Garrett rose from the couch and moved toward her. When he got close, she pulled back, raising her arms like a barrier.
“Look, Garrett—I don’t want you to touch me right now, okay?”
He dropped his hands to his sides. For a long moment neither of them said anything. Theresa crossed her arms and glanced away.
“Then I guess your answer is that you’re not coming,” he finally said, sounding angry.
She spoke carefully. “No. My answer is that we’re going to have to talk this out.”
“So you can try to convince me that I’m wrong?”
His comment didn’t deserve a response. Shaking her head, she walked to the dining room table, picked up her purse, and started toward the front door.
“Where are you going?”
“I’m going to get some wine. I need a drink.”
“But it’s late.”
“There’s a store at the end of the block. I’ll be back in a couple of minutes.”
“why can’t we talk about it now?”
“Because,” she said quickly, “I need a few minutes alone so I can think.”
“You’re running out?” It sounded like an accusation.
She opened the door, holding it as she spoke. “No, Garrett, I’m not running out. I’ll be back in a few minutes. And I don’t appreciate you talking to me like that. It’s not fair of you to make me feel guilty about this. You’ve just asked me to change my entire life, and I’m taking a few minutes to think about it.”
She left the apartment. Garrett stared at the door for a couple of seconds, waiting to see if she would come back. When she didn’t, he cursed himself silently. Nothing had turned out as he thought it would. One minute he asked her to move to Wilmington, the next she’s out the door, needing to be alone. How had it gotten away from him?
Not knowing what else to do, he paced around the apartment. He glanced in the kitchen, then Kevin’s room, and kept moving. When he reached her bedroom, he paused for a moment before entering. After walking over to her bed, he sat down, putting his head into his hands.
Was it fair of him to ask her to leave? Granted, she had a life here—a good life—but he felt sure that she could have that in Wilmington. No matter how he looked at it, it would probably be much better than their life together up here. Looking around, he knew there was no way he could live in an apartment. But even if they moved to a house—would it have a view? Or would they live in a suburb, surrounded by a dozen houses that looked exactly the same?
It was complicated. And somehow, everything he’d said had come out wrong. He hadn’t wanted her to feel as if he were giving her an ultimatum, but thinking back, he realized that was exactly what he had done.
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?”