by Karey White
Yet he’d come to know that Jane had more fire in her than that. She might well stalk out, incensed, and she’d never again speak to him. He’d never get another one of her delightful, thought-provoking letters.
Tinker Bell came on stage, or rather, the ball of light representing her did, and soon the audience had to clap to save the fairy. The children in the audience wore broad smiles, and their eyes were wide with the pure magic of the moment. They looked as he’d often felt upon receiving Jane’s letters. In a sense he supposed that he’d felt as if he’d been experiencing magic too, a magic extending beyond friendship to love. Jane had turned his life inside out with writing so honestly and beautifully and... He couldn’t explain it. He quite simply loved Jane and couldn’t wait to receive her next letter. He often wrote his letter the same day he received hers. He couldn’t mail them back the same day, of course. He had to pretend that the postal system was sending their letters over hundreds of miles. As it was, he deliberately smeared the postmarks so she wouldn’t be able to tell where they really came from. Waiting those extra days was necessary for maintaining the mirage, but doing so was pure torture. He’d wanted a chance to be alone with her for weeks now, and here they were, but she was thinking of Charles.
Thomas gave up trying to follow the play. Jane’s attention seemed so caught up in the action on stage that she wouldn’t notice how he was no longer looking at the stage at all, but had even turned his head to gaze upon her. He’d hear all about the play from her anyway. For now, he pondered on how to cross the barrier between them. He decided against doing so tonight. It had to be another time and in another place. He’d need to ponder how to tell her the truth while retaining her friendship. And do so while retaining the chance to create something beyond friendship. Perhaps such a thing wasn’t possible. His chest felt heavy at the thought, and his mouth went dry.
At last, the curtain fell. Intermission had arrived. Jane turned to him and caught his gaze already on her. To his relief, she smiled. “Isn’t Captain Hook remarkable?”
“Quite.” Thomas managed, although his voice sounded off pitch and tinny to his ears. “Care to take a walk about, stretch your legs a bit before the second half?”
“Sounds delightful.” Jane stood, and together they walked back down the stairs to the lobby. She excused herself to go to the powder room, during which time he agonized as he’d never known was possible. The angel and devil warred again, one voice whispering that he should tell Jane everything, because she would understand, and because she deserved to know. The other voice countered that he couldn’t do such a reckless thing, that telling the truth would hurt her too much, and she’d hate the sight of him forevermore if he so much as breathed a word.
Before he could come to a decision, Jane reappeared, looking beautiful and fresh and glowing. Thomas opened his mouth to tell her— well, something about the truth— but she spoke instead.
“I cannot wait to tell Charles all about this. He’s my letter-writing friend I mentioned. He loves the theater so.” She clasped her hands and looked about the lobby area, at the chandeliers hanging above them, seeming to admire the intricate carvings and woodwork.
“Oh?” Thomas managed. “Charles?”
“Surely you’ve seen our letters pass through the post office. We exchange letters every week.”
“Yes. Yes, of course,” he said, hating the pink flush her cheeks got at simply mentioning Charles. “Have you exchanged photographs?”
“Not yet,” Jane said. “He seems quite well versed in the theater and would enjoy a report on Peter Pan. Although I’m sure he’s visited much grander theaters than this one, as beautiful as this is.”
“Perhaps,” Thomas hedged. “Perhaps not.”
“Isn’t the actress who plays Wendy splendid? And the actress playing Peter— I don’t know how she does all that flying.”
“On wires,” he said, distracted.
She tapped his arm playfully, which effectively cut off Thomas’s voice box. He wanted to hold her hand. To hold all of her in his arms.
“I know she’s on wires, silly,” Jane said with a laugh. “I meant how she makes it look effortless. Imagine all of the practice she’d need to make it look just so.”
“You’re right, of course,” he said, although he’d hardly heard a word after she’d touched his arm.
