Several moments later, she lifted one arm and pointed at the coffee table standing before the couch. When Greg turned to look, he saw a piece of crumpled paper lying there. As he smoothed it out and read it, he quickly understood the reason for Brooke’s uncontrollable distress. The piece of paper said:
WESTERN UNION
WU 35 GOVT=WUX WASHINGTON DC AUG 20 1942
MRS BROOKE BARTLETT 18 SCHUYLER LANE
SERENDIPITY NEW YORK
THE SECRETARY OF WAR DEEPLY REGRETS
TO INFORM YOU THAT YOUR HUSBAND 2/LT BARTLETT, WILLIAM T, DROWNED DURING
TRANSPORT TO ENGLAND AUGUST 15 1942 STOP
TROOP TRANSPORT SHIP SUNK WITH ALL HANDS BY GERMAN U-BOAT STOP NO SURVIVORS STOP U- BOAT SUNK IN SUBSEQUENT ACTION STOP
CONFIRMING LETTER WILL FOLLOW
JAMES ALEXANDER ULIO ADJUTANT GENERAL
OF THE ARMY
Greg simply sat there for several moments, speechless.
My God . . . , he thought.
His hand trembling visibly, Greg set the terrible notice back down atop the coffee table.
“Brooke . . . ,” he uttered at last.
When she still didn’t answer, Greg bent down closer and took her chilled hands into his. They felt dank and lifeless, as if all the vitality she once possessed had been suddenly drained from her.
“I know . . . ,” he said quietly. “I saw the telegram. I’m so sorry . . .”
“He’s gone,” Brooke said at last, her voice so faint he could barely hear her. “Bill’s gone . . .”
Not knowing what else to do, Greg put his arms around her and held her close. They remained that way for some time, the only sounds the light crackling of the fire and the rhythmic ticking of Brooke’s mantel clock. And then, quite unexpectedly, Brooke lifted her face to his, and she kissed him on the lips.
Startled, Greg tried to sit up. But she held him close and then kissed him once more, longer and more deeply this time. And as she did, he remembered how much he wanted her, needed her, and how he had dreamed of this moment. But now was not the time, he knew. She didn’t want him, he realized, as much as she wanted the return of her dead husband. She was in shock, and she needed someone to hold on to while her entire world fell apart. But the longer they embraced, the more he found his willpower weakening. At last he tore himself free of her enticing grasp and sat up.
“Brooke . . . ,” he said, his voice suddenly sounding hoarse and unfamiliar. “We can’t do this . . . it’s wrong, and you’re doing it out of grief, rather than love . . .”
To his surprise, Brooke was no longer crying. Her face an unreadable mask, she reached up and placed two fingers against his lips, silencing him. “No more words,” she said. “No more waiting . . .”
When she stood from the couch, her body was no longer shaking, her stance no longer unsteady. After again looking deeply into his eyes, she took his hand and began leading him into her bedroom. And although every fiber of his being told Greg that it was wrong, he found it utterly impossible to resist her.
TWO HOURS LATER, Brooke sat on the edge of her bed, crying so softly that she could barely be heard. Moonlight filtered in through the bedroom window, its velvety hue highlighting Greg’s naked form as he slept soundly. But the moonlight seemed to shine even more brightly upon the terrible deed they had done, upon the shame Brooke felt in her heart, and upon the realization that her beloved husband was dead. The emotions swirling through her were so strong and conflicting that she scarcely knew herself anymore.
They had made love, and she had welcomed it. More than welcomed it, she realized shamefully. It had in fact been she who had demanded it, embraced it, and taken all she could from him in a slow, almost dreamlike coupling. But now, as she sat on the edge of the bed in the moonlight, she understood that Greg had been right. It hadn’t really been him she had wanted but the physical memory of Bill, the other man with whom she had slept in this very bed, just four days ago. And as she sat there thinking and crying, she came to some heart-rending conclusions.
