love letter that had drawn me to Crestwicke, some things were meant to be said in person.

  Which I dearly hoped was about to happen.

  thirty-three

  Final diagnosis of my condition: I have come to appreciate my ailment, this aversion to marriage, for it has helped me bypass many false cures for my heart until I discovered the real one, and my hungry soul was satisfied at last.

  ~A scientist’s observations on love

  CRESTWICKE, AUGUST 1862

  When my hired carriage rode up the lane at Crestwicke, so much had changed. Another corral had been added, the garden extended, and Gabe’s cozy house by the water taken over by a family with children playing in the yard. His? Or was he still in Mongolia? He’d also given me an address in Cornwall to write. Part of me hoped he’d found the happiness he’d given me—the other part hoped he was still looking for it.

  Had it truly been three years? I walked up those steps as if in a dream and knocked on the door. It was answered by the same tall butler who had admitted me years ago, and I flashed him a warm smile. “Hello, Parker. I’ve come for the services.”

  His face melted into a smile of welcome. “It’s good to have you back at Crestwicke, Miss Duvall, but I’m afraid you’re too late. The services were a few weeks ago. Today is merely a gathering for close friends and family—you included.”

  “A gathering?”

  “By her request, miss. Come, they’re just preparing in the morning room.” He led me through the great house, each turn striking me with memories of the woman I’d never see again. Things were different, though. The house had a faint freshness to it, with windows thrown open to the sea air all along the main floor, a new lightness among the people who scurried about.

  “Is Gabe here, Parker?”

  “Mr. Gabe?” He blinked. “No, miss. I haven’t seen him. I heard he was living in Cornwall with his own stallion farm. Does well for himself but doesn’t mix with the other Greshams much. Especially since she’s gone. He used to come for long weekends on the train now and again, but he’s all but vanished in the weeks since her death. He thinks of it as Burke’s house, and they’ve never seen eye to eye. He sent his regrets to this afternoon’s gathering. He was here for the funeral, but he left the moment he placed a bouquet on her grave.”

  My heart fell. It was so like him, to focus on the living rather than the departed.

  Burke received me in the morning room, and he seemed older, but in a good way. The lines of anger had settled into maturity, and his smile came more easily—especially when Clara glided by. They still seemed hesitant around each other, but the hard tension had faded. Seated in a straight-back chair along with the others, I glanced around at the family in mourning, plus a handful of strangers who must be the Greshams’ acquaintances.

  Burke stood at the front of the room, holding up a thick package. “Well now, at last we can see what all the mystery’s about.” He broke the seal and opened it. “Golda Gresham has requested that we all be here to receive her final words.” He opened a single sheet and cleared his throat.

  To those gathered at Crestwicke, my lifelong haven—

  You are likely expecting an explanation behind the letter that so upset the household, an apology perhaps, but none of those are within this package. I vowed to myself I’d limit this to a single page of words, which makes me consider more heavily what those words should be, and the aroma they’ll leave behind. This is my one last chance to impact the atmosphere of this house, which I’ve done a great deal over the years—for better or worse—so I will only say this.

  I have many regrets concerning all of you, but I do not regret the letter that has unsettled so many of your hearts. It has yawned wide the great chasm we all secretly feel for a true and lasting love, drawing it to the surface where we cannot ignore it, and I’m glad. After all, a person cannot find that for which he has not sufficiently longed. Only the restless will leave the familiar behind in search of deep satisfaction. Such a desire has been sewn into the fabric of our humanity, and we cannot—and should not—be rid of it.

  Beyond that, I am not content to leave you with a sentimental blanket message that applies to everyone and touches no one, so I’ve written something specific to each of you. Burke will pass them out now. Accept them, and my final meddling, with my blessing and affection.

  Warmly,

  Rosalind Golda

  Ellis Gresham

  The folded notes were handed to each guest by Burke and Clara, and when mine was in my hand, I could not bring myself to open it. I laid it on my lap and watched the others. There were nods and sniffles, a fumbling for handkerchiefs. It was a sacred moment, and time seemed suspended.

  Finally I tore open the seal on my own and took a breath.

  Dearest Miss Duvall,

  You offered me the chance to remember what I had once with my Peter, because I watched it lived out once again—right under my own roof. Two dear friends, two opposites who fit perfectly, reuniting on Crestwicke’s shores and realizing their friendship had turned to love of the deepest sort.

  I hereby retract the promise you made to me, and bequeath and release to you the much coveted, long-lost, “stolen” Aberdeen family heirloom—the last remaining Aberdeen heir and the only surviving child I have borne. You are his Rose, and he your Peter.

  Go to him, with my blessing. Live the long and happy love story I should have had, if I’d had half as much sense as you possess.

  My eyes stung and I blinked rapidly, reading those words over and over again. I moved between the chairs, the clusters of guests, to find Clara, dark braid over her shoulder. “Have you seen Gabe?”

  She offered a sad smile. “Gabe sends his warmest regards, Miss Duvall, but he isn’t here. He was delighted to hear you’d accepted the invitation, though.”

  “He knew I’d be coming?”