He decided to forget about unveiling Charles tonight. First she needed to see him in a favorable light. She needed to like Thomas for himself first. Perhaps then he could reveal his true identity. Yes. That was a good plan, and quite possibly the only one that would work. He held out an arm for her to take, then they headed back up the stairs to their seats.
“So tell me more about yourself, Jane,” he said as they walked along. “We’ve known each other an awfully long time, but I don’t think we really know each other, not really. Aside from theater, I don’t know what else interests you.” A slight fib, as he’d learned much about Jane over the last while, just not under his own name. “Do you by chance enjoy poetry? Personally, I enjoy Wordsworth and Coleridge.” He felt slightly evil for deliberately leading the conversation into a place she loved.
Jane’s step came up short, and her eyes went wide. “Those very poets are my favorites too!”
Thomas grinned. “You don’t say?”
“What are the chances...” she said, her voice trailing off.
He thought hard about how to continue the conversation for the few minutes left until the lights were to go down. He’d found a way to make her like him, at least a little. Perhaps he could continue along these lines, showing her how much they had in common and how well he understood her, and then Charles could stop writing, leaving Thomas alone for her to care for, without ever needing to reveal the truth.
They settled into their seats once more. For the rest of the production, he thought of all the things he could work into their conversations.
She loves daffodils over roses.
She loves the scent of baking bread, but kneading the dough is a nuisance.
The perfect crystal star adorns her family’s Christmas tree. She found it on a trip to New York.
She loves reading John Donne. Remember to read more of his poetry before bringing him up.
Ice cream in any flavor.
The list went on and on. Occasionally, he looked over at Jane. Sometimes she noticed, looked his direction, smiled, and returned to the play. For a good portion of the final act, he gazed at her hands resting in her lap and wished he could offer to cradle her hand in his, to kiss the back of it and hold her palm to his cheek.
All in good time. This evening is only the beginning.
Chapter Six
Jane felt a twinge of regret at how short her letter to Charles was today. Granted, she’d filled four pages, but she usually wrote three times that, easily. She’d mostly recounted the play from earlier in the week, and her impressions of it: how the actor portraying Hook was pure genius, as was Peter, but she thought the Darling boys weren’t as strong as the rest of the cast. How the sets and costumes were beautiful. And how she was eager to visit the theater again soon.
She did not, however, mention that she’d seen the production with a male friend, or that her eagerness to see another play, or perhaps a moving picture, had as much to do with wanting to write Charles about it as it did with spending time with Thomas again. She had secretly enjoyed the night at the theater, especially the way he had treated her, as if she mattered and had interesting things to say. She’d even felt beautiful for a few hours.
As she reread her letter, her omission about Thomas needled her. She couldn’t end the letter on a note that was silently about another man. She groped for and found a different topic to close with.
I’ve long been interested in Victorian poets, but I have yet to read much of Elizabeth Barrett Browning. My next reading adventure, I’ve decided, is to read all of her works. After that, I’ll turn to her devoted husband’s. The Brownings, of course, will eternally be one o
f history’s most celebrated couples; it seems only right that a lover of poetry would not have a complete education or collection unless he or she has been fully immersed in their poetry.
Besides, it’s not often a reader gets the chance to see how life events influence a writer’s work. In Elizabeth’s case, or so I hear, her writing changed dramatically after she met and married Robert. Such a fascinating story!
I must go now; I have a pressing engagement. But I promise to write again soon, and with luck, my next letter will be much longer.
Faithfully yours,
Jane
She stared at the way she’d closed the letter. Was she indeed faithful?
Charles and I are friends. We are nothing more, at least for now. Even if I’ve thought of more with him.
Except that for the last while, ever since the play, her thoughts had often strayed to Thomas. If he and Charles could somehow be woven into the same person— the intellect and culture of Charles, with the fun, sweet personality of Thomas— such a man might well be her perfect match.