She would leave Lake Evergreen this very morning. For facing up to Greg and the terrible thing they had done this night would be far too much for her to bear just now, and she knew it. She would hide the journal, the photos, and the two telegrams somewhere in the cottage, not only because taking them home to Syracuse might one day expose what had happened here, but also because looking at them would be far too painful. If she ever saw them again, they would do nothing but remind her not only of her shame, but also of the man she loved but could not have—the same man now lying asleep in her bed.
Before going she would write him a letter, she decided. One that would hopefully explain what was in her heart as best she could and the real reasons for what had just happened between them. And then she silently vowed to never see him again, no matter how the rest of her life might unfold. For after what had happened here tonight, she knew that being near him again would be far too heartbreaking, too terrible, and too guilt-inducing for her to endure. At last she slipped on her robe and then looked down upon him again, as the moonlight highlighted his handsome features.
Yes, she thought as she stood there looking at him. The very first time I saw him, I was right. He does look like Errol Flynn. . .
As fresh tears raced down her cheeks, she left the bedroom.
TWO HOURS LATER, Greg suddenly started awake to find that he was alone. He held his watch to the moonlight and saw that it was nearly three A.M. After putting his clothes on, he left the bedroom.
The living room seemed to yawn at him as he entered it. The fire had at last gone out, and the air had become cold. The lights were switched off and the terrible death notice still lay on the coffee table, but there was no sign of Brooke. After walking out onto the porch, he saw her standing at the bottom of the porch steps, her bare feet in the sand, her eyes gazing blankly out over the waves.
He quietly opened the door and walked down the steps to join her. But as he looked at her profile, she did not turn toward him. Instead of the warm, loving woman he had made love to only hours before, she now seemed to be made of stone; immobile, cold, and intransigent. As a way to refrain from embracing him again, she had wrapped her arms about herself. When he stepped before her and tried to look directly into her eyes, Brooke shamefully turned her face away.
“We have to talk about this . . . ,” Greg said. “Perhaps not now, but eventually. Some important things happened here tonight, Brooke. You know that as well as I do, and I’m worried for you.”
Still without looking at him, Brooke shook her head. “No,” she said, her voice a near-whisper. “Nothing happened here tonight. Now please go home, I beg of you.”
“But, Brooke,” he said, “you can’t deny what—”
“Go home, Greg,” she said, her tone now akin to outright begging. “Go home and leave me alone . . .”
He started to speak again, then thought the better of it. You’re so shattered, he thought as he looked at her lovely profile, bathed in moonlight. And you will be this way for a long time. But I can wait for you, because now we have all the time in the world. And so I will obey your wishes and allow you to grieve in your own way and in your own time . . .
Totally unaware that it would be for the last time in his life, Greg faced Brooke and he looked into her eyes.
“Good night, my love,” he said quietly.
While Brooke watched him go, her heart finally reached its limit and it broke irreparably in two.
TWO HOURS LATER, Brooke was packed and ready to leave. Her journal, photographs, and telegrams had been hidden, and she had penned her good-bye letter.
Before going, she walked into the living room and stood before Greg’s unfinished portrait of her. In between sessions she had been keeping it atop the fireplace mantel, where it now rested. For several moments she considered taking it with her, as a reminder both of the man she loved and of the amazing talent he possessed. But in the end she realized that she could not, for the same reasons she could
not take her other mementos. After taking a last look at the portrait, she wiped the tears from her eyes and departed her cottage for the final time.
Just one more thing to do . . . , she thought sadly.
On loading her bags and Ike into her car, she removed Greg’s letter from her purse and trod across the moonlit beach toward his cottage. She stopped to listen for a few moments and heard nothing. All of the cottage lights were out; the only sounds came from the light breeze streaming through the pines, and the waves as they rushed the sandy shore. After silently climbing the porch steps, she inserted the letter for Greg between the porch door and its frame.
As she came back down the steps, something caught her eye. Near the far side of the little house, she saw the fully grown coneflowers that resulted from the seeds Greg had been planting that first day she met him. They had grown tall, their stems and blossoms swaying slightly in the breeze. Bending down, she plucked two of them and placed them into her purse.
