by Sarah Price
Other Books by Sarah Price
Chapter 2
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
Chapter Seventeen
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
Chapter Eighteen
CHAPTER NINETEEN
Chapter Twenty
Epilogue
ABOUT THE AUTHORS
Postcards from Abby
By Sarah Price & Ella Stewart
Copyright © 2012 by Price Publishing, LLC.
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems without permission in writing from the author, except by a reviewer who may quote brief passages in a review.
Contact the authors at [email protected] and
[email protected] or visit her Facebook page at http://www.facebook.com/fansofsarahprice or her website at http://www.sarahpriceauthor.com
Other Books by Sarah Price
The Amish of Lancaster Series
#1 Fields of Corn
#2 Hills of Wheat
#3 Pastures of Faith
#4 Valley of Hope
The Amish of Ephrata Series:
Amish Novellas on Morality
The Tomato Patch
The Quilting Bee
The Adventures of a Family Dog Series
#1 A Small Dog Named Peek-a-boo
#2 Peek-a-boo Runs Away
#3 Peek-a-boo’s New Friends
#4 Peek-a-boo and WeeWee
Other Books
Gypsy in Black
Mark Miller’s One Volume 11: The Power of Faith
Find Sarah Price and Ella Stewart on Facebook and Goodreads! Learn about upcoming books, sequels, series, and contests!
Chapter One
Joachim Riojas walks over to the concierge desk at the Rioja Inn in Muros, Spain, a small beachfront village nestled in the Galician mountains in the country’s northern coast. It is an unseasonably warm September evening and the sun has just set when Joachim decides it is time to go home. After a long day of greeting guests and managing the small staff that keeps the inn running smoothly, he is exhausted and looking forward to driving to his farmhouse, only a few miles away.
Although, as owner, he has the choice of staying in any one of the inn’s luxury suites usually occupied by his wealthiest clients, Joachim can’t wait to get home to his little house and sit on his back porch with a glass of red wine in his hand. So much of what he does at the inn is frenzied and fast-paced that he looks forward to his quiet evenings at home. And while it’s true that there is never a shortage of pretty single women staying at the inn, lounging in beach chairs, wearing bikinis and looking for a summer fling to end their perfect vacation, he is not interested in that either. Instead, he likes to spend his time away from the family business. He much prefers playing cards or talking sports with a few close friends at the local taverna or alone at home reading or playing his piano.
The girl sitting behind the concierge desk looks up from her copy of the local newspaper and smiles at Joachim as he approaches. She is wearing the standard staff uniform with a nametag that reads Grisel. He smiles back wearily, “Buenas noches, Grisel.”
Grisel frowns at him. Slowly and deliberately, as if her brain is working at a slower pace than her lips, she replies, “In English, please, Señor Riojas.”
Joachim shakes his head with a laugh, forgetting that Grisel wants to learn English so she can speak to the American tourists that regularly stay at the Inn. “Fine, Grisel, but it’s Joachim not Señor Riojas.”
This summer has been a record season for the Riojas Inn. Typically, the area draws crowds of local people who make the pilgrimage to the shrine of St. James in the nearby city of Santiago de Compostela during the holy month of July. However, occupancy at the inn has tripled since it was named the new “vacation hot spot” in the latest edition of Global Travel magazine.
Joachim remembers the journalist who wrote the article. It had been a late night in May when he had stopped into the inn, asking for a room. He had intended to only stay until morning as he was on his way to cover a story about the running of the bulls in Pamplona for his magazine. Joachim smiled as he gave the journalist his room key, suggesting that if he woke up early enough that he should watch the sunrise on the beach before checking out. Joachim knew that the power of his village, the beauty of his land and the hospitality of his people had a habit of seeping into the veins of the toughest of hearts.
The very next day, the journalist who swore he was only staying the night, decided to stay for a week. And instead of writing about the bulls in Pamplona, he wrote a story about the small beach town, with the opening line: The Closest Thing to Heaven on Earth. Ever since the article was featured on the cover of the travel magazine, the phone at the reservation desk had not stopped ringing with calls from overworked and highly stressed Americans desperate to get away from their world of faxes, cell phones, and appointment books.
Joachim welcomes the business but cannot understand what all the fuss is about. To him, Muros is his childhood home and The Rioja, a family owned inn passed down from his father to him.
“I am going home now, Grisel.” He answers fluently in English as Grisel has asked. For him, it is easy to do since he spent half of his life in private schools where he learned English as a second language. When it was time for him to go to college, his father, eager for his son to learn more about the hotel business, sent Joachim, not to the University of Santiago de Compostela, where most of his friends went, but to an American university in Chicago to major in hospitality.
“Berry good, Señor Riojas.” She hesitates, knowing that what she said was not correct. She seems to think for a moment. “Excuse, Joachim.” Grisel struggles, the words barely recognizable underneath her heavy Spanish accent. Her smile broadens as he acknowledges her efforts.
