by Beth K. Vogt
“You want what?” Peter almost shouted the question at her through the phone line.
“Jamie Travers’s e-mail address.” Elisabeth ignored the pile of essays waiting to be graded. “I thought about calling him, but I think an e-mail might be a better first step.”
“First step to what?”
“Saying hello. Come on, Peter, I just want to e-mail him. Ask how he’s doing. And if he e-mails me back, then we can start a conversation.”
“Why?”
She hadn’t expected Tori’s husband to grill her like some TV detective when she asked him for Jamie’s e-mail address. She thought getting the information would be easy. That writing and sending the actual e-mail would be difficult, followed up by the even more challenging wait to see whether Jamie replied.
“Things didn’t end well between us at your wedding—”
“I know.”
“You know?” No wonder Peter was acting like some sort of self-appointed bodyguard for Jamie. “What did he tell you?”
“Nothing specific. We talked a few weeks ago and he said he was stupid to think that maybe you and he could start over again—”
Elisabeth jumped up, scattering papers across the top of her small dining room table, her heart rate increasing. “He told you that?”
“Yeah. He also told me that he was wrong.”
“Peter, please give me his e-mail address. I want to try to smooth things over with him if I can.”
“I don’t know if that’s wise, Elisabeth.”
“Why?”
“Because he deployed at the end of January. He doesn’t need anybody messing with his head—or his heart—right now.”
Jamie was deployed. Where did the air force send chemical engineers? Was he someplace dangerous? Did engineers go anywhere like Iraq or Afghanistan nowadays?
“Elisabeth, did I lose you?”
“I’m still here. I’d forgotten Jamie mentioned he was getting deployed.” She took a deep breath as she paced the confines of her apartment, hoping she didn’t sound like she was begging. “Jamie would like to get some mail while he’s overseas, right?”
“Last I heard, Chloe was e-mailing him.”
Ouch. She deserved that. “Okay, then. See? I’ll just e-mail him like . . . like Chloe. And if he doesn’t reply, I won’t e-mail him again.”
“I guess that’s fair enough. But don’t hassle the guy, okay? He needs to stay focused on the mission.”
“What’s he doing?”
“Even if I knew, I wouldn’t be able to tell you.”
“Peter, he’s just a chemist!”
“Do you want his e-mail address or do you want to try to guess what the guy’s doing?”
“Good point.” Elisabeth settled back into the chair, gathering up the school papers and lowering her voice. “And I promise not to stress him out.”
Once she had Jamie’s e-mail address, it still took Elisabeth two days to finally sit down and compose a message to him.
Dear Jamie,
Surprise! I know you weren’t expecting an e-mail from me. I only hope you’ll read it before deleting it or marking it as spam.
I talked with Peter and he reminded me that you’re deployed. He didn’t give me any details, and that’s okay. I don’t need to know specifics, unless you want to share them with me. I mean, if you can. I know sometimes people aren’t allowed to share where they are when they’re deployed.
Elisabeth paused, her hands resting on her laptop keyboard. She was rambling via e-mail. Jamie certainly didn’t want to read a bunch of blathering from her.
Anyway, I wanted to say I wish things had ended differently that day we talked in the coffee shop. And that I’m sorry. Again. And I’ll be praying for you while you’re deployed—although I forgot to ask Peter how long you’ll be gone because I also don’t remember if you told me. And he couldn’t tell me what you’re doing. So I’ll keep the prayers general—health, safety, encouragement.
I guess that’s it. Take care of yourself.
Elisabeth
She stared at the screen for a few minutes. Walked away from her laptop into her galley kitchen to reward herself with a grape soda. Came back and whispered a brief “Please let him read it and write back” prayer. And then pushed Send.
• • •
March
“So he never replied to your e-mail?” Tori sounded as disappointed as Elisabeth felt.
“No, and it’s been three weeks. Did you double-check the e-mail address for me?”
“Yes. Peter said it was right.”
“Okay, then.” Elisabeth stretched out on her couch, resting her head against the padded arm and staring up at the ceiling. “He got it and either deleted my e-mail without reading it or he read it and decided not to respond.”
“Or maybe it ended up in his spam folder.”
Yeah. Or he sent it there.
“I guess.”
“So what are you going to do?”
“Nothing. I told Peter if Jamie didn’t reply, I wouldn’t e-mail him again.”
“But you didn’t tell Peter how many times you’d e-mail Jet before you’d give up if he didn’t reply . . .”
Elisabeth could almost see the scheming sparkle in her friend’s eyes. “I think you’re quibbling, Tori.”
“Did you?”
“No. But I think one time was implied.” She ran her hand along the faded material covering the couch. Maybe it was time to stop living like a college student and buy some new furniture.
“If you didn’t specifically say you’d only e-mail Jet one time, then there’s no problem with you e-mailing him one more time—just to see if he’ll reply to your second e-mail.”
“If he wouldn’t reply to my first e-mail, why would he reply to the second?”
“Just write the second e-mail, Lis. If he doesn’t respond to that one, then let it go. What can it hurt?”
