Emily had hoped
to start work after the growing season, but now that the drought had all but
ended that for her, she was ready to begin.
It would mean spending weeks away from home, but the pay was excellent
and the jobs would be interesting she had no doubt.
Her first
assignments were brief, a surgical patient who only needed her for a week, then
a man who'd suffered a stroke and entered a nursing home after a few days.
She was at home long enough to mourn the dead
garden and wilted flower beds, as August drew to a scorching close.
With James’s help, she dug out the dried
carcasses of the plants, vowing to try again, hoping to make enough money over
the winter to put in proper irrigation next spring.
Her next
assignment lasted two weeks and was truly a test of her skill.
A young man, not much older than herself,
injured in a motorcycle accident; there was little to do but watch him as he
lay in a coma.
Severe head trauma and
numerous broken bones left slim hope for a meaningful recovery.
His mother, dreading the worst, was afraid to
be left alone in the room with him.
Emily did her job, knowing that at least her presence served to ease the
mother's fears.
The poor boy never knew
she was there, and when he died quietly, she was relieved for him.
In some cases, she had learned, death was the
only healing to be hoped for.
By
mid-September, the leaves had begun to color.
The brutal heat had given way to a golden autumn and Emily vowed to put
the summer's disappointment behind her.
At Lil's invitation, she traveled to the conservatory for the first
chamber concert of the semester, spending the night at Angela's and returning
home on Saturday morning.
Waiting for
her in the mailbox was an envelope, white vellum with a Manhattan address on
the flap.
Walking to the
house, she felt a shiver of dread.
The
letter was addressed in a small, precise hand, written by the same person who
had autographed Lil's napkin.
Stani
Moss, after almost three years, had written her a letter.
She went into the house, sat down at the
table by the window, her knees suddenly threatening to give way.
Turning the letter over in her hands, she
tried to think of any reason he would suddenly have to make such a move.
But there was no reason, he didn't even know
she existed, or he hadn't until now apparently.
She had managed to remain hidden, anonymous.
There had been other magazine stories about
his recovery and never had there been any mention of the rescue, only his
struggle to overcome the injuries.
In her most
recent letter to Penny, Emily had written that at last he was consigned to a
distant memory.
She was too busy, too
challenged by her life now, to give any thought to something that had happened
so long ago.
She had admitted to herself,
as she nursed the boy who’d suffered such horrible injuries in the motorcycle
accident, that she was reminded of Stani.
He had been so fortunate compared to this boy.
As she had always believed, God had been
watching over Stani that night, saving him for some better life in the future.
She had
congratulated herself on putting the experience behind her, finally accepting
that he lived in some other world, far removed from hers.
She was content, finding her way in this life
she had been so determined to build; and the more time that passed, the less
importance she placed on those few hours when their lives had crossed.
This letter, which she continued to hold in
her hand without breaking the seal, was making a liar of her.
The pounding of her heart against her ribs
was proof of just how vulnerable she was.
She stared at the address, as if by studying his handwriting she might
find a clue to the intention of the writer.
She considered
just for a moment the possibility of throwing it away, pretending it had never
been delivered.
Lost in the mail or
destroyed in a postal accident.
Movies
had been made about such things, why couldn't it have happened to this letter
too?
But she knew she wouldn't do it,
knew she would eventually have to read what he had to say to her after all this
time.
Penny had told her she'd seen a
poster announcing an upcoming concert in Boston last summer.
Lil had bought his latest recording, offering
to loan it to her if she was interested.
Emily had turned a deaf ear to these updates on his career, pretending
to be indifferent but in fact glad to know he had successfully moved back into
his life.
He would be busy, traveling
and making music all over the country, maybe even the world.
Why would he take time to write a letter to a
girl he didn't know?
The answer was
right in her hand.
All she had to do was
open the letter.
She took a deep breath,
as if preparing to dive under water, and slipped her finger under the flap,
gently prying
loose the seal.
A single sheet, barely filled with the small
neat script and there at the bottom, the unmistakable signature.
Dear Emily,
After any number
of false starts, I am convinced there is no conventional form for writing this
letter.
It is not a thank you, nor is it
an apology.
More, so much more than that,
it is a plea
for
your forgiveness and understanding.
To
write a thank you for saving my life, to apologize on paper for waiting almost
three years to say that thank you, would be an injustice to both of us.
I know very little
of what actually happened to me during the hours after the accident, but I have
learned the name of the person who took me in, kept me from freezing to death,
and then never let herself be known.
I'm
certain you had your own reasons for what you did, but please don't deny me the
opportunity now to express my gratitude and even my admiration.
Much of the past
two and a half years has been a blur to me, but I am at least now sufficiently
recovered to resume my career and try to take some control over my life.
With the help of a therapist, I have made
some strides in learning how to live the life of a man rather than merely that
of a musician.
