Letters from Skye (27 page)

Then you were alive, and all was perfect. I had my baby, I had my Davey. But I remembered how you felt before, how scary you found the idea of impending fatherhood. I couldn’t admit that I found the idea of impending motherhood every bit as scary. And so I put off telling you. And then again. And then again. It got to the point where I couldn’t confess my lie without it sounding utterly fictitious. “I hope you enjoyed the parcel of food. Oh, by the way, I gave birth yesterday.”

I wish I had told you. I wanted you by my side during the birth. I wanted you to kiss my forehead and tell me that I was doing well, that I was your brave girl. I wanted you to hold your daughter and be the first person she saw when she opened her eyes.

I named her Margaret, which means “pearl.” She truly is a treasure.

But things have been hard. I can’t lie, Davey. All of the neighbours know. They watched my swelling belly beneath my widow’s weeds and they whispered behind their hands. They’d
seen the years of letters from America and the three momentous days when Elspeth Dunn stepped on a ferry. They weren’t surprised when a bairn came a year after the letter saying Iain had died.

I’m thinking of leaving, tying Margaret to my back and stepping on that ferry one last time. Away from Skye, I can raise her without whispers. Away from Skye, maybe Finlay will return. Màthair misses him so.

You once said that apartment in Edinburgh felt like home. Could we make it so? Come home to Margaret; come home to me. Come home to your family, Davey.

   Waiting,

   Sue

Chapter Twenty-nine
 
Elspeth

Edinburgh

25 October 1940

Dear Màthair,

Margaret has been searching for the first volume of my life; all along, I’ve been waiting for the second.

On the train back from London, I decided that was enough. No more waiting. No more second volume. What had it brought me? Nine thousand days waiting in the cathedral, a daughter who didn’t know the past, and a brother who didn’t want to. On the train I had Finlay beside me and Margaret following with the letters. And both were more important than waiting for a ghost.

But then Finlay left me in Edinburgh and I forgot all my promises. Without realizing, my feet traced their usual path to
St. Mary’s. I wasn’t surprised to look up and see the carved doors. I don’t know if my waiting is a drug or a routine, but I couldn’t stop with nothing but bold words.

On Wednesday, I was there, in my usual pew, my little brown Bible on my lap, the “David Graham” scrawled in round childish letters inside the cover. As I always did, I traced the backwards “d” at the end of his name, and, as I always did, I promised that this was my last. Nine thousand days is a lot, but ten thousand is excessive. I had to be done. You see, Màthair, that evening I had started to see ghosts.

Only moments earlier, as I crossed York Place in front of the cathedral, I bumped into a man, right there on the street. And, oh, Màthair, my heart leapt.

That same sandy hair, the same hunched shoulders, the same thumbnail creeping up to his mouth. Eyes the brown-green of the hills in wintertime. I would’ve sworn on my soul it was him.

But a bus rattled past, horn blaring, and he touched his hat before hurrying across the street. I stood frozen for a moment longer, wondering how I could be so mistaken. I was
sure
it was him. But the traffic, hurrying home before the blacked-out streets grew dark, swerved around me, and I knew I had to give up.

In the cathedral, finger tracing the name in the Bible, I swore it was the last time. And, Màthair, I meant it.

I sat until the church grew dark, until someone slipped into the seat next to me: my Margaret, with a new green hat perched on her head. She’s moved from home, and I miss her already. Last week, when her Paul had leave, they married. A quick ceremony,
an even quicker honeymoon in the Borders, and now she’s mistress of her own house. That night, when she slipped next to me in the pew, she wore a secret smile.

“I just came to deliver something.” She set an envelope, crisp and square, on top of my Bible. “A special delivery.”

Envelopes. Always envelopes in my life. I started shaking before I even saw the name on the outside.

To Sue
.

My hands trembled and I dropped it twice before I could get a finger under the flap. I tore the envelope nearly in half.

The letter was short, written on one side of a sheet in scrawled pencil, the handwriting as familiar as my own.

London, England

October 23, 1940

Dear Sue
,

Letters are where we started; letters are where we ended. Perhaps, with a letter, we can begin again? I have twenty-three years to tell you about and not enough paper
.

I have never stopped loving you
.

   
Davey

The words blurred.

Margaret took my hands. “Mother …” She nodded towards the back of the cathedral.

A Highland lass expects to see ghosts. You taught me that.
And yet, when he stepped into the candlelight of the aisle, my breath caught in my teeth. Of all the things I expected, not that, not there, not then.

It
was
him. Those eyes, startled wide. The thumbnail already creeping into his mouth. Looking the way he did the day we met. My Davey. Oh, Màthair, he came. He came.

Eyes brown-green, like the hills in wintertime, fixed on mine. My looking-glass self. Suddenly I didn’t feel a day older.

I stood, the little Bible falling from my lap. The letter crinkled in my hand. I stepped towards him, with Margaret, the war, and the whole rest of the world forgotten.

“Hi, Sue.” He held out his hand. “Here I am.”

I fell into his arms. “There you are, Davey. There you are.”

Though the first draft of
Letters from Skye
was written in secret, late at night after the rest of the family had fallen asleep, it would not be where it is today without the support and encouragement of many.

My sincere thanks to all of the readers who helped my novel soar, especially Bryn Greenwood and Christine Roberts. To Elaine Golden, for the last, perfect line. To Sue Laybourn and Louise Brennan, for giving my characters the right words. To Richard Bourgeois, for reads, cheers, and sea monsters. To Kate Langton, for unflinching faith. I did it. To the Nanobeans, for their irreverence, encouragement, and cheese scones. Since leaving Edinburgh, I’ve tried to recreate that circle of writerly energy, of support and nonsense and fellowship. I wish I could.

To Danielle Lewerenz, for being my sounding board, my cheerleader, my friend. You helped build Davey into a hero to
fall in love with. To Rebecca Burrell, for being there. I’m still not sure how I wrote books before you.

To my agent, Courtney Miller-Callihan, for signing me with such confidence and sending my manuscript out into the world with such conviction. To my editor, Jennifer E. Smith, for seeing in my words the same story I’ve always seen and for helping me to make it the novel it needed to be. Many thanks to the whole team at Random House/Ballantine, especially the tireless subsidiary rights department.

To my parents and my sister, Becky, for never doubting me. I hope that I’ve made you proud. To Ellen and Owen, for their patience and their forgiveness when I forget to do the laundry. I love you. To Jim, for Scotland and everything else.

It still amazes me that Elspeth and Davey are just as real to other people as they are to me. Thank you to everyone who helped to bring them to life.

J
ESSICA
B
ROCKMOLE
spent several years living in Scotland, where she knew too well the challenges in maintaining relationships from a distance. She plotted her first novel on a long drive from the Isle of Skye to Edinburgh. She now lives in Indiana with her husband and two children.