As she approached, she noticed something different about the way it looked. It was smooth and long, for one thing, and as she drew nearer she realized it wasn’t a rock at all. It was a bottle, probably discarded by a careless tourist or one of the local teens who liked to come here at night. She looked over her shoulder and saw a garbage can chained to the lifeguard tower and decided to do her good deed for the day. When she reached it, however, she was surprised to see that it was corked. She picked it up, holding it into better light, and saw a note inside wrapped with yarn, standing on its end.
For a second she felt her heart quicken as another memory came back to her. When she was eight years old and vacationing in Florida with her parents, she and another girl had once sent a letter via the sea, but she’d never received a reply. The letter was simple, a child’s letter, but when she returned home, she remembered racing to the mailbox for weeks afterward, hoping that someone had found it and sent a letter to her from where the bottle washed up. When nothing ever came, disappointment set in, the memory fading gradually until it became nothing at all. But now it all came back to her. Who had been with her that day? A girl about her age . . . Tracy? . . . no . . . Stacey? . . . yes, Stacey! Stacey was her name! She had blond hair . . . she was staying with her grandparents for the summer . . . and . . . and . . . and the memory stopped there, with nothing else coming no matter how hard she tried.
She began to pull at the cork, almost expecting it to be the same bottle she had sent, although she knew that couldn’t be. It was probably from another child, though, and if it requested a reply, she was going to send it. Maybe along with a small gift from the Cape and a postcard as well.
The cork was wedged in tightly, and her fingers slipped as she tried to open it. She couldn’t get a very good grip. She dug her short fingernails into the exposed cork and twisted the bottle slowly. Nothing. She switched hands and tried again. Tightening her grip, she put the bottle between her legs for more leverage, and just as she was about to give up, the cork moved a little. Suddenly renewed, she changed back to her original hands . . . squeezed . . . twisting the bottle slowly . . . more cork . . . and suddenly it loosened and the remaining portion slipped out easily.
She tipped the bottle upside-down and was surprised when the note dropped to the sand by her feet almost immediately. When she leaned over to pick it up, she noticed it was tightly bound, which was why it slid out so easily.
She untied the yarn carefully, and the first thing that struck her as she unrolled the message was the paper. This was no child’s stationery. It was expensive paper, thick and sturdy, with a silhouette of a sailing ship embossed in the upper right hand corner. And the paper itself was crinkled, aged looking, almost as if it had been in the water for a hundred years.
She caught herself holding her breath. Maybe it was old. It could be—there were stories about bottles washing up after a hundred years at sea, so that could be the case now. Maybe she had a real artifact here. But as she scrutinized the writing itself, she saw that she was mistaken. There was a date on the upper left corner of the paper.
July 22, 1997.
A little more than three weeks ago.
Three weeks? That’s all?
She looked a little further. The message was long—it covered the front and back sides of the paper—and it didn’t seem to request any reply of sorts. A quick glance showed no address or phone number anywhere, but she supposed it could have been written into the letter itself.
She felt a twinge of curiosity as she held the message in front of her, and it was then, in the rising sunlight of a hot New England day, that she first read the letter that would change her life forever.
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July 22, 1997
My Dearest Catherine,
I miss you, my darling, as I always do, but today is especially hard because the ocean has been singing to me, and the song is that of our life together. I can almost feel you beside me as I write this letter, and I can smell the scent of wildflowers that always reminds me of you. But at this moment, these things give me no pleasure. Your visits have been coming less often, and I feel sometimes as if the greatest part of who I am is slowly slipping away.
I am trying, though. At night when I am alone, I call for you, and whenever my ache seems to be the greatest, you still seem to find a way to return to me. Last night, in my dreams, I saw you on the pier near Wrightsville Beach. The wind was blowing through your hair, and your eyes held the fading sunlight. I am struck as I see you leaning against the rail. You are beautiful, I think as I see you, a vision that I can never find in anyone else. I slowly begin to walk toward you, and when you finally turn to me, I notice that others have been watching you as well. “Do you know her?” they ask me in jealous whispers, and as you smile at me, I simply answer with the truth. “Better than my own heart.”
