Page 58

BARBARA

F rankie sat on my lap, flipping the pages of a picture book.

The full skirt of my favorite blue-and-yellow checkered dress fanned between us like a picnic spread.

We sat together atop an old quilt against the trunk of an oak tree in Edith’s front yard, soaking in the afternoon sun.

The sky stretched out in an endless crystal blue, and the temperature hovered at a perfect seventy-five degrees—a beautiful southern California summer day.

A lazy breeze rustled the leaves above, sending playful shadows dancing across Frankie’s book.

“Where’s the dog?” I asked, tapping the page.

Frankie pointed enthusiastically.

“Good job, my sweet boy! And where’s the house?”

His little finger darted to the illustrated home.

“Lovely! What color is the house?”

“Red!”

I kissed the top of his head, inhaling the soft scent of baby shampoo and sunshine. “You’re so smart, my darling.”

For a moment, I let myself sink into the simplicity of the present—a mother and son, tucked away in a peaceful corner of the world, caught in a moment that should be captured in a photograph and pinned to a memory board.

Yet a quiet restlessness nibbled at the edges of my contentment, threatening to unravel it.

I pushed the thought away, determined to savor this fleeting peace.

The sharp chime of a bicycle bell shattered the idyllic scene. A teenage boy in a navy-blue courier’s uniform was walking his bike up the sidewalk.

“Can I help you?” I called out, shading my eyes with one hand.

“Oh, yes, ma’am.” He pulled a letter from his canvas satchel. “I’m looking for a Ms. Barbara Evans.”

I scooted Frankie off my lap and stood, smoothing my skirt and patting my hair into place. “That’s me.”

He handed me the letter. “Here you are, ma’am. Have a nice day.”

I held the envelope like a live wire, afraid the wrong touch might set it off. It had no return address, but the only person who sent me letters by private courier was Victor.

The hinge on the front door creaked. I glanced over to see Edith in the doorway, hands in her blue jean pockets.

“Who was that?”

I held up the letter.

“Is it from him?”

“Probably.” I ran a finger along the edge of the envelope, half expecting it to cut me. Inside, I imagined words like sparks—a fire that could either warm me or burn me to ash.

Edith stepped onto the porch, her bare feet making soft thuds on the wooden planks. She moved with the easy grace of a woman at home in her own skin. “Are you going to read it?”

I hesitated. “Should I?”

“Oh, no. You’re making that decision on your own.”

“I’m just not sure I can handle whatever he has to say. An apology, a plea, an explanation—it’ll require a response. And I honestly don’t know what mine will be.”

I turned my attention back to Frankie. He’d lost interest in the picture book in favor of a set of wooden blocks, trying to build a tower on the uneven surface of the quilt.

I wanted to join him—to lose myself in something as simple and tactile as stacking blocks.

But this letter… I shifted my gaze back to the envelope in my hands, turning it over, looking for answers.

It gave me none. I looked helplessly to Edith.

She shrugged, but there was a knowing softness in her eyes. “You don’t have to decide anything right this second. That’s the beauty of your situation, Barbara.” She hardly ever used my full given name. “You can do—or not do—whatever you want. But…”

“But what?”

“You need information to make a decision.” She glanced up at the porch awning and recited, “‘It’s all that’s left unsaid upon which tragedies are built.’”

“That’s oddly poetic for you.”

She chuckled. “I read it somewhere. But it fits.” She nodded to the letter. “See what he has to say. You don’t have to do anything about it, but at least read it. Unless…”

“Unless what?”

She folded her arms and cocked a hip. “Unless you’re scared of what it will make you feel.”

I stared at the envelope, its white surface glaring in the sunlight.

“I’m not scared,” I said, though even I could hear the thinness of my voice.

“Sure you’re not,” Edith jabbed, but not unkindly.

A clatter grabbed my attention. Frankie’s tower of blocks had toppled, and he was busily reconstructing it with the determination only a toddler could muster. I slipped a finger under the envelope’s flap and tore it open, savoring the sound of ripping paper like a match striking, catching, burning.

Sunday, August 26, 1951

11:00 a.m.

Hello, my darling,

I really shouldn’t be writing you, but my heart is so heavy this morning, I just can’t help myself. There are so many things I want to say to you, and this is the only way.