Grisel is a very attractive young woman and what he doesn’t know is that her interest in learning English goes beyond her job requirements. It is no secret among the staff at the Inn that Grisel has more of an interest in learning about him.
Joachim, however, does not seem to notice. As a matter of fact, he seems far too busy with work to notice any of the single women in the village or those staying at the inn vying for the attention of the handsome and rich young Spaniard. He finds ways to keep busy so that he can try to forget, if even for a moment, the one person he really wants besides him.
As he turns towards the door, Grisel calls him back. She is holding something in her hand, a small card. “Berry sorry, Joachim, for you.”
Grisel hands him what appears to be a travel postcard. Even before he turns it over, he knows who has sent it. His hand begins to shake as he quietly thanks Grisel in Spanish, forgetting in that moment that he is not speaking in English and ignoring her gentle scolding for breaking their agreement.
Joachim walks out the front door onto the Inn’s massive wrap-around porch. The white porch, or veranda, as it is called in his country, faces a small beach, providing sweeping views of the Atlantic Ocean. The waves are gently rolling onto the white sand, the noise soothing and the smell of salt lingering in the air. There are several guests seated in rocking chairs, soaking up the gorgeous landscape. This is one of the more popular places to relax at the Riojas.<
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But this time, Joachim does not notice them, even when a few of the people recognize him and smile in greeting. For some time, all Joachim can do is stand still, staring at the postcard in his hands and at the picture in the front of it. It is a picture of the sun setting on a beach. At the top, the words spell out “The French Riviera” and there is another line in French below that which he does not understand. It is a typical postcard that a tourist would grab at the local gift shop of a hotel to send back home to his loved ones with words like, “Wish you were here” or “Having a great time.”
Joachim did not think he would ever receive this card although he has been waiting for it every day for weeks now. Amazed that it is in his hands, he stares at it for quite sometime as if unsure it is really there, that it is not a mirage. Finally, he turns it over and reads the first line:
My dearest Jack . . .
And, upon reading those three simple words, a faint smile crosses his lips.
Chapter Two
Tia and Abby
I don’t remember when it was exactly that I started getting my best friend’s postcards in the mail. I do know that it must have been shortly after we graduated high school, just as I was starting college. We had been friends since grade school- two young girls in pigtails holding hands and sharing peanut butter sandwiches at lunch. It seems impossible to most people who know us to think that Abigail Peters and I could be best friends because we are as different as night and day. But we are friends, the closest of friends, as mismatched as two stray socks in a dryer clinging to each other. It has been twenty years since we graduated high school. We promised to keep in touch. We promised to meet again. We promised all the things that best friends do at that age and we believed it too. If I close my eyes now, I can still see us on our graduation day, dressed in our cap and gown, smiling for the camera with our arms interlocked. We were on the verge of starting our lives back then, convinced we would start it together.
Through the years, friends who attended my wedding, visited me at the hospital after the birth of my children and helped me deal with the loss of my parents, often asked me how I remained close to Abby with so much distance between us. It is true that we have rarely seen each other much since that day in late June, except for the occasional visit during the holidays or a phone call on my birthday. But the postcards, they came without fail, every few weeks for over twenty years. They came at a time before emails, texting and tweets became popular; before social media made it possible to stay in touch with someone thousands of miles away. They came at a time when love letters were romantic and writing was considered an art form and part of a person’s everyday fabric. For me, Abby’s postcards came even after technology made them obsolete and old fashioned and they were always there, something to set my watch to, my constant.
All of my life I have been unable to say what I really felt to those I loved the most because I was afraid. Afraid of confrontation, afraid of my own emotions but mostly, I think, I was afraid of admitting failure. I was afraid of failing at any relationship because that would mean admitting I was at fault somehow. But writing my feelings down on paper opened up a world of possibilities, a world not judged by squinting eyes, an evasive smile, a grimace or a scowl. In that world, Abby and I cemented our friendship. In that world, we strengthened our bond. I was able to tell Abby about my hopes, my disappointments and my successes without fear of being judged. She saw me through a failed marriage and helped me afterwards pick up the pieces of my shattered life, all without ever setting eyes on each other, always from an ocean away. Through her postcards, she also shared her life with me, describing places that I’ve never seen and probably never would. I could always count on those postcards. Whether on purpose or by some divine intervention, or by some fortunate accident, whenever I needed to hear from her, a postcard would be waiting for me in my mailbox.
The postcards always started the same: Dear Tia . . . She would describe the picture on the front of the card, putting in an interesting fact or two about the place that she was visiting, then turned to news about her life and asked about mine. There was always sincerity and humor in her words. And in every postcard, the same ending, always with the hope, I believe, that I would listen, if only once: “There’s always room for one more, I’ll save you a seat.” It was her way of saying, “Come join me. See what I see, feel what I feel.” Twenty years and I never did. But now one final postcard, my friend was calling me to her again. Only this time, I would listen.
