She’d mailed the gifts with a sweet letter, ending it with a question. “Is there any hope for us?” she’d asked.
Several weeks later, she got her response. While he would never forget the time they spent together, their lives made it impossible to forge a future, he’d said. His answer was no—but in the kindest and most gentle way, he let her down with his words.
She still yearned for him in some strange way. No one she’d ever met since their weekend together had ever made her feel the way he did. He was smart and sophisticated, well-traveled and full of life. It’s not like Cape Cod was full of men like him. Most of the guys she met were fishermen or small business owners. She hadn’t run across another writer since he’d left.
Casey sat in the bookstore reading his chapter in the anthology of stories about parenthood. Her heart sank when she read how he’d met his wife in Paris while he was there teaching a class in creative writing.
A friend had arranged for them to meet, as they were both lonely Americans in Paris. She’d come walking into the elegant bar with a skirt and a pair of cowboy boots on.
In his chapter, he’d said he’d fallen in love with her immediately.
Shortly after they were married, she’d gotten pregnant and she had the baby in Paris. Finding it difficult to navigate a different healthcare system, they’d moved to Maine shortly after that, where Paul could teach at a nearby university and be close to his beloved ocean.
He was ecstatic, he wrote, at his late and last chance at fatherhood and Casey could tell his daughter meant the world to him.
Casey closed the book and closed the chapter on Paul Neal for good.
He’d found his happiness, something she couldn’t begrudge him for.
But in that moment, Casey Larson realized it was time for her to find her own joy.
*****
When Sarah went off to college, Casey decided that it was time for her to leave Cape Cod. She’d done her duty as a mother—something she felt good about. But she was still young enough to broaden her horizons, maybe even find a broadcast job at a local television station in New York. She was too old to be groomed for national news, but she thought doing local news in the city would be a good compromise.
April was due to graduate in a year. Both she and Robert agreed that she was too far along in high school to leave, but that Casey would alternate weekends, having April take the three-hour train ride to New York, while Casey would come to the Cape on the odd weekends. She’d rent a small apartment on the Cape to serve as a home base.
Casey loved New York and she loved her job even more. It was so wonderful to finally take a slice of life and forge her own adventures. She made new friends at the station, a few who recommended she get a complete makeover and start her life in the city as the new Casey Larson.
She spent her free time visiting museums and galleries and walking through Central Park in all kinds of weather. In some ways, she was trying to make up for lost time.
One day, as she was walking back to her studio from work, she passed a bookstore with a sign out front announcing that best-selling author Paul Neal would be there for a signing that evening.
She stopped dead on the sidewalk, staring at the sign.
Her brain tried different scenarios on for size, trying to decide which felt more comfortable.
Should she keep walking, pretending she never saw the announcement, or should she rush home, put on a chic, casual dress and show up for the signing?
She decided a compromise felt best. She’d go home, freshen up, and then show up at the bookstore, just skirting the edges of the store without committing herself to approaching Paul.
The book signing started at 7:00 and she showed up a half hour late, just to be safe. When she walked in, she found a row of books to hide behind and peeked out through a crack.
She felt ridiculous, but it was wonderful to see him again, still in a scruffy beard and casual clothes, but indeed looking more than a decade older. He was still handsome, she thought, and she could tell by the way he was talking to his fans that he was still gentle and charming.
She opted out of approaching him, but was still glad she got to see him again, if only from behind a stack of books.
She began to make her way back down the long aisle, answering a text to April as she walked. At the end of the row, she saw a pair of shoes in front of her and when she looked up, there stood Paul Neal.
He was grinning in a sweet way.
“You weren’t going to leave without saying hello, were you?” he said.
“Oh my gosh, Paul,” Casey said, stammering for words. She was utterly dumbfounded that she had been caught stalking him in a bookstore. How had he known she was there?
“I saw you walk in,” he said. “How could I not have spotted those infamous blue eyes? I saw you on the news this afternoon, Casey. I knew you were in New York and was hoping you’d stop by to say hello.”
“Well, I’m sorry,” she said. “I wasn’t trying to be rude. I guess I wanted to see you again without the drama of approaching you. I feel ridiculous.”
“I want to talk to you,” he said, looking as if it were important to him. “I have a few more hours here. Let’s meet up next door at The Green Door at 10:00. Would that be okay?’
Casey spent two hours walking the streets of the West Side, thinking about their weekend romance, wondering if she really wanted to spend time with him tonight. As silly as it was, her heart had been broken when he’d written her that last letter. Somewhere inside, she knew she wasn’t enough for him. She was a single mother then, living a life of unfulfilled dreams—even somewhat desperate.
But today she was her own person, forging ahead with her plans for her life, no matter how late they had been in coming. She was in her early 40s, and even though she’d put off fulfillment for many years, she felt good about her choices. Her daughters were bright and beautiful and she’d helped them get a good start in life.
She walked into the bar at 10:10, and there was Paul, waiting for her with a beer in front of him. He looked tired but relieved that she’d shown up after all.
