Sighing, he wondered what to do next. Somehow he didn't think there was anything he could say when she got back that wouldn't lead to another argument. Above all, he didn't want that. Arguments rarely led to solutions, and that's what they needed now.
But if he couldn't say anything, what else was there? He thought for a moment before finally deciding to write her a letter, outlining his thoughts. Writing always made him think more clearly--especially over the last few years--and maybe she would be able to understand where he was coming from.
He glanced toward her bedside table. Her phone was there--she probably took messages now and then--but he didn't see either a pen or pad. He opened the drawer, rifled through it, and found a ballpoint near the front.
Looking for some paper, he continued shuffling--through magazines, a couple of paperback books, some empty jewelry boxes--when something familiar caught his eye.
A sailing ship.
It was on a piece of paper, wedged between a slim Day-Timer and an old copy of Ladies' Home Journal. He reached for it, assuming it was one of the letters he'd written to her over the last couple of months, then suddenly froze.
How could that be?
The stationery had been a gift from Catherine, and he used it only when he wrote to her. His letters to Theresa had been written on different paper, something he'd picked up at the store.
He found himself holding his breath. He quickly made room in the drawer, removing the magazine and gently lifted out, not one, but five--five!--pieces of the stationery. Still confused, he blinked hard before glancing at the first page, and there, in his scrawl, were the words:
My Dearest Catherine...
Oh, my God. He turned to the second page, a photocopy.
My Darling Catherine...
The next letter.
Dear Catherine...
"What is this," he muttered, unable to believe what he was seeing. "It can't be--" He looked over the pages again just to make sure.
But it was true. One was real, two were copies, but they were his letters, the letters he had written to Catherine. The letters he had written after his dreams, the letters he dropped from Happenstance and never expected to see again.
On impulse he began to read them, and with each word, each phrase, he felt his emotions rushing to the surface, coming at him all at once. The dreams, his memories, his loss, the anguish. He stopped.
His mouth went dry as he pressed his lips together. Instead of reading any more, he simply stared at them in shock. He barely heard the front door open and then close. Theresa called out, "Garrett, I'm back." She paused, and he could hear her walking through the apartment. Then, "Where are you?"
He didn't answer. He couldn't do anything but try to grasp how this had happened. How could she have them? They were his letters... his personal letters.
The letters to his wife.
Letters that were no one else's business.
Theresa stepped into the room and looked at him. Though he didn't know it, his face was pale, his knuckles white as they gripped the pages he held.
"Are you okay?" she asked, not realizing what was in his hands.
For a moment, it was as if he hadn't heard her. Then, looking up slowly, he glared at her.
Startled, she almost spoke again. But she didn't. Like a wave, everything hit her at the same time--the open drawer, the papers in his hand, the expression on his face--and she knew immediately what had happened.
"Garrett... I can explain," she said quickly, quietly. He didn't seem to hear her.
"My letters...," he whispered. He looked at her, a mixture of confusion and rage.
"I..."
"How did you get my letters?" he demanded, the sound of his voice making her flinch.
"I found one washed up at the beach and--"
He cut her off. "You found it?"
She nodded, trying to explain. "When I was at the Cape. I was jogging and I came across the bottle...."
He glanced at the first page, the only original letter. It was the one he had written earlier that year. But the others...
"What about these?" he asked, holding up the copies. "Where did they come from?"
Theresa answered softly. "They were sent to me."
"By whom?" Confused, he rose from the bed.
She took a step toward him, holding out her hand. "By other people who'd found them. One of the people read my column...."
"You published my letter?" He sounded as if he'd just been hit in the stomach.
She didn't answer for a moment. "I didn't know...," she began.
"You didn't know what?" he said loudly, the hurt evident in his tone. "That it was wrong to do that? That this wasn't something that I wanted the world to see?"
"It was washed up on the beach--you had to know someone would find it," she said quickly. "I didn't use your names."
"But you put it in the paper...." He trailed off in disbelief.
"Garrett... I--"
"Don't," he said angrily. Again he glanced at the letters, then looked back at her, as if he were seeing her for the first time. "You lied to me," he said, almost as if it were a revelation.
"I didn't lie...."
He wasn't listening. "You lied to me," he repeated, as if to himself. "And you came to find me. Why? So you could write another column. Is that what this is about?"
"No... it isn't like that at all...."
"Then what was it?"
"After reading your letters, I... I wanted to meet you."
He didn't understand what she was saying. He kept looking from the letters to her and back again. His expression was pained.
"You lied to me," he said for the third time. "You used me."
"I didn't...."
"Yes, you did!" he shouted, his voice echoing in the room. Remembering Catherine, he held the letters out in front of him, as if Theresa had never seen them before. "These were mine--my feelings, my thoughts, my way of dealing with the loss of my wife. Mine--not yours."
"I didn't mean to hurt you."
He stared hard at her without saying anything. His jaw muscles tensed.
"This whole thing is a sham, isn't it," he said finally, not waiting for her to answer. "You took my feelings for Catherine and tried to manipulate them into something you wanted. You thought that because I loved Catherine, I would love you, too, didn't you?"
Despite herself, she paled. She felt suddenly incapable of speech.
