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= Romantic Novel =

A New England Love Story

by Jean-Thomas Cullen

10.

Marian had Saturday off, a few days after opening her bank safety box account. She had left her rings there, as well as the black ribbon she had worn every day since the funeral. Might as well let go of it all.

Work at the library kept her busy and sane. The children got their story hour every afternoon in the Fireplace Room. Mr. Mustard never did return, which filled Marian with some regret since he’d been there (in spirit) with her the night she nearly drove into the lake, and he’d been the immediate precipitating cause making her put her memories from her heart and body into that safety deposit box instead. Life went on. Marian often sighed.

It rained a lot that January. There was a light dusting of snow, which stayed longer in the chill, windy valley but turned to slush as it fell on the thruway. As always, the library glowed like a lantern along the road, and she hoped maybe her new friend would stop in again sometime. She thought about how she was the girl on the fence, clapping, and he was the cowboy leading the horse into the barn. She smiled to herself at how she had checked him out. Now where was the book? He’d better come back soon and check the book in and maybe check her out. She was ready and waiting, though the idea of making such a break from her past scared—no, petrified—her.

She slept in, went out for lox bagels and cream cheese, had coffee and read the morning news on her tablet, ran some errands in town—down by the lake—and returned home just as the mail truck was pulling away down the block. That meant the mail lady had already been by, so Marian checked the mail on her way up the driveway to the front door of the little house she and Tommy had bought, it seemed just months ago.

She rifled through the bills and advertisements, separating two or three items that deserved an immediate look. One of them was an odd piece of mail that she at first thought to discard. It was from an unknown sender, out of state, with pretty letterhead. The Farmouth Company. Never heard of it. Probably an advert. She was going to toss it aside, but noticed the expensive First Class stamp. It could not be some ordinary promo thing. She sliced it open and unfolded a single sheet of expensive letterhead. She stopped before the house and almost forgot for a moment to unlock the door.

A photograph fell out and dropped onto the flagstones amid moss and stray bits of grass. She bent down to pick up the little three by three photo—and saw with a shock that it was of her, taken by Tommy’s aunt somebody at a party about two years ago. How much younger I look, she thought. How innocent, and proud, and happy, and naive. The letter was written in a light blue fountain pen with a few little ink spatters here and there. It was addressed, in long hand, to Mrs. Thomas Charles, and read:

??

Dear Mrs. Charles:

My name is Ernest Farmouth, of Islin, Nebraska. I hope I have the right Marian Charles here. If not, please forgive my error, but please call me collect to let me know so that I can locate the widow of my former service mate, Tommy Charles.

I never met you, Marian, but Tommy always carried your picture and always talked about you. We single guys in the outfit were impressed and jealous. In a strange kind of way, those of us who were not married, and did not have a steady girl back home, we all felt like we were sort of married to you.

I hope you do not find that offensive. I only mean to say that when things got rough, and it was pretty tough at times, you were one of the things that kept us going. Maybe you were like a sister or an aunt to us, I don’t know. You were there when it was raining bullets and bombs, or when it was hot along the road and we were kind of scared and nervous. You were there with us when we went to sleep at night, and when we woke up for yet another desert morning.

When Tommy took the IED, and I am sure you know all about it at this point so I am hopefully not being indelicate, he handed me that photo of you. I never thought about it until I returned home just a few months ago, and went to work at my father’s accounting firm.

I’m doing okay now, made my high school sweetheart my fiancé, and we’re getting married soon. I lost my left leg, but you get on the winning side if you figure out how to get past things, pick yourself up, and move on ahead with life. It’s nice for me because I have a strong woman by my side. She keeps me going when I want to give up, which is no longer so often because I don’t want to let her down.

I have a photo of my fiancé with me now, and it occurred to me that sending you this would be more like sending you something of Tommy, rather than just sending you a picture of yourself. I hope you understand what I mean. My fiancé read this letter and promised me you would not be offended by anything I say. I did want to say thank you for being there with us out in the field and taking heat with us, just like you were there in person rather than this beautiful photo.

Tommy loved you with all his heart, and actually all the guys in my squad did. I am not the best writer in the world. My fiancé helped me. But I wanted to tell you that Tommy died in my arms, and we both said your name together. It was the last thing he ever said—your name. He smiled a little, although a dying man’s face goes through some changes. Forgive me, I am so sorry, but I thought you would want to know the exact truth, just like it was, because you surely deserve to know exactly how it went down.

We had some anesthetics with us, and a medic arrived soon after the IED went off. I don’t think Tommy suffered more than he had to, and I held him the whole time. That is something I will live with for the rest of my life. I wish it could be a better memory, but it could be worse. I thought you deserved to know the exact truth.

If you ever need anything—no matter what—please contact me or my fiancé Theresa Skybow.

Yours Truly, Ernest Farmouth.

??

Marian resolved to read the letter many more times, but not more than once a week. Maybe one day it would be once a month, or once a year. Then it would migrate to her bank deposit box. Or maybe by then she would be able to keep the rings and the letter in the house with her. Maybe, nor maybe not. Like Ernest Farmouth would forever carry his memories with him, so would she. Ernest had moved on with life, and was settling accounts, like writing this letter that had to be sent.

She wrote him a brief, heart-felt letter in reply, saying she hoped they would meet someday, and thanking him for the information about those boys she had never met. She hoped she had been of some comfort to them, and that they all got home okay to their loved ones. She was sure Tommy would have wished that for them also.

She went outside with a glass of lemonade, and sat for a long time amid the weed field that Tommy’s beautifully kept lawn had turned into. She thought about everything, and realized that the old adage was true. As many doors as close in your life, so many new doors open ahead of you. The world was full of men needing a woman, and she imagined that maybe somewhere out there was a man who would not take Tommy’s place, but surprise her. That man, if he existed, and if she found him, might just open a new world of unexpected joys and pleasures for her. She would surely love him to pieces and take good care of him. She did not cry as she sat there holding her frosty glass of lemonade, twirling it slowly and pensively in her fingers, while her bare feet ached on the sun parched stubble of the dead lawn.

She still wore the fine, gold filigree anklet Tommy had given her on her 24th birthday, just before shipping out. It looked pretty on one tanned, bony ankle. He said it was very sexy. She wiggled her toes, and thought she must get down to see Annette at the beauty parlor. She decided on a bubble gum pink toenail color for herself. Her chest was not tight, and she did not cry.

She briefly thought of the beautiful man who had come to the library. What was his name? Rick Mustard or something.

Would she ever meet a guy like that for real? And would he be real? She wondered what had become of Rick Meister.

Probably going through women like a cake cutter through devil’s food, with those smoldering looks, that boyish air needing rescue, offset by that master of the universe attitude, that gray suit and those quadzillions of dollars he probably had in his bank account.

Speaking of Mustards of the Universe, she imagined herself pretending she was he, speaking in a deep like voice (woman imitating man’s voice, with chin pulled close to chest and big comical eyes): "I have come to buy your library and all the buildings around it. You can keep the coloring books if you want, but I’m going keep to the rest."

She imagined herself rubbing her hands together and cackling like a dark mage: "Bwoo-haw-hah-haw!"

She laughed quietly at herself. Time for a glass of wine. Maybe she would call up one of Tommy’s girl cousins and see if they could go to a dance place that evening.

It had been a long time.

She was turning in to a real recluse.

Time to get out of the cave and back into the sunshine. Tommy would want this for her.

On her way to work, she stopped at the bank.

There, she added the letter from Tommy’s comrade to the contents of her heart in that little safety deposit box.