He has recommended that
even at this late date I try to reconstruct the days I lost that Christmas
week, by returning to the scenes of the memories I have buried.
In that effort, I have been to Washington and
to the lodge where a party was held, a party I apparently attended but still
cannot remember.
I have made plans to
visit the site of the accident.
I
understand that your home is nearby.
Would you consider allowing me to visit you, talk with you; and could
you find it in your heart to let me try to remember what happened that day and
night I was with you?
Please understand
that if this is something you would rather not do, I will respect your wishes.
You should know that I do have some memory of
you.
At least I believe it to be your
face I have seen in my dreams, your voice I have heard.
I picture you kneeling next to me in the
snow.
I see you sitting near an open
fire, watching over me.
Is that you,
Emily, or just someone I have imagined?
Please accept my
thanks in advance for even considering my request.
Take all the time you need to respond.
I have waited this long without even
attempting to contact you.
I can
certainly allow you as much time as you need to make your decision.
All my best,
Stani Moss
In all the
fantasies she'd engaged in over the years, she had never envisioned hearing
from him so directly.
A chance meeting,
or in her wildest moments his sudden appearance at her door; never a polite
request for a visit and certainly nothing so formal as this carefully worded
letter.
She had suddenly been shown a
side of his personality she’d never even considered.
He was apologetic, humbly asking her
forgiveness.
He seemed to half-expect
her to deny his request, turn down his plea for a chance to regain his lost
memories.
He said he thought he
remembered her, and his description of those memories seemed accurate.
She had always believed herself hidden from
him although she had secretly hoped he might have at least wondered about
her.
With this letter, he had altered
her perspective of the very things that had enabled her to live with her own
memories.
What would it
be like to have him in this room, to watch as he searched for memories, when
her own were still so vivid?
If he came,
and they talked about what happened during those hours, would she be giving
away her own recollection, the thing she had so wanted to protect from prying
eyes?
But he was part of that; he had a
right to know, didn't he?
Or had he
forfeited that by waiting over two years to come in search of her?
She was confused, shaken by this unexpected
letter and his gentle, conciliatory tone.
Afraid that if
she hesitated, she might find some excuse for not responding, she sat down at
the kitchen table and wrote her brief reply.
Carefully addressing the envelope, she found a stamp and drove into
town, dropping it in the slot at the locked post office.
It would be safe there until Monday morning,
safe from her own temptation to make changes or withdraw her answer altogether.
She had written
that of course he was welcome to come, that he need only tell her the exact
date of his planned visit.
She explained
that she often worked away from home.
She would make the necessary arrangements to be available.
That was all.
She could think of no appropriate response to his revelation that he
remembered her.
What if, when they
actually met, he realized she was not the girl he said he had seen in his
dreams?
The prospect was too terrifying
to consider.
She knew she
was in danger of working herself into a state of constant anxiety.
She tried in the next few days to stay as
busy as possible, giving the house a thorough fall cleaning.
She dug in the garden, turning the soil and
pulling out the roots of the failed crop.
Try as she might to exhaust herself, she could not sleep.
Wandering the house at night, she seemed to
see things through his eyes.
Suddenly,
what had been comfortable and familiar looked shabby and dated.
He would be accustomed to the best money
could buy.
Would he pity her, living so
far from civilization as he knew it, in this aging house with its simple
furnishings?
The thought
made her angry and she prepared herself to dislike him, ready to defend her chosen
life in the face of his arrogance.
In
the end, she decided, they would part as strangers, just as they had begun, and
she would finally be free of her foolish romantic ideas for good.
His reply came
within the week.
He said that if she
could arrange her schedule, he would like to come the following Saturday.
He should arrive by late morning, and would try
not to take too much of her time.
Again
polite and formal, he said he was eager to express his gratitude in person.
Emily was ashamed
of herself for having thought so badly of him.
At the same time, she was terrified by the prospect of actually seeing
him again.
She tried to steel herself,
drawing strength from the idea that this was the last time he would need her
help.
Once he had come and gone, that
would be the end of it.
She would have
done what he asked, contributed to his healing, and he would go back to his
world for good.
At least this time she
would have the satisfaction of sending him away with some knowledge of the girl
who had pulled him to safety.
Chapter Thirty-one
Panic was not
an emotion Emily had often experienced, but as she waited out the week before
the anticipated visit from Stani Moss, she became much better acquainted with
it.
No amount of work, regardless of how
strenuous, could relieve the sense of pending doom that quivered her insides.
By Wednesday, she had decided the only remedy
might be rehearsing what she would say to him, how she would greet him and
answers to the questions she imagined he would ask.
Standing in front of her bedroom mirror, she
tried on various smiles, extended her hand in an assortment of welcoming
gestures, and worked out the phrasing for her description of the events of that
day.