I stop when I reach you and take you in my arms. I long for this moment more than any other. It is what I live for, and when you return my embrace, I give myself over to this moment, at peace once again.
I raise my hand and gently touch your cheek and you tilt your head and close your eyes. My hands are hard and your skin is soft, and I wonder for a moment if you’ll pull back, but of course you don’t. You never have, and it is at times like this that I know what my purpose is in life.
I am here to love you, to hold you in my arms, to protect you. I am here to learn from you and to receive your love in return. I am here because there is no other place to be.
But then, as always, the mist starts to form as we stand close to one another. It is a distant fog that rises from the horizon, and I find that I grow fearful as it approaches. It slowly creeps in, enveloping the world around us, fencing us in as if to prevent escape. Like a rolling cloud, it blankets everything, closing, until there is nothing left but the two of us.
I feel my throat begin to close and my eyes well up with tears because I know it is time for you to go. The look you give me at that moment haunts me. I feel your sadness and my own loneliness, and the ache in my heart that had been silent for only a short time grows stronger as you release me. And then you spread your arms and step back into the fog because it is your place and not mine. I long to go with you, but your only response is to shake your head because we both know that is impossible.
And I watch with breaking heart as you slowly fade away. I find myself straining to remember everything about this moment, everything about you. But soon, always too soon, your image vanishes and the fog rolls back to its faraway place and I am alone on the pier and I do not care what others think as I bow my head and cry and cry and cry.
Garrett
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“Have you been crying?” Deanna asked as Theresa stepped onto the back deck, carrying both the bottle and the message. In her confusion, she had forgotten to throw the bottle away.
Theresa felt embarrassed and wiped her eyes as Deanna put down the newspaper and rose from her seat. Though she was overweight—and had been since Theresa had known her—she moved quickly around the table, her face registering concern.
“Are you okay? What happened out there? Are you hurt?” She bumped into one of the chairs as she reached out and took Theresa’s hand.
Theresa shook her head. “No, nothing like that. I just found this letter and . . . I don’t know, after I read it I couldn’t help it.”
“A letter? What letter? Are you sure you’re okay?” Deanna’s free hand gestured compulsively as she asked the questions.
“I’m fine, really. The letter was in a bottle. I found it washed up on the beach. When I opened it and read it . . .” She trailed off, and Deanna’s face lightened just a bit.
“Oh . . . that’s good. For a second I thought something awful happened. Like someone had attacked you or something.”
Theresa brushed away a strand of hair that had blown onto her face and smiled at her concern. “No, the letter just really hit me. It’s silly, I know. I shouldn’t have been so emotional. And I’m sorry for giving you a scare.”
“Oh, pooh,” Deanna said, shrugging. “Nothing to be sorry about. I’m just glad you’re okay.” She paused for a moment. “You said the letter made you cry? Why? What did it say?”
Theresa wiped her eyes, handed the letter to Deanna, and walked over to the wrought-iron table where Deanna had been sitting. Still feeling a bit ridiculous about crying, she did her best to compose herself.
Deanna read the letter slowly, and when she finished, she looked up at Theresa. Her eyes too were watering. It wasn’t just her, after all.
“It’s . . . it’s beautiful,” Deanna finally said. “It’s one of the most touching things I’ve ever read.”
“That’s what I thought.”
“And you found it washed up on the beach? When you were running?”
Theresa nodded.
“I don’t know how it could have washed up there. The bay is sheltered from the rest of the ocean, and I’ve never heard of Wrightsville Beach.”
“I don’t know, either, but it looked like it had washed up last night. I almost walked by it at first before I noticed what it was.”
Deanna ran her finger over the writing and paused for a moment. “I wonder who they are. And why was it sealed in a bottle?”
“I don’t know.”
“Aren’t you curious?”
The fact was that Theresa was indeed curious. Immediately after reading it, she had read it again, then a third time. What would it be like, she mused, to have someone love her that way?
“A little. But so what? There’s no way we’ll ever know.”
“What are you going to do with it?”
“Keep it, I guess. I haven’t really thought about it that much.”
“Hmmm,” Deanna said with an indecipherable smile. Then, “How was your jog?”
