That was the question.
He stood. “I gotta go. I’ll talk to you later today to check back in. I’ll have my cell if you need me. Thanks.” He looked to both men who were friends who’d become his brothers as much as Ben was. “I mean it. I needed to get it all out there, and you helped me do that.”
“Call if you need anything from us too, right?” Brody stood as well. “I’m going to call Elise and Rennie and then go in to hug my sister. Love, Andrew, love makes everything in the world seem doable.”
He drove back to his place. Maybe working on the last part of the wainscoting in the formal dining room would help quiet his thoughts.
And there it was, in his mailbox. The envelope was manila, nothing fancy, her writing, the same beautiful script she’d used before, this time with forest green ink. It was not stamped, so she’d come by and tucked it into the box herself sometime between yesterday afternoon when he’d checked last and that morning.
He went into the house and sat in her chair, opening it up.
Inside was a photograph and a letter.
Andrew,
This is my great-grandfather and great-grandmother. When I look at them, I wonder what it would be like to be with you through our youth, into middle age and the waning days of our life together. I see a house filled with noisy Copland children, with grandbabies, dogs, the children and grandchildren of our friends. Our nieces and nephews. A happy life filled with vacations on the coast, with road trips and stolen kisses after we’ve put all the toys together, all ready for the morning when the kids wake up in the predawn hours and proclaim it Christmas.
You told me you loved me. I’ve always felt this from you, and I’ve carried it around inside and not really known it. It was just something I associated with you without being able to identify, really. This is what love means for me. Family. Fidelity. Faith in one another. And love.
I love you, and I want to spend every day until I am no longer breathing with you. I want to bear your children and open my eyes each day to see you there with me, beside me.
The writing changed, and more was added with a different pen.
I wrote the part above before Erin’s pregnancy problems. I debated sending this to you. It’s a big deal, and I haven’t said any of this to you before. I may scare you off, or you may not feel the depth of love I do, and I’m running with something you hadn’t intended.
I heard hesitation in your voice tonight when we spoke, and it scared me. It scared me because I realized I’d simply accepted your presence in my heart and in my life, accepted that you were mine.
I love you, and I want you to be happy. I hope that you want to be happy with me. All you need to do is give me the word and I’m yours.
Forever and always,
Ella
He put the envelope down and looked at the picture. He saw Ella in her great-grandmother’s face. Though the picture was black and white and a bit yellowed with age, the spark between the couple leapt from the paper.
27
Ella sat back with a sigh. She’d scrubbed her bathroom floor with vicious intent. That grout would sparkle, damn it. She’d placed her obligatory and, as it happened, rather pleasant call to her parents. Had paid her bills online and tried to pretend the hours hadn’t passed.
But they had, and he was not there. He had not called or come to her, and damn it, maybe he wouldn’t. She pushed to to her feet and cleaned up. All on autopilot. She needed to get out and not wallow. She had to put her faith in him to figure out that she was worth the effort. They’d survive the fear. God knew she had her own.
Just a few days before, they’d been out and had run into not just one woman he used to sleep with, but two! Until that day, she’d met a few others in passing and had found herself wanting in some way. None of them were like her. They were all petite and tended toward blonde. Fake tans usually, lots of makeup. He had a type, clearly. And she was not it.
It made her insecure. Who wouldn’t be?
But that day when they’d bumped into those two women, he barely saw them. He’d been friendly enough, not rude, but his attention had never really left Ella. She’d been his focus, and those women, pretty though they were, had not been her.
It had been a lightbulb moment and the time she’d let go of her own fear. Suddenly, she realized that she was his type in a way those others would never be. He’d chosen carbon copies of the same woman over and over, but they’d never gone anywhere. He’d never shown them his house, never shown them how to use a band saw.
She laughed at that, but the man was passionate about his tools, and it had been a big moment for her when he’d let her use it the first time without standing over her every moment.
As she walked toward the door to grab her coat and bag, she noticed the pale, cream-colored envelope someone had slid under her door.
She looked through the peephole and then carefully opened the door, but no one was there.
One glance at the front of the envelope, and she knew who it was from. She braced herself for the worst as she opened it up and pulled out the letter inside.
She unfolded the smooth, thick paper and smiled. The handwriting was typical of him, of his voice. Bold. Masculine. His words unfurled across the page as if he never doubted a thing he thought. She knew differently by then, of course, that Andrew Copeland was far more than what he appeared on the surface. But his letters had become essential. Part of the rhythm and play of their relationship, like foreplay. And this one could make or break that.