Deliberately, she blew on the ink then slipped the pages into an envelope and sealed it. She’d mail the letter on her way to meet Thomas at the park, where they planned to take a walk before visiting an exhibit at the museum. Jane hurried out of her room and down the stairs. She snatched her shawl from the coat rack on her way out the door, eager to see him again.
She walked quickly to the post office, but when she reached it, her step slowed, and she looked at Charles’s letter in her hands. She still hoped to meet Charles one day, and she still felt that same thrill whenever she received one of his letters, which had become even more intimate and devoted of late. Save for his last letter, which had been shorter, as hers was today. But she had gotten the distinct impression that he would soon declare his love for her, and she was eager and willing to do the same in return.
Yet here she was, about to meet up with Thomas. Was she being unfaithful to Charles? She shook her head and reached for the door.
We haven’t officially met, for Pete’s sake. He’s not my beau.
The twist in her middle continued as she stepped inside. A glance of the front desk had the butterflies flitting about in her middle. She smiled, hoping to see Thomas sitting at the desk, yet knowing he didn’t work the afternoon shift today. Of course he didn’t; they had plans to meet in the park in only fifteen minutes. Even so, her heart drooped the slightest bit when she spotted his sister Dorothy behind the desk instead.
“Hello, Jane,” she said cheerfully. “Can I help you with something?”
“Just mailing a letter,” Jane said, holding the missive out, which already bore the required postage.
“I’ll be sure he gets it,” Dorothy said, then blushed. “I mean, I’ll be sure it gets into today’s outgoing mail.” She looked distracted as she returned to her work sorting incoming letters.
“Thank you. Have a nice day.” Jane turned toward the door. As she pulled it open, however, Dorothy’s words rang in Jane’s ears again. What had she meant by she’d be sure “he” got the letter? Yes, the letter was addressed to a man, but Dorothy herself surely wouldn’t being traveling to Toronto anytime soon. Odd. Perhaps she was used to saying such things in the course of her work, and the wrong phrase came out. Yes. That had to be it.
Jane strode to the park, putting Charles out of her mind now that she anticipated seeing Thomas. He was usually early to their meetings, which had become almost daily since their evening at the theater about a week ago. She found a bench, where she sat and tried to enjoy the slight breeze, sunlight, and squirrels chattering in the trees, but she couldn’t help looking about, expecting every person who rounded the corner to be Thomas. Her heart rate picked up as she waited. And waited some more. She checked her watch. He was late. Only two minutes late, but that was the equivalent of ten minutes late for Thomas.
What was taking him? Perhaps he’d forgotten. Jane smoothed her hair with one hand, making sure her curls and pins were in place. She pinched her cheeks to give them a little color. And she tried to be patient. It didn’t work. She should have brought along her new poetry book to pass the time, but she’d left it at home, not wanting to tell him why she was reading it. He tended to get a far-off, distracted look whenever she mentioned Charles.
Finally he appeared at the end of the lane. Jane stood quickly and made her way to him, grateful and relieved to see him. And yes, there was the crazy tumbling in her middle upon seeing his disheveled hair and his crooked grin aimed right at her. She could still hardly fathom how she’d never paid him mind until recently. He was strikingly handsome, and he had a way of looking at her that made her knees feel no stronger than tapioca pudding.
He held out his hands for her to take, smiling broadly himself. “Jane,” he said, drawing her nearer. “I’m so sorry I’m late. I was delayed— post-office business.” He shook his head as if dismissing some worry, yet something in Jane’s chest twisted. She’d just been at the post office. She hadn’t seen him there. Surely he knew she was aware of his work schedule; they planned their outings around it.
I’m worrying over nothing, she thought. He lives right behind the post office. If there’s ever any trouble, of course he’s called to help. He was probably at home looking over records or something.
Just because she had a secret, keeping her friendship with Thomas from Charles, and felt disloyal over it, didn’t mean that everyone else was hiding something.