“Nothing but my ego, I guess. And it’s already taken a hit.”
“Your ego—or your heart?”
“My heart isn’t involved, Tori. I just want to end things better with Jamie.”
“End things . . . or start something?”
“It doesn’t matter if he won’t reply.”
“Then send him another e-mail. Deal?”
“Deal.”
Later that night Elisabeth dragged her laptop into bed with her. As she kicked the blankets down to the end of the bed, she realized she was wearing the same snowman pajamas she’d had on the night Jamie had shown up in her hotel room—and she’d doused him with a bottle of water.
Did he remember that night? Did he think of her at all?
Elisabeth opened up her inbox, and pulled up a blank e-mail. Typed in Jamie’s address. Rested one hand on the keyboard and covered her eyes with the other.
God, please let Jamie read this e-mail. Please let him write back. I don’t know why I’m doing this, except that I told Tori I would . . . and I feel like I’m supposed to.
It wasn’t much of a prayer, but it was all she could muster.
Dear Jamie,
Yep, it’s me again. I hope you’re doing well over there—wherever “there” is. I’ve been praying for you to stay healthy and encouraged and that God would give you what you need. Even though I don’t know what that is, I figure he does.
If you have any spare time, I’d love to hear how you’re doing. I’m going to visit Bellamy this summer. Looking forward to that. We’re already talking about our ten-year high school reunion coming up. Can you believe that?
If you’d rather not hear from me again, just don’t answer this e-mail. I’ll get the hint and won’t e-mail you anymore. But I’ll keep praying for you.
Elisabeth
She pushed Send, closing her laptop and setting it aside, blinking away the tears that
filled her eyes. There was no sense in crying over a stupid e-mail that Jamie Travers was probably going to delete without reading. And even if he did read it, her message probably wouldn’t change anything between them. Crying wouldn’t change anything, either—and she’d only fall asleep with a headache.
• • •
Jamie didn’t know which surprised him more—Elisabeth’s first e-mail or the second one that had showed up in his inbox two days ago.
He hadn’t replied to Elisabeth’s initial communication, leaving it sitting in his inbox after reading it once, refusing to give in to the temptation to read it again.
And now she’d contacted him again. All he had to do was ignore this second e-mail and she’d leave him alone. Never bother him again.
Except in his head.
What was the big deal, anyway? Maybe somehow he’d been tripped up by the romance of Peter and Tori’s wedding—seeing his friend find the woman who completed him. It wasn’t as if he had any foolish ideas of falling in love with Elisabeth again.
But ever since Elisabeth’s e-mail had shown up in February, something had bothered him. At first, thoughts of her tried to shadow him all through the day, when he needed to be concentrating on the tasks required by Uncle Sam—duties that could mean the difference between life and death for military troops. So he’d disciplined himself not to think of her. He was deployed overseas and he had a job to do.
But at night when he could relax—even just a little—thoughts of their last interaction rankled, like a thorn hidden underneath his skin. Unseen, but painful when touched.
The thought of her kissing another guy when they were dating no longer burned. Why should it when it was all so long ago? They’d hardly been more than kids. And if he’d been honest with her—with himself—he would have to admit he’d noticed some of the female cadets at the Academy. Had even flirted with them. No harm done, right?
But what if Elisabeth had walked in on him at one of those “no harm done” moments? How would she have reacted when she saw him with his arm around another girl’s shoulders? And what about the one cadet—what was her name?—who’d been surprised to find out that he had a girlfriend back home?
Even acknowledging those mistakes didn’t ease the pain. So what was it? In the darkness of the night, he mentally pressed harder into the lurking questions . . . and realized he hadn’t given Elisabeth the very thing he’d asked for from her when he’d talked about their breakup. All these years later, he wanted her forgiveness for sending her the letter with all those cruel comments.
But when she’d confessed her struggles, had he given her the same? No. He’d responded out of hurt and anger—as if it had all just happened—and walked away from her.
Dear Elisabeth,
Mail is always appreciated over here. Prayers are appreciated, too. I’m in Southwest Asia—SWA for short—doing the required military stuff. And that’s about all I can say about that. Tell me about home—what you’re up to, what the weather’s like. Hearing about normal is nice.
He paused. Should he say anything about his realization about how he’d misjudged her?
No. For now, he’d keep it friendly. Easygoing.
I imagine you’re looking forward to visiting Bellamy. I can’t remember if you told me where she and her husband live. What’s on the schedule of events? And yeah, our reunion snuck up fast, didn’t it?
Take care of yourself.
Jamie
• • •
She would not check her inbox the minute she walked in the door. The chances of Jamie Travers e-mailing her were the same as her deciding to go bungee jumping. Or base jumping. Or jumping out of an airplane with a parachute strapped on her back.
Given time, the ache she experienced each time she scanned her inbox and found nothing but offers for credit cards or low airfare deals and the to-be-expected messages from Bellamy or from a coworker would fade. She’d accept that he wasn’t going to reply. But she’d still keep praying for him, and maybe she’d convince Peter to tell her how long Jamie would be overseas.
