The Perfect Letter (31 page)

Chloe snorted. “If you were so anxious to get rid of all your money, you could have given it to me, you know.”

Leigh put her arm around Chloe's waist. “I know. I'm sorry.”

“Ah, it's all right. I probably would have spent it on stupid stuff like rent and food anyway.”

“I know,” she said. “I love you, Chloe.”

“I love you, too, hussy,” Chloe said. “I wish you didn't have to go.”

“Me too,” she said. “It's weird, but for so long I dreaded coming home. I couldn't imagine anything worse than having to come back and live in Texas. But now that I'm here, it's like I never want to leave. Does that sound crazy to you?”

“Do you really want me to answer that question?”

Leigh laughed. “No. I guess not.”

“Come on. We'd better get you to your plane.”

So Leigh started packing, beginning with the manuscripts, packing them in her suitcase, weighing it down like stones. Then the toiletries stacked on the back of the toilet, the clothes strewn around the floor. In less than twenty minutes the mess was cleared up and repacked and she was ready to catch her flight. She checked under the bed for stray earrings, opened all the drawers to make sure nothing was left behind.

That's where she found them: Jake's letters.

They were lying in the top drawer of the dresser where she'd left them three days before, her own faded letters and Jake's unsent ones. The originals. The only copies that remained.

“Are those . . . ?” Chloe asked.

Leigh nodded.

She picked them up and turned them over in her hands, the two bundles. She should burn them, too, get rid of them once and for all so that no one could ever again use them against her. They were nothing but the words of a child, a scared, lonely kid. They were angry, desperate. She was ashamed to think of what they said, the record of her selfishness and foolishness, her awful, awful mistakes. She should burn them up, burn the world clean of them, and then maybe she really could give herself, and Jake, a fresh start.

Clutching the bundles of her letters to her chest, Leigh went to the fireplace and crouched down in front of it, taking out the final letter and setting it in the ashes.

“Can I have your lighter, Chloe?” she asked.

Chloe handed it to her. Leigh flicked on the flame, then set it against the corner of the last letter, the one in which she had meant to say good-bye to Jake forever and inadvertently ended up confessing to a murder.
I don't think I can keep doing this, writing and writing every week without a word from you. Any word would do. Even “good-bye.”

If you won't say it, then I will. Good-bye, Jake. I'm finally moving on, like you said I should.

The flame caught and spread. In a minute the letter—that foolish and impulsive and dangerous thing—was gone forever.

Leigh held out the rest of the bundle in front of her, turning it over and over in her hands. She had burned one letter, why not burn the rest? Start fresh, as if the old Leigh Merrill had never existed. There was something seductive in the idea of putting a torch to everything in her past once and for all, erasing her past self as if it had never been.

And yet—she couldn't do it. She couldn't bring herself to destroy something that was so raw and vulnerable—her words to Jake, Jake's words to her. For many years the letters had been her only link to him, and to the rest of the world. They'd kept her alive, in a way, during the long cold months in Boston after her grandfather died, during those lonely years when she was afraid to make friends, to date other men, to let people into her heart. They were a part of her past—they told a story of love and loneliness—and she couldn't run away from that. She'd tried that once already.

There were Jake's letters, too. Jake wrote so honestly, with such rawness, more than Leigh could have imagined. Reading the letters was like getting to know a little piece of his soul, a little patch of sun amid the clouds of the past decade. He'd spent so much time and love on those letters—he'd given her everything, held back nothing. It was a shame he'd never sent them to her back when they would have mattered, back when she'd needed them the most. How much happier might the two of them have been if only Jake hadn't been so damn proud, so stubborn, so unwilling to let her read what was in his heart until it was too late?

Really it was a shame the whole world couldn't read them, couldn't see the power of Jake's words and thoughts. He was a gorgeous writer, and a gorgeous writer deserved a rapt and attentive audience.

Leigh clutched the letters to her chest, an idea forming in her head. It was all so obvious. Why hadn't she thought of it before?

“Chloe,” she said, her breath rushing from her lungs. “I need you one more time. Can you take me to Jake?”

“Why?”

“Because I think I've figured out a way to save us both.”

J
ake wasn't at his apartment over the hardware store. He wasn't at Dot's Diner. He wasn't at Booches or the Foxhead having a drink, or the library, or the grocer's, or the saddle shop. He wasn't at the end of the dock by the river. Chloe drove her from place to place looking for him, but he wasn't anywhere you might find a grown man in broad daylight.

Where the hell are you, Jake? Why have you disappeared again?
Like a bat avoiding the sun, he'd swooped out of sight once more.

Maybe that was it—maybe he was hiding from the daylight. And if he was, she had a good idea where she might find him.

Chloe went slowly down Main Street, the Karmann Ghia rattling beneath them both. “Chloe,” she said, “can we go one more place?”

“Sure. Where to?”

“Home.”