Dearest Ella,
He stood. “I gotta go. I’ll talk to you later today to check back in. I’ll have my cell if you need me. Thanks.” He looked to both men who were friends who’d become his brothers as much as Ben was. “I mean it. I needed to get it all out there, and you helped me do that.”
“Call if you need anything from us too, right?” Brody stood as well. “I’m going to call Elise and Rennie and then go in to hug my sister. Love, Andrew, love makes everything in the world seem doable.”
He drove back to his place. Maybe working on the last part of the wainscoting in the formal dining room would help quiet his thoughts.
And there it was, in his mailbox. The envelope was manila, nothing fancy, her writing, the same beautiful script she’d used before, this time with forest green ink. It was not stamped, so she’d come by and tucked it into the box herself sometime between yesterday afternoon when he’d checked last and that morning.
He went into the house and sat in her chair, opening it up.
Inside was a photograph and a letter.
Andrew,
This is my great-grandfather and great-grandmother. When I look at them, I wonder what it would be like to be with you through our youth, into middle age and the waning days of our life together. I see a house filled with noisy Copland children, with grandbabies, dogs, the children and grandchildren of our friends. Our nieces and nephews. A happy life filled with vacations on the coast, with road trips and stolen kisses after we’ve put all the toys together, all ready for the morning when the kids wake up in the predawn hours and proclaim it Christmas.
You told me you loved me. I’ve always felt this from you, and I’ve carried it around inside and not really known it. It was just something I associated with you without being able to identify, really. This is what love means for me. Family. Fidelity. Faith in one another. And love.
I love you, and I want to spend every day until I am no longer breathing with you. I want to bear your children and open my eyes each day to see you there with me, beside me.
The writing changed, and more was added with a different pen.
I wrote the part above before Erin’s pregnancy problems. I debated sending this to you. It’s a big deal, and I haven’t said any of this to you before. I may scare you off, or you may not feel the depth of love I do, and I’m running with something you hadn’t intended.
I heard hesitation in your voice tonight when we spoke, and it scared me. It scared me because I realized I’d simply accepted your presence in my heart and in my life, accepted that you were mine.
I love you, and I want you to be happy. I hope that you want to be happy with me. All you need to do is give me the word and I’m yours.
Forever and always,
Ella
He put the envelope down and looked at the picture. He saw Ella in her great-grandmother’s face. Though the picture was black and white and a bit yellowed with age, the spark between the couple leapt from the paper.
27
Ella sat back with a sigh. She’d scrubbed her bathroom floor with vicious intent. That grout would sparkle, damn it. She’d placed her obligatory and, as it happened, rather pleasant call to her parents. Had paid her bills online and tried to pretend the hours hadn’t passed.
But they had, and he was not there. He had not called or come to her, and damn it, maybe he wouldn’t. She pushed to to her feet and cleaned up. All on autopilot. She needed to get out and not wallow. She had to put her faith in him to figure out that she was worth the effort. They’d survive the fear. God knew she had her own.
Just a few days before, they’d been out and had run into not just one woman he used to sleep with, but two! Until that day, she’d met a few others in passing and had found herself wanting in some way. None of them were like her. They were all petite and tended toward blonde. Fake tans usually, lots of makeup. He had a type, clearly. And she was not it.
It made her insecure. Who wouldn’t be?
But that day when they’d bumped into those two women, he barely saw them. He’d been friendly enough, not rude, but his attention had never really left Ella. She’d been his focus, and those women, pretty though they were, had not been her.
It had been a lightbulb moment and the time she’d let go of her own fear. Suddenly, she realized that she was his type in a way those others would never be. He’d chosen carbon copies of the same woman over and over, but they’d never gone anywhere. He’d never shown them his house, never shown them how to use a band saw.
She laughed at that, but the man was passionate about his tools, and it had been a big moment for her when he’d let her use it the first time without standing over her every moment.
As she walked toward the door to grab her coat and bag, she noticed the pale, cream-colored envelope someone had slid under her door.
She looked through the peephole and then carefully opened the door, but no one was there.
One glance at the front of the envelope, and she knew who it was from. She braced herself for the worst as she opened it up and pulled out the letter inside.
She unfolded the smooth, thick paper and smiled. The handwriting was typical of him, of his voice. Bold. Masculine. His words unfurled across the page as if he never doubted a thing he thought. She knew differently by then, of course, that Andrew Copeland was far more than what he appeared on the surface. But his letters had become essential. Part of the rhythm and play of their relationship, like foreplay. And this one could make or break that.
Dearest Ella,