After fixing herself a chef salad, she popped in a DVD of Sahara, settling on the couch and watching it while she ate dinner. Then she loaded up a few photos from her hike to her Instagram account, all the while ignoring her computer. She wasn’t rushing to her daily dose of disappointment—not that anyone else was there to see her amazing self-control.
Replenishing her drink, she settled back on the couch, restarted the movie, and opened her laptop, waiting for it to power up. Clicking on her inbox, she got caught up watching Matthew McConaughey and Steve Zahn trade one-liners while riding camels. Half an hour later, she finally glanced through the e-mails, deleting spam as she went, and gasping out loud when she read Jamie Travers’s name.
He’d written her back. He’d written her back.
Holding her breath, she scanned the few sentences, and then read them again before leaning back against the couch, her eyes closed. His message was about as impersonal as you could get—but he’d responded. That had to mean something.
It probably meant the man was desperate for mail. The reality was, Chloe had weeks on her . . .
Stop.
She needed to stop right there. Elisabeth gripped the sides of her Mac, willing her heartbeat to slow down and her expectations not to spiral out of control into some “maybe this could go somewhere” daydream. She was not competing with Chloe or anyone else for Jamie Travers. She’d written him in hopes of—what had she told Peter?—smoothing things over with Jamie. To see if they could somehow be friends.
What had he said in his e-mail? She read it a third time. He’d asked about home. Said hearing about normal was nice. Wondered about Bellamy.
Okay. She’d keep it casual. Fun. Try to brighten his day. And before she sent her reply, she’d pray for him, just like she’d told him she would.
EIGHT
Memorial Day Weekend
His plans to surprise Elisabeth by showing up on her doorstep for the long holiday weekend were a complete bust.
His plane had been diverted to Ramstein Air Base in Germany—and there it sat on the tarmac, thanks to mechanical trouble. All the other flights back to the States were overbooked, so any hope of flying standby was hopeless, unless he wanted to shell out big bucks for a commercial flight.
What had he been thinking? All of Elisabeth’s e-mails the past few months had been frequent and friendly. Nothing more. How could she know he looked forward to them as much as he used to anticipate her letters at the Academy? No, that he anticipated them even more. Her lighthearted e-mails didn’t indicate her heart was engaged—that she considered him as anything more than a friend who needed encouragement while he was overseas. What made him think she’d welcome a quick weekend visit from him—especially one where he showed up on her doorstep and announced, “Surprise! I’m here!”
And Elisabeth didn’t even know how his deployment had changed yet.
Jamie paced the terminal. He was stranded in Germany, going nowhere. A phone call was going to have to do. He found a quiet corner in the airport and pulled up Elisabeth’s number, praying she’d answer.
“Hello, this is Elisabeth.”
For a moment, he savored the sound of her voice. “Hello to you, too.”
“Who is this . . . Jamie?” Her voice pitched higher when she said his name.
He couldn’t help but laugh. “Yep. It’s me.”
“What . . . how . . . why are you calling me?”
“I hope it’s okay. And I’m glad you picked up. I was afraid I’d have to settle for voice mail. I decided to switch it up and try a phone call instead of an e-mail.” He took a deep breath, realizing his words were tumbling one over another. “Do you have a few minutes to talk?”
“Are you kidding me? I’m all yours!” She gave a breathy laugh. “I mean . . . I can talk for as long as you can.”
>
“I’m not going anywhere.” He leaned against the wall, staring at the darkness shrouding the planes outside. She had no idea how true those words were. “So, what are you doing?”
“Me? I’m boiling potatoes for potato salad.”
“Sounds delicious. Got plans for the weekend?”
“Nothing much. Just getting together with some of the other teachers for a picnic.”
“An old-fashioned Memorial Day barbecue?”
“Yes—and I’m just glad I’m feeling good enough to go . . .” Her voice trailed off.
“What do you mean? Were you sick? You didn’t mention that in any of your e-mails.”
“It wasn’t worth mentioning. I just got run-down at the end of the school year. You don’t want to hear about me coughing or having a fever.”
“Elisabeth, I want to hear about what’s going on with you—whatever that is.” He slid down to the floor, back against the wall.
“It’s not worth talking about, especially when I didn’t expect a phone call from you today. I’m all better. Please don’t waste this phone call lecturing me. Surely we have other things to talk about.”
“I do need to tell you something.”
“Is everything okay?” Her tone turned serious.
“I’m fine.” No need to tell her about his futile attempt to make it to Colorado. “But my plans have changed.”
“Plans? What plans?”
“I was supposed to be coming back stateside in early June, but that’s not going to happen.”
“Why not?”
Was that disappointment he heard in her voice? “The husband of the officer who was replacing me was diagnosed with some sort of serious medical issue. So I volunteered to extend my tour.”
“For how long?”
“Another four months.”
“Another . . . four months? Are you . . . are you allowed any sort of break between the two deployments?”
“I’d hoped to manage something—” Jamie fought to keep his voice even. “—but it didn’t work out.”
“I’m not surprised that you stepped up to help that other person.”