  She nodded. “When he came for the burial, he talked to Burke about it. We were all hoping he’d stay.”

  I gave a small nod and slipped away with my twisting, winding thoughts, my churning insides, to the ultimate place of untangling. I carried my broken heart there and stood on the grassy landing halfway up the hill, looking up at the ancient stone tower that waited for me.

  The climb winded me, but once I reached the ruins, fresh new life filled my soul, and I stepped into God’s presence. There on the same sod that had accepted my little-girl tears when Mama died, I knelt and poured my heart out once again to God and felt him drenching my parched spirit that grieved for Golda Aberdeen—and the love of her son.

  That authentic love Golda spoke of had eluded me again, and I was at the foot of the ruins, broken and alone once more. Two men had left me this way, Father and now Gabe, and I still had not found a love that would remain. Aunt Maisie’s words drifted into the middle of my grief. If that’s how it leaves her, then she hasn’t finished the search.

  Yet no matter what shifted in or out of my life, all that truly remained dependable in the end were those stones that had been here for hundreds of years, ready to comfort heartbreak, overlooking countless generations, always waiting for someone to come enjoy them.

  They alone were permanent.

  And in that moment, truth dawned in glorious, vibrant color. That longing I’d finally given in to now swelled in my heart, and it was saturated with a love I’d known my whole life—one I’d only recently pursued in earnest. Yet it had always pursued me.

  I know you have the hunger in you—I can see it glowing in those eyes of yours. I felt it. Oh, how I felt it. Let me tell you, Miss Duvall, that the most important advice I can ever give to a young woman is lean into that hunger—allow yourself to feel it ful
ly and let it consume you and drive you until you find that perfect love.

  Yes. My heart breathed the single word.

  I thought then of the love letter that said all the things every one of our hearts had longed to hear, and the lines came back to me in a different voice.

  Dear one, I love you more than you know.

  I’ve seen everything you believe goes unnoticed, I’ve watched when you thought no one was looking, observed what exists below the surface.

  I know your strengths, and I know your weaknesses too.

  I even know that secret you hoped to keep from everyone. Yes, I know all of it, and I choose you in spite of—maybe because of—all those things.

  I choose those unbelievable strengths, those weaknesses you try to hide—every bit of it because it’s all you, my creation, and I choose you. Every day, every moment, I choose you.

  Dearest, if only you could see yourself from where I stand—how brave and unstoppable you would become.

  Yet this one would be signed. Signed by the love that Aunt Maisie, in all her unmarried life, had attained and found peace in after the long search and many, many dead ends. Yahweh.

  I bowed again, releasing my tears into the soil. I entrust my heart to you, Father. And my future. No matter what else enters it, may it be full of you. Then I rested in the knowledge of God’s immensity that could be felt here better than anywhere else and basked in who he was. This was my love. He was my sanctuary. Just as Golda had said, we’d all been created with this deep desire for love woven into our being, but what all of us at Crestwicke had failed to understand was that depth of longing was simply too much to be filled by any human.

  I rose when my heart felt anchored and looked over the wide ribbon of sea. Crestwicke and its ruined tower had been Rose and Peter’s sanctuary, and it was mine too, in a way. No, God . . . God was my sanctuary, and I’d merely rediscovered him here in these ruins.

  How much heartache had come to this house in the search for authentic love and all its disappointments. I looked over Golda’s letter to me again, feeling the weight of her dramatic love story that was now at an end. I folded it to tuck it away, and that’s when I saw it on the back—one final sentence that stole my breath and plummeted my heart into my stomach.

  P.S. You delivered my love letter . . . so I delivered yours.

  I looked up, shock warming my flesh. Partial thoughts crowded and spun in my mind. My love letter? When had I ever . . .

  Then I became aware that the rhythmic thudding I’d heard was horse hooves somewhere below. I straightened, looking about for the wild horses, but it was only one—and she was bright and glorious and familiar. So was the man astride her. I caught my breath at the sight of Gabe, tall and proud on his horse, countenance fresh and alive. They crested the distant hill and cantered down, heading straight for me. I scrambled up the outcropping and hid behind a crumbling wall as they neared, and he reined in at the center of the ruins.

  He swung down into our little sanctuary with a solid thump of boots, removed his hat, and bowed his great shoulders before God. Matched souls always find their way back to one another, for they seek refuge in the same place. Looking over his painfully familiar profile, the masculine man who could tame wild stallions and utterly enchant my finicky heart, his gentle face, the humble reverence cast over it all, no one had seemed more beautiful or more powerful.

  Or more perfect for me.

  He knelt among the little white flowers, a sparkling ocean beyond him, and prayed. When his massive shoulders trembled, I approached, drawn to help as I witnessed his grief, and placed my open palm on his back. He hadn’t let me walk through this part alone years ago, and I would do no less.

  He flinched and turned, rising to tower over me and washing me in a look of such enduring affection that I felt it climb through my chest. I went to him, tucking myself against him, and he swept me up close, weeping into my hair with long silent sobs. It was the first I’d ever seen him cry. I laid a solemn kiss on his thick hair and smoothed my hand through it.