I’d like to report that getting by on my own is a smashing success, but, darling, I’m afraid it isn’t.

I’ve never felt so alone, so entirely out of place.

I’ve given you a part of me that no one else will ever know.

Never have I wanted or needed anyone as I need you.

I keep reflecting on all the adventures we’ve had together—all the quiet moments, too—and it seems impossible that it could all be over.

I keep hoping something will happen to bring you back to me. I honestly believe we belong together.

I keep wondering what you’re doing at this very moment. I can’t help but remember our Sunday mornings together, and although they may have seemed rather dull at the time, they feel wonderful now. What I wouldn’t give for your homemade pancakes or reading the “funnies” in bed.

Well, at any rate, Frank is out of the picture now, and you’re free.

I hope it’s everything you dreamed it would be.

Of one thing I am sure, my dearest—I love you sincerely and desperately, now and always.

Just the slightest indication that you want me back will bring me running so quickly you won’t know what happened.

I belong to you completely, and if you want me, I’ll be here… waiting.

Regardless of what’s happened, I know we still share a love that will not die, and I promise I’ll be here when you find it. You’ve taken a place in my heart no one can fill. Oh, darling, don’t you know how dear you are to me?

These days apart have been a nightmare. As cliché as it sounds, I can neither eat nor sleep for missing you.

If all the rest are as bad as these, I don’t know what I’ll do with myself.

It breaks my heart to know that you’re alone too.

But if that’s what you want, sweetheart, I hope it brings you peace.

In the meantime, please let me hear from you and see you once in a while.

I need to know how you’re doing. This is terribly important for us both!

I’m sorry I’m so persistent, but you’re still everything to me.

If we could have only been a family—night and day—to share everything together… I know it would have worked!

I’m a damn fool for saying it, even more for writing it, but I’ve decided to sell up and start anew.

No more funny business. Living an honest life and making a secure home for you and Frankie is all that matters now.

If you ever need the evidence, there it is…

I know you’d never use it against me, but I want you to know that I’m honest in wanting you! !

I love you, my darling, so much I fear you will never truly know. But I can do no more to prove it to you.

All my love, dearest, always,

—V

PS: I enclosed a letter I received the other day. You might be interested in the offer.

I stared at the letter, Victor’s words blurring into a white-hot smear as I blinked back tears. A breeze stirred, rustling the hem of my dress. I closed my eyes and took a deep, sanctifying breath.

“Well?” Edith’s voice cut through my daze. I opened my eyes to see her studying me—half curious, half concerned.

“It’s…intense,” I said, folding the letter slowly, deliberately, as if rushing might cause it to explode. I slipped it back into the envelope, which felt lighter than it should in my trembling hands.

I pulled out the second page, and my breath caught in my throat. It was printed on thick, cream-colored stationery with an elegant letterhead: The Ameline Studio, Dallas, Texas. My eyes skimmed over the typewritten lines, disbelief twisting into shock as I took in the words.

Dear Ms. Evans:

We recently had the pleasure of reviewing the dress design Mr. Victor Cardello submitted on your behalf. We are very impressed with your work and believe it has great potential in the current market. Your design’s simplicity and elegance align seamlessly with our brand’s aesthetic.

We would love to discuss the possibility of producing your design as part of our upcoming collection. Please contact us at your earliest convenience to arrange a meeting.

Sincerely,

Vivian DuBois

Creative Director, The Ameline Studio

My hands went numb, and the letter fluttered from my grip as I dropped onto the porch steps. Edith hurried toward me, eyes wide with alarm.

“Babs?” Her voice seemed miles away. “What is it?”

I couldn’t speak. I picked up the letter and handed it to her, my fingers reluctant to let go. She snatched it and read quickly. Her lips formed a silent “O” before breaking into a triumphant smile.

“Can you believe this?” She waved the letter like a winning lottery ticket. “This is amazing! You have to go!”

I stared at the wooden planks beneath my feet, tracing their grain with my eyes. A thousand thoughts collided in my head, tangled and spinning like carnival bumper cars.

Could I really go to Dallas? I’d never been that far away from Frankie.

And the money—how would I afford the trip?

Would they even take me seriously? Victor had submitted my design, and his name carried weight.

Not mine. At least, not my married name.

Victor had always believed in me more than I believed in myself.

But this—this was something else. This was a future I’d never even dared to dream.