“Tell me everything,” he’d said. “I’m dying to hear about your new life.”
Casey recounted the last decade to him, letting him know that she was happy with the way it had all worked out.
“Most important to me were my children,” she explained. “Jackie Kennedy once said that if you screw up raising your children, you can’t be good for much else. I believe that—that if you bring children into the world, it’s your responsibility to turn them into happy, responsible adults. I don’t live a life of guilt now. I put them first and I don’t regret that.”
Paul listened to her thoughts, and admitted that now that he was a father, he had come around to her point of view. He told her he was separated from his second wife and was struggling to see his daughter as much as he would like.
“You don’t live in the same town?” Casey asked, somewhat incredulous.
“No, they’re in Seattle,” Paul said. “I moved back to Northern California. It’s the only place I can write.”
That’s what Casey needed to hear. She’d never gotten to know him enough to see who he truly was. And while she didn’t judge his choices, she realized that they could never have been together. Casey’s priorities were different than his. She couldn’t have lived his life.
“You know,” she said, looking for her purse and getting up from the barstool. “I have an early day tomorrow.”
“How about dinner tomorrow night?” he asked. “I’m going to be in town for a few days.”
“I don’t think so, Paul, but thanks for asking. Let’s just leave it at this: we’ll always have Hurricane Betsy. It was the best weekend of my life so far, but I know that might not always hold true. I still have my whole life ahead of me.”
She walked out into the streets of Manhattan and stood at the corner to flag down a cab. She felt good—for the first time in a very long time. She knew that life wa
s full of surprises and that Paul had come along at a time in her life when she needed to be reminded that she was still beautiful, still worthy of a little magic in her life.
She owed him a debt of gratitude for that. But in that moment, she was even more grateful for having always known who she was.
THE END
Bonus Story 4 of 10
The Runaway
I look down at the words written on the page in front of me. I have had to read them nearly a dozen times to make sure I’ve understood them correctly.
My dearest Ruth,
I can no longer stand not being in your presence. As it is, I wait with baited breath for your letters to arrive. Now, I beg you to please accept my proposal...
He wants to marry me. Abel O'Connor of Medina, Texas wants to marry me, Ruth Watson of Ridgefield Connecticut.
I can barely contain the enormous grin which spreads easily across my face. Nor can I ignore the happy butterflies dancing in my stomach which fly out in a string of giggles.
I have to put my hand over my mouth to keep from laughing too loudly. My father is asleep downstairs and, if I wake him before he’s ready, there will be hell to pay.
Of course, there will also be hell to pay if I don’t get dinner started in time. Father insists on dinner being ready as soon as he wakes from his overlong afternoon sleep (usually preceded by far too much whiskey).
It’s been like that ever since Mama died, a sort of hell on earth living with Father. But, all that changed when Abel came along. Abel and his eloquent, sweet, wonderful letters.
As quickly as I can without smudging the ink on the paper, I jot down acceptance of his proposal to Abel and fold it neatly. I will have to take it to Pastor Jamison tomorrow so that he can post it for me.
Our church pastor is the only one who knows that I’ve been writing to Abel consistently for two months. It was Pastor Jamison who posted Abel’s advertisement for a wife on the church door. It was also Pastor Jamison who encouraged me to write to the young man, despite not telling my father. Pastor Jamison even arranged to have a photograph of me taken to send to Abel. It made me blush when Abel praised my appearance in his next letter.
The reply to Abel’s proposal in my hand represents the first time I have ever intentionally disobeyed my Father. My hands tremble as I seal the envelope shut and rush down the stairs to begin preparing dinner.
No sooner have I gotten the pot out to begin the soup when I hear a stirring from Father’s bedroom. My heart leaps into my throat. He’s coming and I’ve barely started.
My hands begin to shake again as I fire up the stove and pour the leftover stock into the pan. I continue to shake as I hear his footsteps come closer and closer. Finally, they stop just behind me. I don’t turn around to look, but, I brace myself for a beating.
“What’re you making, Ruthie?” he asks.
I’m surprised. He never calls me Ruthie when he’s cross. In fact, he hasn’t called me Ruthie since Mama died two years ago. That’s when the drinking started. That’s when I became simply ‘Ruth’.
“Potato soup,” I answer, trying to keep a tremble out of my voice. I am sure he will find something to say about my choice of meal. He always does. Before he answers, I close my eyes and try to bring to mind a line from one of Abel’s letters. This is a technique I have learned to shut out my father’s insults. I combat them with thoughts of Abel’s gentle words of praise.
“Better have some bread to go with it then,” Father says. Once again, he does not sound the slightest bit angry. Despite myself, I turn around to look at him in surprise.
He looks every bit as poorly as he always does. His black hair, which used to be combed and slicked back when Mama was here, is now a tangled mess. A dark stubble lines his face, which he always used to take such care to shave every day. And, despite his frequent naps, dark shadows still play beneath his eyes.
But there’s a spring in his step today that is rarely there. He looks at me, and to my surprise, a slight smile appears on his lips.