“Don’t you worry at all,” Jane said, smiling broadly. “You’re only a few minutes late, and late for the first time.” She took her place beside him, slipping her arm through his and resting hers in the crook of his elbow. “Shall we?”
“Please.”
Together they walked the paths of the park, passing other couples, groups of friends chatting, and the occasional mother with a baby carriage. She and Thomas nodded to each in turn. They talked about what they expected to see in the art exhibit, which led to talk of their favorite artists. They both liked Rembrandt and his contemporaries and agreed that Van Gogh had been a mad genius.
They walked in comfortable silence for a few moments; Jane enjoyed every step, feeling at once entirely comfortable with Thomas, yet jittery all over, but in the best way possible. Her heart pounded crazily against her ribcage like a hummingbird trying to escape.
She let her mind wander among the clouds as he talked about the latest book he’d read, Ben Hur. Her thoughts returned to earth only when he asked a question. “Have you read it?”
“Ben Hur?” she asked, making sure he hadn’t brought up another title while she’d daydreamed about walking with him through a meadow of daisies. “I’ll put it on my list to read.”
“Do. You can borrow my copy. You’ll enjoy it definitely. And I’ll put the Brownings on my list of writers to read soon, just as you have.” Thomas kept walking, but Jane’s feet felt like they had stepped into tar; they wouldn’t move. He took another step or two until he looked over and realized he’d lost her. He turned back, eyebrows raised in curiosity.
Jane’s mind spun as if there were a puzzle she couldn’t quite put together. “I never told you about the Brownings.”
Thomas blanched, and his eyes suddenly widened. “Of course you did, I—” But his voice cut off, and guilt was written all over his face. Guilt which could mean only one thing.
She marched forward, shaking. “You’ve been reading my letters to Charles! He’s the only person I’ve ever said a word to about the Brownings.” She stood there, daring him to deny it. Wanting him to, silently begged him to. But his cheeks only colored. Suddenly his tardiness made sense. “You had to have read the letter I just mailed, and that’s why you’re late.” Anger boiled in her middle and coursed through her veins. “How dare you? I thought— I thought you were my friend.” Her first real friend. Her eyes welled up with tears, but she fought to keep them back. She would not cry. She would not be made a fool of by Thomas Allred.
She waited for an answer, any answer
that would put her out of her misery. But his mouth only opened and shut, and he shook his head helplessly.
“Deny it if you can,” she said, wanting to add, Please.
His face had gone ashen with an emotion she couldn’t pinpoint. Shame? Regret? Embarrassment? Not that it mattered. He’d betrayed her confidence and pretended to be her friend. Why he’d done so, she’d never know. But she could put an end to it at least.
“Goodbye, Mr. Allred.” Jane spun on her heels and stalked off. After a few yards, tears fell in hot tracks down her cheeks. She kept her back ramrod straight and didn’t lift a hand to wipe the tears away. She had to maintain what little dignity she had left.
But when she reached home and had escaped to her room, she collapsed on the bed and wept, caring nothing for how many tears she shed. What a fool she’d been! This is what Dorothy meant— that she’d give the letter to her brother. How many other people knew? She’d never be able to walk the streets of Provo again without wondering who was snickering at her expense behind their polite nods and smiles.
And the Aid and Culture Society! Thomas had probably bragged to his friends there, or at the least told some of the other girls.
Oh, I can never show my face there again!
After some time, Jane’s tears slowly dried up. She got off the bed and looked at herself in the mirror. Her face was puffy and had splotches of red all over. She looked as bad as she felt.
How would she be able to tell Charles, or ever write to him again, knowing her words would first be read by someone else?
Jane paced her room, crying for a spell and refusing to come down to supper when her mother knocked on the door and called her down. “I’m not hungry, Mother, but thank you.”
Her mother opened the door a crack. “Will you come down anyway? You have a visitor.”
Jane froze in place then slowly rotated to look at her mother. “Who is it?”
“Thomas Allred. He says it’s urgent, and I believe him. He looks quite ill.”