When the two women pulled up the drive to Wolf's Head, under the row of live oaks, something caught in Leigh's throat. It was like no time at all had passed. The big house still peeked white between the trees, the ancient live oak still stood in the middle of the circular drive, its branches still holding up the tire swing she'd played on as a kid. The horses grazed in the pasture, some of them still the horses her grandfather had bred before he died. She saw her white stallion, Blizzard—sire of maybe a third of the foals her grandfather had produced—in his green paddock, his many offspring dotting the hillside behind the barn. He looked up toward the sound of Chloe's car rattling down the drive, but it wasn't until Leigh got out of the car and whistled to him that his ears pricked up. He whinnied and came running to the fence.

“Hey, boy,” said Leigh, coming close now, not quite believing that Blizzard was still alive. He nickered and nuzzled her hand. “Sorry, boy. I didn't bring you any carrots today. Next time, I promise.”

Leigh hadn't been back to Wolf's Head once in the years after her grandfather's death. There was no point—her grandfather had left the farm and the business to her uncle Sonny, who had moved his own family and his horses onto the ranch immediately after Gene died, taking over where his father had left off. Sonny had learned the business from Gene—he was a talented breeder in his own right—and since Leigh had always made it known she planned to move to the East Coast for college as soon as she turned eighteen, it made sense that Gene left the farm to his son.

Sonny had Gene's magic touch with the breeding, so the farm had flourished in Leigh's absence. There were still the barns, the breeding shed, the big house and the outbuildings, the trees, the pastures,
the springs, all of it as lovely and familiar as a memory. Leigh knew she would have been welcome home at any time—her uncle was a jovial fellow, her aunt kind—but she'd felt ashamed every time she so much as looked at the barn, the scene of her crime. At the cottage under the trees where Jake had once lived with his father. It was all spoiled for her, all tainted with her mistakes. So she'd stayed away, trying to forget, even when her aunt and uncle begged her yearly to come home again.

So when she heard the sound of a screen door creaking open, Leigh looked up to see Uncle Sonny, her mother's older brother, standing on the porch and shading his eyes to see who had come to the farm. When he saw her, he waved. “Leigh!” he said, and then opened the door to yell inside. “Becky! Leela's home.”

Her aunt, a slender blonde of about fifty who looked years younger, peeked her head out, smoothing down her neat blue jeans and patting her soft hair while Sonny bounded down the stairs to embrace Leigh. “My God, you're really here. Let me take a look at you. I'd almost forgotten what you look like.”

“Uncle Sonny, I'm sorry to just show up like this—”

Aunt Becky came and hugged Leigh, too. “Who'd have thought it possible? You're prettier than ever.”

Leigh gave an embarrassed grin. “Thanks. You know, good genes.”

“True. You're the spitting image of your mother.”

“You both remember Chloe?”

“How could we forget?” said Uncle Sonny. “Give us a hug, darlin'.”

Chloe leaned in for a squeeze. “Nice to see you, too,” she said, looking sheepish. Chloe's own family was too sarcastic for public displays of affection, but Leigh knew she secretly liked it.

“How are the boys?” Leigh asked. Her two cousins, five and eight years younger than Leigh, were good kids, with the Merrill stubborn streak.

“Oh, you know. Making us worry all the time. David has one more year left at UT, but his grades are better at least. Jim just finished his last stint in Afghanistan. He'll be on his way home in a couple of months.”

“You must be relieved.”

“They're good boys,” said her uncle. “But we've missed you, honey. I wish you'd have come home sooner.”

Leigh shifted from one foot to the other. “I'm so sorry to just show up like this, out of the blue. You must be wondering—”

“Not at all,” said Aunt Becky, giving her a knowing smile. “Your young man's already here.”

Leigh was confused. “What?”

“Jake. He got here maybe an hour ago. Said he wanted to take a look around the farm, and did we mind if he meandered a bit.”

Leigh was shocked. “You
didn't
mind?”

“Of course not,” said Sonny. “He served his sentence, and now it's time for the rest of us to give him the chance to move on.” He looked serious a moment. “He was just a kid when all that happened, Leigh. I don't believe in holding grudges forever. The farm was his home, too.”

Leigh was speechless. “Thank you, Uncle Sonny. That's really decent of you.”

He shrugged. “It's not like I'm throwing him a parade or anything. Besides, I knew you'd be along eventually.”

“You did?”

“Sure,” said Aunt Becky. “You and Jake just fit together, honey. Like tea and sugar.”

Leigh sputtered, “How can you think so? After everything that happened?”

“Oh, Leela,” said Aunt Becky, wrapping her arm around Leigh's shoulders, “it's a shame your mother isn't here to talk some sense into you. That boy will never love anybody else. He's yours, body and soul.
It's all really simple: if you want him, all you have to do is go get him.”

Beside her, Uncle Sonny was grinning like an imp. “Go on, sweetheart. Put the poor thing out of his misery already.”

Leigh turned toward the barn, the hills. Jake . . .