  Then he pulled back and looked at me with new awareness, tears still glimmering in his eyes. I saw a trace of Golda in him, a quiet self-assurance and poise, and wondered why I’d never noticed how alike they were. How curious was this story of Aberdeens and Greshams, two families with a bevy of misplaced and unspoken things.

  “You, in particular, need to hear it, and one day you’ll understand why.”

  There in the sacred silence, barely daring to breathe, the truth crystalized in magnificent sparkling revelation. This was why Golda Gresham had cracked open her tragic past to me that day long ago, sharing what she hadn’t dared to tell anyone else—we were the happy ending to her love story, the culmination of deep and abiding love formed among the enchantment of Crestwicke Manor.

  You are his Rose, and he your Peter.

  I stood now in the blissful, climactic end to her epic love story that had come full circle with the letter she’d once written so long ago. I smiled up at Gabe against the backdrop of our ruins and reached out to touch my wild horse’s soft gray nose. “She came back. Our wild horse.”

  His face melted into an endless smile. “I always hoped she would.” His voice rumbled through my heart, and I swallowed in earnest. He was so much more vivid, more stunning, in person, and I could barely hold myself together. I understood how those horses felt. Not subdued or trained but charmed. Drawn. How did he do it? Perhaps it was the magic of Crestwicke in him, tinting the air with romance.

  I ran my fingers along the horse’s face until they reached Gabe’s hand holding the bridle and curled them into the hollow of his palm. He tugged me closer until we stood heart-poundingly close, and I tipped my head up to see him. He pulled a folded paper from his pocket, extending it without a word.

  I opened it and there was my heart splashed onto the page, the letter I’d written to Father about Gabe, cut neatly from Maisie’s book. “Oh my.”

  “My thoughts too.” He tucked it back into his breast pocket as if keeping my love safe there and brushed my wind-swept curls off my face with tender strokes, allowing his fingers to linger bravely along my cheek, down my neck.

  I shivered in delight. It was a bold step, one that he’d never taken in all the years of our friendship.

  “Did you mean it? About the flagpole, about needing . . . wanting . . .”

  I looked up into his face and released a brilliant smile. “Every word.”

  His arms came around me then, folding me into the warmth of his embrace and kissing my face, my hair, like a long-lost gem. That wonderful sweep of emotions surfaced again from the deep, strengthening and pulsing with each moment until I thought I’d drown. I closed my eyes and he finally gave in to years of hunger, kissing me fully on the lips that had spoken so many things to him, both good and bad. He stroked my loose hair, following the trail of his fingers with eager, warm kisses. Here it was, the sweetly human reflection of the larger, more epic story unfurling in my life. Together they’d both walked me through the hard parts, Gabe and God, patiently waiting for me to realize the true value and the depth of love they had for me, waiting for me to stop chasing all the other things and come home to them.

  The deep-seated desire in all of us for authentic love is a miracle. Not because of the bliss of a fulfilled ending, but because of the relentless pursuit it awakens in us—and the treasure we eventually find if we search long enough.

  I found it, Maisie. Thanks to you.

  Now years after the dear woman’s death, I find she’s not truly dead. Her body has left us, to be sure, but her words linger well after her voice lay silent. They echoed across Golda’s heart and now mine, a legacy and a gift. Because that’s what words do, when you choose ones with eternal impact. They are remembered, repeated, embraced. They burrow deep and remain, outliving short human lives and becoming a legacy.

  “I don’t know how we’ll do this.” Gabe spoke into my hair.

  I giggled. “We’ll manage.” When you have real
gold, you hold on to it.

  “Would it be possible—well, someday might we—that is, if you would—I was hoping you’d consider—”

  “Finishing your sentence before we’re eighty?”

  He smiled, looking down, the tension diffusing from his face.

  My voice softened. “I’ll marry you, Gabe. Yes, I’ll marry you. Only, let’s do it right here.” I looked up at the ruins where Golda had once wished to marry her Peter.

  With a shout that startled me, for I’d never heard Gabe shout, he swung me around as his voice echoed down to the waves below. I laughed, throwing my head back. When he set me on my feet, his face was tender. Bright with wonder. “Truly?”

  “Most definitely.”

  My love story took longer than most to fully show itself, but it was worth it. Worth the wait for my matched soul, worth the journey it took me on toward a deeper, greater, more eternal love than I could have ever imagined.

  And I would always be grateful for what I found.

  To fall in love with God is the greatest romance;

  to seek him the greatest adventure;

  to find him, the greatest human achievement.

  Saint Augustine of Hippo

  Discussion Questions

  As the story unfolded, which characters did you believe might be the letter writer or the intended recipient? How did your theories change throughout the novel?

  Each person who receives the love letter quickly talks themselves into believing it’s actually for them—partly because they want it to be. Why do you think this is? What deeper things might they be longing for?

  How did the letter impact each person? How might it have affected you?

  How would you say Golda’s heart disease is symbolic to her character? How does it go deeper than a physical ailment?

  How is this line from the injured orphan symbolic of Gabe’s attitude toward everyone—especially Willa: “Never seen such a fine set of horses. Like someone took a wild animal and . . . and made friends with it. Let it keep being wild”?