Then she quickly walked back to her waiting car. Before leaving, she turned and looked at her beloved cottage one last time and then toward the restless lake that lay just beyond it. She already knew that she would never return here. She would never again see this wonderful place, swim in that pristine lake, or hear the familiar rustle of the pine trees.
And perhaps even worse, she knew that so long as Greg returned here every summer, she could not. Being so close to him would only reopen all of her wounds and revive the terrible guilt she already felt over what had happened in the cottage she still so loved, but now felt too ashamed to occupy. Her humiliation totally overpowering, she looked up at the stars.
“Forgive me, Bill . . . ,” she whispered, her voice cracking. “I have done wrong, and I accept my penance . . .”
After getting into her car, she started the engine and quietly departed Lake Evergreen for the last time in her life.
BRANDON CLOSED THE journal. Like she had done with the first telegram, Brooke had folded and pasted the second one into her old journal as well, and he had read directly from it. He then turned and looked at Chelsea. She was crying, and shaking slightly. Knowing that she needed to be held, he put his arms around her.
“My God . . . ,” Chelsea said, her voice quivering. “Do you think that Brooke actually tried to—”
“I don’t know,” Brandon quickly said.
Although he had purposely cut her off, this tone had been loving rather than harsh. As he looked into her eyes he saw her pain there, much the way Greg had seen the pain in Brooke’s eyes that night, here on this same couch, some sixty-odd years ago.
“People sometimes do strange things when they’re in shock,” he added softly. “But that doesn’t mean that she . . .” Sighing, he searched for the right words.
“There’s no point in trying to figure it out, my love,” he said. “All that will do is cause you more torment. And besides, is that really how you want to remember her?”
Chelsea dabbed at her eyes with a handkerchief. “No . . . ,” she answered quietly. “And like I said before, I will not judge Brooke. I wasn’t there, but in some ways I can feel what she was going through—her worry, her pain, her sense of shame over simply having loved someone. And then her guilt over having acted on it, out of such a sudden and overpowering sense of grief. But at least now some of our questions have been answered.”
“Such as . . . ?” Brandon asked.
“Well,” Chelsea said, “for one thing, I now know why she never returned here. As she said in her journal, the pain of seeing Greg again, coupled with her shame over having been with him, conspired to keep her away. And I now also know why she never sold this place, too.”
“Why?” Brandon asked.
“Don’t you see?” Chelsea answered. “Her journal and photos were still hidden here. If some new buyer happened to find them, they would in all likelihood return them to her. And because Brooke lived with my mother she couldn’t risk that, so she kept the cottage and willed it to me. But what I still don’t understand is why she wanted me to learn the story, rather than Lucy. Perhaps whatever Allistaire has to show us tomorrow will answer that.”
As Chelsea blankly gazed at the fire, she took another sip of wine. “It’s amazing, isn’t it?” she asked.
“What is?”
“That like my grandmother, I too would fall in love with the man in the neighboring cottage,” she answered quietly.
“Yes,” Brandon answered. “But this time, it will have a happier ending.”
At last, Chelsea smiled a little. “Promise?” she asked.
“Yes,” he answered. “I promise.”
But while Brandon thought some more about things, his expression darkened. She still doesn’t fully understand, he thought. She is so immersed in Brooke’s feelings that she hasn’t realized the ramifications for herself. And I must be the one to tell her, because I’m the only other living person who knows the full story. . .
Brandon turned and looked into her eyes. “I’m sorry to say this, Chelsea,” he said. “But you either haven’t grasped it or you do in fact realize it and simply don’t wish to face things. Either way, I think we should talk about it.”
“What are you trying to say?” she asked.
“Well,” Brandon said, “the truth is, there’s a fifty-fifty chance that Gregory Butler was your grandfather, rather than Bill Bartlett.”
For several moments Chelsea simply sat there, speechless and unmoving. Then at last, she buried her face in her hands.
“My God,” she whispered. “You’re right. Why didn’t I see it sooner?”
Brandon smiled a little. “Your focus was on Brooke rather than on yourself. You loved your grandmother, and you always will. But given that she slept with Greg only four days after being with Bill, you’ll probably never know for sure. The real question, I think, is whether you can live with that.”
As Chelsea again reached for her wineglass, Brandon noticed that her hands were still shaking. After a time, she nodded.
“I think so . . . ,” she answered. “I never knew Bill Bartlett at all. But after reading Gram’s journal, I now feel that I know Greg Butler. Either way, it doesn’t change who I am.”
After thinking for a few more moments, Chelsea sighed. “But now,” she said, “all of this raises another equally difficult issue . . .”
“Which is?” Brandon asked.
Chelsea tiredly laid her head upon Brandon’s shoulder. “Just how much of this do I tell my mother, if indeed I ever do?” she asked. “She isn’t strong, like Brooke was. And she’s already had all the bad news she can handle.”
“Well,” Brandon answered, “that part of it is up to you. I don’t know Lucy, so it’s impossible for me to advise you about that. But maybe we could remedy that tomorrow, while we’re in Syracuse. I’d love to meet your parents, if I could.”
Just then, the idea that Chelsea had been thinking about resurfaced in her mind. She wanted to ask Brandon now, but was this the right time? As she sat there with his arms around her she felt safe and warm, despite the unsettling revelation about Brooke and Greg. But at the same time she didn’t want to push too hard and frighten him. Because that, she knew, would break her heart irreparably. And then another fear seized her heart.
If asking him does drive him away, would I then be in the same situation as Brooke those many years ago? she wondered. If Brandon stopped loving me, would I ever again feel right about returning to this wonderful place I’ve come to love so much?
Deciding that it was now or never, she sat up a bit and looked questioningly into his eyes.
At once, Brandon noticed the change in her.
“Is there something else?” he asked.
“Yes,” she said. “And it has taken some time for me to get up the courage to ask you. So please, Brandon, let me finish what I have to say before you answer.”
Brandon nodded. “All right,” he said simply.
Hoping against hope, Chelsea poured her heart out to him.
And as she did, Brandon listened patiently.
Chapter 32
At a little past noon on the next day, Allistaire Reynolds reached out and heartily shook Brandon’s hand. “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Dr. Yale,” he said. “Any friend of Chelsea’s is a friend of mine.”
Brandon smiled and sat down beside Chelsea. “I want to express my gratitude for everything you’ve done for Chelsea,” he said. “And please, call me Brandon.”
Allistaire smiled and leaned back in his chair. “Thank you,” he answered.
He then looked a bit more closely at Brandon, sizing him up. So this is the man Chelsea met up at Lake Evergreen, he thought. Lucky fellow . . .
Allistaire then looked at Chelsea. “And how have you been, my dear?” he asked. “From what I can tell, it seems that the great outdoors agrees with you.”
Despite her nervousness, Chelsea tried to smile. “It does,” she said. “And much to my own surprise, I must admit.”
Now that the pleasantries were over, Allistaire’s lawyerly persona surfaced in full. Leaning forward, he placed his palms flat atop his desk.
“Please forgive me for asking this, Chelsea,” he said. “I mean no disrespect toward Brandon, but are you quite sure that you want him present today? I ask because even I do not know what is contained in the envelope that I am about to give to you. You are my only client in this affair, and I feel it right to make sure.”
Chelsea nodded. “I’m quite certain, Allistaire,” she answered. Then she turned and gave Brandon a little smile. “In fact,” she added, “there’s no one in the world I trust more.”
“All right, then,” Allistaire said. Then he looked at Brandon again. “No offense,” he said.
Brandon nodded. “None taken,” he answered. “As you just said, it’s your job.”
“I have a few questions first,” Allistaire said to Chelsea. “Are you still going to keep the cottage?”
“Yes, definitely,” she answered.
“Okay,” Allistaire said. “I’ll get to work on transferring ownership to you. And have you examined everything that your late grandmother wanted you to see?” he asked.
More Than Words Can Say Page 26