“You’ll want to make enough for three as well,” he says. “And clean yourself up a bit when you’re done. We’ve got a guest for supper tonight.”
“Who will be joining us?” I ask curiously. I hope it’s Pastor Jamison. He’s been asking my father to invite him round for supper since Mama died. Father always refuses. He also refuses to go to church with me on Sunday. He says a God couldn’t save Mama from dying of cholera is not worth worshiping.
My heart swells with the thought that the good pastor might have gotten through to him.
“Mark Ashton,” Father says. My heart falls immediately. Mark Ashton, the old tavern keeper in town is the other reason my Father’s taken to drink. Father goes to the tavern every night after supper and often stays drinking until dawn, leaving me to do the early work on the farm on my own.
I know Mark Ashton keeps Father drinking in hopes that I’ll come to the tavern to retrieve him. It’s no secret that Mr. Ashton is...fond of me. Even before Mama died, he was trying his best to get me to accept his various proposals.
And, after Mama died, Ashton took full advantage of my father’s frequent visits to the tavern.
Father and Ashton have become increasingly close of the past few months. I would be lying if I said I could not see where that friendship was heading.
I try not to let Father see my disappointment. I merely nod to him and turn back to the soup, thinking of a bread I could bake quickly enough for supper.
“He’s taken quite a shine to you, you know,” Father says behind me. My heart falls further at this and I nearly drop the spoon I’m using to stir the pot.
“Who has, Father?” I ask, pretending as though I don’t know.
“Don’t play dumb,” Father says a familiar growl returning to his voice. “You know exactly who I mean. And, you’d better be on your best behavior tonight or you’ll answer for it.”
I don’t turn around to look at him, but, I can imagine the expression on my Father’s face. I’m sure his face is red, angry and puffed. And I know he’ll grow angrier the longer he has to wait for an answer.
“Of course, I’ll be on my best behavior, Father,” I answer.
“Good girl,” he says. “Mr. Ashton will be joining us in two hours. Make sure supper’s on the table and you’re looking your best.”
“Yes, Father,” I answer again, without turning to look at him.
I hear his feet pad back to his bedroom. The soup will take nearly two hours to be ready. I’ll have to leave it on the lowest heat possible to keep it warm. My mother’s Irish soda bread is the simplest and quickest bread recipe I know. That won’t take long either.
That means I might have time to slip out the back door and rush my letter across the street to Pastor Jamison at the church. I was planning on waiting until tomorrow, but if what Father says about Mark Ashton is true, I don’t have much time before I receive another, much less welcome marriage proposal.
While the bread rises on the window sill and the soup is simmering on the stove, I run up the stairs, grab my letter and slip out the back door. I very much hope that Pastor Jamison can get my letter to Abel before my Father seals my fate forever.
Chapter 2
“You ungrateful little cow!” Father screams at me as he throws another of Mama’s porcelain plates at the wall behind me. I duck just as the plate breaks behind me.
“Father, please, listen! I can’t–”
“You get a perfectly good marriage proposal and you say no?” Father asks. I’ve never seen him so angry. I know he’s been drinking; in fact, he’s just come from the tavern. That must be where he heard I had turned down Mark Ashton.
“I didn’t say ‘no’,” I plead, my voice trembling. I stand and move back against the wall. “I only said I needed time to consider–”
“Consider what?” Father spits back at me. “Do you think someone else is going to come along? Someone richer, someone younger? Do you think anyone else would even think of marrying
a poor, ugly thing like you?”
This has become his favorite insult since Mama died. Occasionally he’ll look at my stringy dark hair, flat chest and tall awkward frame and lament that he created such an ugly child.
I struggle to remember the words Abel wrote to me. You have to be the loveliest woman I have ever laid eyes on. That’s what he wrote after I sent my picture to him.
I try to believe Abel’s words praising not just my looks but my eloquence and kind disposition over my father’s gnawing insults. It is surprisingly difficult. I do not know why my father’s taunts are far easier to believe than my fiancé’s praise.
As my Father stumbles closer to me, I close my eyes to try and remember the joyous, incredible treasure Abel has sent me in my bedroom, hidden under my pillow.
I try to remember that there is a train ticket for me there. A train ticket for Medina, Texas and I leave tomorrow.
But, try as I might, I can’t hold onto thoughts of my prize when my Father grabs my arm and painfully begins to haul me up our wooden steps.
“If you need ‘time to consider’,” he sneers as we climb the stairs finally reaching the door to my room. “You can do that considering in here.”
He tosses me in my room. I land on the hard floor and look up just in time to see him grab the key from its place by my door.
“I don’t care how long it takes,” he says still standing in the doorway. “You won’t leave this room until you’re ready to marry Mark Ashton.”
With that, he slams the door behind him and I hear him pound his way back down the stairs.
It may seem odd but, being locked in my room doesn’t bother me one bit. Pastor Jamison and I had already arranged for me to sneak out of my room tonight. All I’ve done by turning down Mark Ashton’s proposal is ensure that my Father left me alone earlier than planned.
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