"You planned all this from the beginning, didn't you?" He paused again, running his free hand through his hair. When he spoke, his voice began to crack. "The whole thing was set up--"
He seemed dazed for a moment, and she reached out to him.
"Garrett--yes, I admit I wanted to meet you. The letters were so beautiful--I wanted to see what kind of person writes like that. But I didn't know where it would lead, I didn't plan on anything after that." She took his hand. "I love you, Garrett. You've got to believe me."
When she finished speaking, he pulled his hand free and moved away.
"What kind of person are you?"
The comment stung, and she responded defensively, "It's not what you think...."
Garrett pressed on, oblivious of her response. "You got caught up in some weird fantasy...."
That was too much. "Stop it, Garrett!" she cried angrily, hurt by his words. "You didn't listen to anything I said!" As she shouted, she felt tears welling up in her eyes.
"Why should I listen? You've been lying to me ever since I've known you."
"I didn't lie! I just never told you about the letters!"
"Because you knew it was wrong!"
"No--because I knew you wouldn't understand," she said, trying to regain her composure.
"I understand all right. I understand what kind of person you are!"
Her eyes narrowed. "Don't be like this."
"Be like what? Mad? Hurt? I just found out this whole thing was a charade, and now you want me to stop?"
"Shut up!" she shouted back, her anger sud
denly rising to the surface.
He seemed stunned by her words, and he stared at her without speaking. Finally, with breaking voice, he held out the letters again.
"You think you understand what Catherine and I had together, but you don't. No matter how many letters you read--no matter how well you know me--you'll never understand. What she and I had was real. It was real, and she was real...."
He paused, collecting his thoughts, regarding her as if she were a stranger. Then, stiffening, he said something that hurt her worse than anything he'd said so far.
"We've never even come close to what Catherine and I had."
He didn't wait for a response. Instead he walked past her, toward his suitcase. After throwing everything inside, he zipped it quickly. For a moment she thought to stop him, but his comment had left her reeling.
He stood, lifting his bag. "These," he said, holding the letters, "are mine, and I'm taking them with me."
Suddenly realizing what he intended to do, she asked, "Why are you leaving?"
He stared at her. "I don't even know who you are."
Without another word, he turned around and strode through the living room and out the door.
CHAPTER 12
Not knowing where else to go, Garrett caught a cab to the airport after leaving Theresa's apartment. Unfortunately no flights were available, and he ended up staying in the terminal the rest of the night, still angry and unable to sleep. Pacing the terminal for hours, he wandered past shops that had long since closed up for the evening, stopping only occasionally to look through the barricades that kept nighttime travelers at bay.
The following morning he caught the first flight he could and made it home a little after eleven and then went straight to his room. As he lay in bed, however, the events of the evening before kept running through his head, keeping him awake. Trying and failing to fall asleep, he eventually gave up. He showered and dressed, then sat on his bed again. Staring at the photograph of Catherine, he eventually picked it up and carried it with him into the living room. On the coffee table he found the letters where he'd left them. In Theresa's apartment he'd been too shocked to make sense of them, but now, with her picture in front of him, he read the letters slowly, almost reverently, sensing Catherine's presence filling the room.
"Hey, I thought you'd forgotten about our date," he said as he watched Catherine walking down the dock with a grocery bag.
Smiling, Catherine took his hand as she stepped on board. "I didn't forget, I just had a little detour on the way."
"Where?"
"Actually, I went to see the doctor"
He took the bag from her and set it off to one side. "Are you okay? I know you haven't been feeling well--"
"I'm okay," she said, cutting him off gently. "But I don't think I'm up for a sail tonight."
"Something is wrong, isn't it?"
Catherine smiled again as she leaned over and pulled a small package out of one of the bags. Garrett watched as she began to open it.
"Close your eyes," she said, "and I'll tell you all about it."
Still a little unsure, Garrett nonetheless did as she asked and heard as tissue paper was unwrapped. "Okay, you can open them now."
Catherine was holding up baby clothes in front of her.
"What's this?" he asked, not understanding.
Her face was buoyant. "I'm pregnant," she said excitedly.
"Pregnant?"
"Uh-huh. I'm officially eight weeks along."
"Eight weeks?"
She nodded. "I think I must have gotten pregnant the last time we went sailing."
Hesitating from the shock, Garrett took the baby clothes and held them delicately in his hand, then finally leaned forward and gave Catherine a hug. "I can't believe it...."
"It's true."
A broad smile crossed his lips as the realization finally began to sink in. "You're pregnant."
Catherine closed her eyes and whispered in his ear, "And you're going to be a father."
Garrett's thoughts were interrupted by the squeaking of the door. His father peeked his head into the room.
"I saw your truck out front. I wanted to make sure everything was okay," he said in explanation. "I didn't expect you back here until this evening." When Garrett didn't respond, his father walked in and immediately spotted Catherine's picture on the table. "You okay, son?" he asked cautiously.
They sat in the living room while Garrett explained the situation from the beginning--the dreams he'd been having over the years, the messages he'd been sending by bottle, finally moving on to the argument they'd had the night before. He left nothing out. When he finished, his father took the letters from Garrett's hand.