Tia is sitting quietly in her seat, fidgeting with the seatbelt and occasionally looking out of the small oval window where she can see the left wing of the airplane. Her almond shaped eyes dart back and forth, watching as people slowly filter down the narrow aisle. She flips through the emergency evacuation pamphlet placed in the pocket of the seat in front of her. A stray piece of her brown hair falls into her eyes and, with an impatient hand, she pushes it back behind her ear.
Suddenly, the sound of a small bell rings out and she looks up at the sign that reads: “Fasten seatbelts/No smoking.” Ahead of her, standing in the middle of the aisle, are two flight attendants who are showing her the exit areas on the airplane with a wave of their arms. Afterwards, the pair pulls an oxygen mask over their faces to demonstrate what to do should the cabin lose pressure at any time during the flight. It takes the flight attendants fifteen minutes to go through their presentation, instructing the passengers first in Spanish and then in English.
Tia listens carefully, taking mental notes of what they are saying. There is a young woman sitting next to her, holding an infant in her lap. The baby is sleeping peacefully, wrapped tightly in a floral blanket and sucking on a bottle of milk. She looks over at the sleeping baby and wishes that she could be that calm.
Tia hates flying. It is a phobia that she has had all of her life, right up there with snakes and being alone. In fact, her biggest fear is being alone on a plane full of snakes. The only thing that calms her down is folding her hands in front of her and saying a prayer underneath her breath. Tia knows this is hypocritical, considering she has not stepped one foot inside a church since her wedding day. Regardless, it is a something that she has been doing ever since her first plane trip to Disney World with her parents when she was ten.
With a sudden jolt, which jars the sleeping baby who begins to cry, the airplane makes its way to the runway and Tia closes her eyes to pray. She is clutching the armrests and doesn’t stop until, after a good ten minutes, the plane is finally airborne. As the plane ascends, she stares out the window, watching the buildings become smaller and smaller. When the New York City skyline disappears and the land beneath the plane starts to resemble a giant patchwork quilt, she hears a single bell ding. The seatbelt sign has been turned off. Immediately several people stand up, some to stretch and others to make their way to the lavatories or to talk to friends and family seated in other rows of the plane. Tia stays in her seat as the captain makes an announcement over the loudspeaker:
This is Manuel Consuelo, your captain and welcome aboard Flight 1001 departing from JFK Airport in New York in destination to Madrid, Spain. It is 6:35 in the evening and we will be arriving in Madrid in approximately six and a half hours, at 7:00 am local time. We are currently flying at an…
Tia stops listening and tugs at the silver buckle on her seatbelt, the metallic noise indicating that she is free at last. She doesn’t like being restricted and confined, especially on an airplane. Liberated, she stands and reaches for her carry-on luggage in the overhead bin above her. Placing it on her lap as she sits down again, she opens up the front zipper and rummages through her things with the feel of her hand.
Taking out a small white envelope, she opens it carefully and starts to read the postcard inside. The postcard has a colorful array of stamps and the word “airmail” written in bold letters on the left hand corner. It had arrived at Tia’s house a week ago.
On the front of the postcard is a picture of a small Spanish seaside village in the province
of Galicia with the image of three stone houses in a row all set on stilts. The stone is gray and old looking. The roofs are made of timber. Behind the houses, there is a band of green mountains, alongside a few clouds.
She does not have to turn the postcard over to know from where it came. Indeed, she knows the town quite well. After all, it is the village where her father was born and raised. It is the same village where, as a child and young teenager, Tia spent most of her summer vacations staying with her grandparents, exploring the countryside and discovering her heritage…discovering herself.
The Galician hills are littered with stone houses, known as horreos, once used for storing grain by the local villagers. Now, they are considered historical landmarks and serve as an unofficial symbol of the province. Tourists often stop by the little seaside town just long enough to take a picture besides the famous horreos. During her youthful summers, Tia had always loved sitting in the shade of the horreos, shutting her eyes as she felt a cool breeze from the sea on her face. Her mind wandered and, often, she would drift into a peaceful sleep.
Just as she knows where the picture in the postcard was taken, Tia also knows who sent it. She knew it before she had even read the handwritten words on the back of the card. It is the same person who, for over twenty years, has sent her postcards from different countries throughout the world: Abby. Her lifelong friend. Someone she had spent half of her life living vicariously through.
Yes, it was no surprise to Tia to receive a postcard from Abby. The surprise, however, came in the message that the postcard carried with it; a message that finds Tia sitting nervously on a plane, leaving everything behind, to travel three thousand miles back to her childhood in order to see her good friend.
Slowly, she turns over the postcard and, although she has read it over a thousand times since she received it, Tia decides to read it once more:
