The Letters

by Luanne Rice

  And suddenly we turned up the long snowy drive to the monastery. I climbed out of the truck, followed Brother Matthew toward the abbey—a big spare structure, you’d never guess it was a church from the outside except for the simple black cross on the roof. I stared up at it, in such stark contrast to the darkening twilight snow sky, and while I was standing there, two things happened.

  The door opened, and an old monk walked out. He was tall and very thin, and he gazed at me long and hard with bright blue eyes. I was transfixed by his expression—he looked as if he’d been waiting for me. I saw Brother Matthew say something to him, then heard the young man say goodbye to me, and felt the old monk take my hands. He stood very still, staring at me with such kindness, my eyes filled spontaneously with tears. I opened my mouth to ask about Paul, when the second thing happened.

  An owl flew by.

  A snowy owl, pure white, and so close I could feel the tips of its wings brush the top of my head, and even in the falling darkness see the yellow eyes. Its talons were extended, and as I stood there watching, it swooped down the far side of a small hill and disappeared. My tears were already flowing, and imagining that owl bringing death to whatever creature it was hunting made them come harder.

  “Come in,” the old monk said, leading me into the church. We walked through the nave, through a heavy wooden door into the attached guesthouse. He had me sign a register, and I felt him watching me as I turned the pages back, back…three years ago. I read all the entries during the weeks that Paul might have first arrived.

  “You’re looking for someone?” he asked.

  I nodded, but didn’t speak.

  None of the names looked familiar, I didn’t recognize any of the handwriting. But then, turning one more page, I saw it: his name, his real name, Paul West. And the date: the day before he would have gotten on that plane.

  “My son!” I said.

  “You’re Paul’s mother?” he asked.

  “Yes,” I said. “Where is he?”

  The old man looked back at me with such compassion—and I can’t tell you what that did to me. It turned my heart to ice, because he was telling me how sorry he was, how final this was. Still, I wasn’t able to accept anything but the possibility that Paul was here, at the abbey, on the island, in the enclosure with the other monks.

  “I need to see him.”

  “My name is Frederic,” he said. “I am the abbot of St. Luke’s…and was, three years ago, when Paul came for a night.”

  “A night…”

  “Yes,” he said. “He was on his way to begin a life teaching the Inuits, and he came here to the monastery.”

  “To join the order?” I whispered.

  “No, Mrs. West,” he said. “To spend a night in silence, to reflect on…well, on his life.”

  “Did he tell you that?”

  He nodded, and I think I saw him grappling with how much to reveal to me. Had Paul confided in him, made a confession? I don’t know, and he didn’t tell me. But he said something I’ll never forget, and I wish you had been with me to hear it, to see his eyes as he spoke of our son.

  “He was filled with love,” the abbot said. “For this life, for the world, for where he had come from and where he was going. He spoke of his parents, of the goodness in your home. And how he knew he had to take that forth.”

  “Forth?”

  “To the village,” he said. “Where he would have taught.”

  “You know he didn’t make it there?” I asked, something already sinking in, and as crazy as this sounds, Sam—the idea, the acceptance, coming in sideways, into my consciousness as if through a dream.

  “Yes. I read the news account of the plane crash a few days later.”

  I waited for him to say he was sorry for my loss, but instead he took my hands again, as he had outside the abbey. He stared into my eyes with that same compassion, wordless and ineffable. The depth of his love was…Sam, it was like nothing you’ve ever imagined. I felt as if my own father were holding my hands, telling me that my son was with him now. That’s how it felt.

  I cried, of course. The abbot let me, didn’t say anything or try to stop me. I wept, and I thought, oddly, of Eileen Kilkenny. She must have needed money badly to do what she did.

  She gave us a gift. Sending me here to look for Paul—did she have any idea that I would in fact find him? Because I have. Abbot Frederic led me up the guesthouse stairs, to this room—the same one Paul stayed in the night before he took that flight.

  Paul slept in this little bed, his gaze fell upon the single chair, the plain wood cross on the whitewashed wall. Our son came here, as the abbot said, to reflect. And wasn’t that Paul, Sam? Can’t you imagine him seeking out this beautiful place, offering his grief over the baby, his love and his hopes and even his fears and dreams, to the monks, the pines, the ice, the snowy owl?

  Sam, you knew…you felt it, felt our son’s death and knew that his body was no longer here in the world, when you left our picture there at the plane, where our beautiful boy died. I had to come to this place of ice and snow and austere beauty to feel his death myself, and to get you back. No, that’s wrong—to get us back.

  What do we do now?

  I think I know. I’m not going to mail this letter. I’m going to carry it with me, along with Paul’s backpack (which of course he never would have left behind, not with Julie’s picture or your articles, not unless he absolutely had to) when I return to Anchorage tomorrow morning. Abbot Frederic said there is a predawn ferry, for the residents who work in town, and I will be on it. He promised me that Brother Matthew will drive me back to you. “Paul’s father,” as he put it. I hope that you will still be sleeping, and I’ll let myself into the room, and lie down beside you. I’ll be there when you wake up…

  And we’ll be together, and I won’t have been wrong—will I? It’s still a miracle of sorts…regardless of the outcome. I am in this quiet room where Paul spent his last night on this earth. I hear the owl outside the window, and the monks chanting across the courtyard.

  There is together and together. Some souls can never be apart, notwithstanding time and distance and even death. I’ve always been with you, and so has Paul. Sam, I know this: I’ll never leave you. I never could. It’s Christmas Eve. And I’m on my way to you.

  All my love,

  Hadley

  About the Authors

  Luanne Rice is the author, most recently, of Last Kiss and Light of the Moon, among many New York Times bestsellers. She lives in New York City and on the Connecticut shore.

  Joseph Monninger has published nine novels and three nonfiction books, including the memoir Home Waters, and has been awarded two National Endowment for the Arts fellowships. He lives and teaches in New Hampshire, where his family runs a sled-dog team.

  Also by Luanne Rice

  Last Kiss Light of the Moon What Matters Most

  The Edge of Winter Sandcastles Summer of Roses

  Summer’s Child Silver Bells Beach Girls

  Dance With Me The Perfect Summer The Secret Hour

  True Blue Safe Harbor Summer Light Firefly Beach

  Dream Country Follow the Stars Home Cloud Nine

  Home Fires Blue Moon Secrets of Paris

  Stone Heart Crazy in Love Angels All Over Town

  Also by Joseph Monninger

  Hippie Chick (young adult) Baby (young adult)

  Two Ton: One Night, One Fight (nonfiction)

  A Barn in New England (nonfiction)

  Home Waters (nonfiction) Mather

  The Viper Tree Second Season New Jersey

  The Summer Hunt The Family Man

  THE LETTERS

  A Bantam Book / October 2008

  Published by Bantam Dell

  A Division of Random House, Inc.

  New York, New York

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the authors’ imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or
dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  All rights reserved.

  Copyright © 2008 by Luanne Rice and Joseph Monninger

  Illustrations by Laura Hartman Maestro

  Bantam Books is a registered trademark of Random House, Inc., and the colophon is a trademark of Random House, Inc.

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

  Rice, Luanne.

  The Letters / Luanne Rice & Joseph Monninger.

  p. cm.

  1. Spouses—Fiction. 2. Bereavement—Fiction. 3. Adult children—Death—Fiction. I. Monninger, Joseph. II. Title.

  PS3568.I289L48 2008

  813'.54—dc22

  2008025627

  www.bantamdell.com

  eISBN: 978-0-553-90591-5

  v3.0