"It must have been quite a shock," he said, glancing at the pages, surprised that Garrett had never mentioned the letters to him. He paused. "But don't you think you were a little rough on her?"
Garrett shook his head tiredly. "She knew everything about me, Dad, and she never told me. She set the whole thing up."
"No, she didn't," he said gently. "She may have come down to meet you, but she didn't make you fall in love with her. You did that on your own."
Garrett looked away before finally returning his gaze to the picture on the table. "But don't you think it was wrong of her to hide it from me?"
Jeb sighed, not wanting to answer the question, knowing it would lead Garrett to retread old ground. Instead he tried to think of another way to get through to his son. "A couple of weeks ago, when we were talking on the pier, you told me you wanted to marry Theresa because you loved her. Do you remember that?"
Garrett nodded absently.
"Why has that changed?"
Garrett looked at his father, confused. "I've already told you that--"
Jeb gently cut him off before he could finish.
"Yeah, you've explained your reasons, but you haven't been honest about it. Not with me, not with Theresa, not even with yourself. She may not have told you about the letters, and granted, maybe she should have. But that's not why you're still angry now. You're angry because she made you realize something that you didn't want to admit."
Garrett looked at his father without responding. Then, rising from the couch, he went to the kitchen, suddenly feeling the urge to escape the conversation. In the refrigerator, he found a pitcher of sweet tea and poured himself a glass. Holding the freezer open, he pulled out the metal tray to crack out a couple of cubes. In a sudden spurt of frustration, he pulled the lever too hard and ice cubes flew over the counter and onto the floor.
As Garrett muttered and cursed in the kitchen, Jeb stared at the picture of Catherine, remembering his own wife from long ago. He put the letters beside it and walked to the sliding glass door. Opening it, he watched as cold December winds from the Atlantic made the waves crash violently, the sounds echoing through the house. Jeb contemplated the ocean, watching it churn and roll until he heard a knock at the door.
He turned, wondering who it could be. Strangely, he realized that in all of his visits here, no one had ever come to the door.
In the kitchen, Garrett apparently hadn't heard the knock. Jeb went to answer it. Behind him, the wind chimes hanging over the back deck were ringing loudly.
"Coming," he called out.
When the front door swung open, wind gusted through the living room, scattering the letters to the floor. Jeb, however, didn't notice. All his attention was focused on the visitor on the porch. He couldn't help but stare.
Standing before him was a dark-haired young woman he'd never seen before. He paused in the doorway, knowing exactly who she was but finding himself at a loss for words. He moved aside to make room for her.
"C'mon in," he said quietly.
As she entered, closing the door behind her, the wind abruptly died. She glanced at Jeb, uncomfortable. For a moment, neither spoke.
"You must be Theresa," Jeb finally said. In the background, Jeb could hear Garrett mumbling to himself as he cleaned up the ice in the kitchen. "I've heard a lot
about you."
She crossed her arms, hesitating. "I know I'm not expected...."
"It's okay," Jeb encouraged.
"Is he here?"
Jeb nodded his head in the direction of the kitchen. "Yeah, he's here. He's getting something to drink."
"How is he?"
Jeb shrugged and gave her a slow, wry smile. "You'll have to talk to him...."
Theresa nodded, suddenly wondering whether coming down was a good idea. She glanced around the room and immediately spied the letters spread around the floor. She also noticed Garrett's bag sitting by his bedroom door, still packed from his visit. Other than that, the house looked exactly the same as it always did.
Except, of course, for the photograph.
She spotted it over Jeb's shoulder. Normally it was in his room, and for some reason, now that it was in plain view, she couldn't take her eyes off it. She was still staring at the picture when Garrett reentered the living room.
"Dad, what happened in here--"
He froze. Theresa faced him uncertainly. For a long moment, neither of them said anything. Then Theresa took a deep breath.
"Hello, Garrett," she said.
Garrett said nothing. Jeb picked up his keys from the table, knowing it was time to leave.
"You two have a lot to talk about, so I'll get out of here."
He went to the front door, glancing sidelong at Theresa. "It was nice meeting you," he murmured. But as he spoke, he raised his eyebrows and shrugged slightly, as if to wish her luck. In a moment he was outside, making his way down the walk.
"Why are you here?" Garrett asked evenly once they were alone.
"I wanted to come," she said quietly. "I wanted to see you again."
"Why?"
She didn't answer. Instead, after a moment's hesitation, she walked toward him, her eyes never leaving his. Once she was close, she put her finger to his lips and shook her head to stop him from speaking. "Shh," she whispered, "no questions... just for now. Please..." She tried to smile, but now that he could see her better, he knew she'd been crying.
There was nothing she could say. There were no words to describe what she'd been going through.
Instead she wrapped her arms around him. Reluctantly he drew his arms around her as she rested her head against him. She kissed his neck and pulled him closer. Running her hand through his hair, she moved her mouth tentatively to his cheek, then to his lips. She kissed them lightly at first, her lips barely brushing against them, then she kissed him again, more passionate now. Without conscious thought, he began to respond to her advances. His hands slowly traveled up her back, molding her against him.