Theresa sipped a glass of juice she had poured. “It was good. The sun was really something when it came up. It looked like the world was glowing.”
“That’s just because you were dizzy from lack of oxygen. Jogging does that to you.”
Theresa smiled, amused. “So, I take it you won’t come with me this week.”
Deanna reached for her cup of coffee with a doubtful look on her face. “Not a chance. My exercise is limited to vacuuming the house every weekend. Can you picture me out there, huffing and puffing? I’d probably have a heart attack.”
“It’s refreshing once you get used to it.”
“That may be true, but I’m not young and svelte like you are. The only time I can remember running at all was when I was a kid and the neighbor’s dog got out of the yard. I was running so fast, I almost wet my pants.”
Theresa laughed out loud. “So, what’s on the agenda today?”
“I thought we’d do a little shopping and have lunch in town. Are you up for something like that?”
“That’s what I was hoping you’d say.”
The two women talked about the places they might go. Then Deanna got up and went inside for another cup of coffee and Theresa watched her as she left.
Deanna was fifty-eight and round faced, with hair that was slowly turning to gray. She kept it cut short, dressed without an excess of vanity, and was, Theresa decided, easily the best person she knew. She was knowledgeable about music and art, and at work, the recordings of Mozart or Beethoven were always flooding out of her office into the chaos of the newsroom. She lived in a world of optimism and humor, and everyone who knew her adored her.
When Deanna came back to the table, she sat down and looked out across the bay. “Isn’t this the most beautiful place you’ve ever seen?”
“Yes, it is. I’m glad you invited me.”
“You needed it. You would have been absolutely alone in that apartment of yours.”
“You sound like my mother.”
“I’ll take that as a compliment.”
Deanna reached across the table and picked up the letter again. As she perused it her eyebrows raised, but she said nothing. To Theresa, it looked as though the letter had triggered something in her memory.
“What is it?”
“I just wonder . . . ,” she said quietly.
“Wonder what?”
“Well, when I was inside, I got to thinking about this letter. I’m wondering if we should run this in your column this week.”
“What are you talking about?”
Deanna leaned across the table. “Just what I said—I think we should run this letter in your column this week. I’m sure other people would love to read it. It really is unusual. People need to read something like this every once in a while. And this is so touching. I can picture a hundred women cutting it out and taping it to their refrigerators so their husbands can see it when they get home from work.”
“We don’t even know who they are. Don’t you think we should get their permission first?”
“That’s just the point. We can’t. I can talk to the attorney at the paper, but I’m sure it’s legal. We won’t use their real names, and as long as we don’t take credit for writing it or divulge where it might be from, I’m sure there wouldn’t be a problem.”
“I know it’s probably legal, but I’m not sure if it’s right. I mean, this is a very personal letter. I’m not sure it should be spread around so that everyone can read it.”
“It’s a human interest story, Theresa. People love those sorts of things. Besides, there’s nothing in there that might be embarrassing to someone. This is a beautiful letter. And remember, this Garrett person sent it in a bottle in the ocean. He had to know it would wash up somewhere.”
Theresa shook her head. “I don’t know, Deanna . . .”
“Well, think about it. Sleep on it if you have to. I think it’s a great idea.”
* * *
Theresa did think about the letter as she undressed and got in the shower. She found herself wondering about the man who wrote it—Garrett, if that was his real name. And who, if anyone, was Catherine? His lover or his wife, obviously, but she wasn’t around anymore. Was she dead, she wondered, or did something else happen that forced them apart? And why was it sealed in a bottle and set adrift? The whole thing was strange. Her reporter’s instincts took over then, and she suddenly thought that the message might not mean anything. It could be someone who wanted to write a love letter but didn’t have anyone to send it to. It could even have been sent by someone who got some sort of vicarious thrill by making lonely women cry on distant beaches. But as the words rolled through her head again, she realized that those possibilities were unlikely. The letter obviously came from the heart. And to think that a man wrote it! In all her years, she had never received a letter even close to that. Touching sentiments sent her way had always been emblazoned with Hallmark greeting card logos. David had never been much of a writer, nor had anyone else she had dated. What would such a man be like? she wondered. Would he be as caring in person as the letter seemed to imply?