Chloe gave her a conspiratorial look. “And if you come back too soon, I will be
very
disappointed in you.”

Leigh jumped down from the porch and headed for the pastures, turning to look behind her at the place where her uncle stood, waving her off. “Go on, get!” he said.

“Now, Chloe,” said Aunt Becky, putting her arm around Leigh's friend, “why don't I get you some sweet tea and you tell me all about what you two have been up to. And how did you ever get your hair that gorgeous color?”

One by one Leigh searched the barns and pastures of Wolf's Head, expecting to see Jake around every corner. She went past the cottage he'd once shared with his father, the paddock where the foals lived in the spring, even the breeding shed where she'd suffered Dale's indignities.

After the shooting, she'd avoided any place on the farm that had an association with Dale—the shed, the barn. It had all been too painful, too raw. Now she stood in the center of the breeding floor and felt her shame wash over her, thinking of the night she killed him, how his breath had gurgled in his throat as he died. She wasn't afraid of the memory any longer—it was part of her, like the color of her eyes or the way she walked. Something she would have to live with for the rest of her life.

The shed was empty. She called out, “Jake?” in a soft voice, but he didn't answer. He wasn't there. No one was.

She was avoiding the barn, the scene of her crime, until it was clear
she couldn't do so any longer. She crossed the barnyard, watching the weather vane of the running horse twist in the afternoon breeze. The big doors were shut against the heat of the day, but she slid them open now, memories thick as cobwebs before her eyes.

Inside, the barn was dark and cool. The cement floor had been swept clean, and though she was afraid there might still be a bloodstain on the floor, she saw nothing but bits of sawdust and droplets of water. Inside it still smelled of hay and creosote, reminding her of the days when she was very small and would run out to the barn to hide and read books in the loft, and the memory made her happier than she'd felt in months. Years, maybe.

One by one the horses poked their noses out of their stalls to see who was there. Some of them she recognized: her grandfather's favorite broodmare, Belle; a gelding named Trotter; the twin foals, Olly and Lily, now grown. “Hey guys,” she said. “It's me.” They made small noises of recognition. She was home.

Here and there were new horses, too, including a beautiful tall bay mare that seemed particularly eager for company. The mare reached her nose through the bars for Leigh to touch her, which she did. “Hello,” Leigh said. “Aren't you a beauty?” The mare nickered and bobbed her head as if in answer. Leigh scratched her under her mane and moved on.

She opened the door to the tack room, where her grandfather stored the bridles and saddles, blankets and bits. Pieces of leather and nylon hung from the walls, along with rows of saddles, lead lines, all the tools and implements of horse training kept clean and polished.

She touched the pile of blankets on one shelf, slid her hands underneath. Her grandfather's gun wasn't there. She knew it wouldn't be—it had been confiscated long ago for evidence in Jake's trial—but the feel of the scratchy wool blankets made her recoil as if she'd been burned.

It was hard to be there, but Leigh made herself stand still inside the dark little room, made herself feel her own fear and shame once more, remembering the night Dale had attacked her, the terrible things he'd said, the threats he'd made against her, against her grandfather, the way his hands had tightened the strap around Jake's neck. She'd been right to be afraid, right to defend herself: if he'd been able to wrestle the gun away, he would have hurt her, maybe killed her. It was only in all the mess that came after that she had done wrong. If she'd told the police right away what had happened, she could probably have claimed self-defense, and they would have believed her. At the very least, she wouldn't have had to live with the shame of lying for so long.

Maybe, just maybe, she could still make amends for that, or start to.

She took several deep breaths, let them out again, and decided,
Enough. I can't change what I've done,
she thought,
but I can change what I will do. And what I will do from now on is think of others before myself. I will be generous; I will be kind. I will be a good friend, a good person. I will love without reservation. And I will not run from my mistakes, not anymore.

Leigh opened her eyes and looked up. Above her, the trapdoor to the hayloft lay open.

Aunt Becky had said that Jake still loved her, that no matter what he said, he belonged to her, and all she had to do to get him back was to find him and tell him she wanted him still. If he were in the hayloft, Leigh decided, she would believe it; she would know they were meant to be.

She put her hands on the rungs of the ladder and went up.

The hayloft was stuffy in the heat, the warmth of the horses and the May weather making the space feel close, and dim, distorting the familiar scene into something almost sinister. What looked like a pile of black snakes in one corner turned out to be nothing more than a tangle of bridles and lead lines someone had tossed there and forgotten.
Bricks of straw sat piled to the ceiling like a wall. She turned and turned, but no one was there. No Jake. Leigh was completely alone.

The smell of the hay and the old wood of the barn were so strong, and so filled with lovely associations, that for a moment Leigh's eyes started to fill with tears. How many happy days had she spent in this hayloft, dreaming of the future! And now here she was, in many ways the adult self she'd always imagined, except for the happiness she'd always expected to be part of that life. It wasn't anywhere to be found, and hadn't been, not for a long time.