CHAPTER FOUR
M y peaceful morning stroll down the Magnolia River was anything but. Instead, I spent ten minutes trying to convince a toddler to walk away from the water’s edge, one mini-heart attack after another left me questioning why I accepted Katherine’s offer. She strolled ahead, allowing my ‘youthfulness’ to confine my eighteen-month-old niece to the dirt-sodden pathway.
After our walk, I met up with my best friend Brittany at Cooper’s for the finest southern breakfast money could buy. The flaky buttery biscuit with Cooper’s famous creamy sausage gravy would forever be the highlight of my week. We stumbled into our weekly breakfast tradition right after I moved back from West Point. Following a fourth cancellation due to my unpredictable work schedule, Brittany forced me to commit to a day.
Katherine and Brittany had developed a strong rapport over the years. They both liked to challenge every life choice I made, especially the ones involving women. They constantly tried to one-up each other with their clever remarks and light-hearted jabs—at me. And of course, they both majored in sarcasm. It was a language they spoke fluently, and it was frustratingly endearing .
Brittany chose supportive sarcasm over breakfast, which left me suspicious. I zoned out of the conversation when she started to list all the admirable characteristics of my most recent love interest—Julia.
Love interest would insinuate there was a deep connection that expanded beyond a casual sexual encounter. Julia wasn’t that girl for me. Neither was Imogen. Or Daisy. The feelings of attraction were there for all three women, but the emotional connection, the depth, the desire, the type of complexity I yearned to experience didn’t exist.
Why?
Brittany asked me the same question at least once a month, and my response was vague.
I simply don’t know.
Urgh. Love complicated things, was my go-to response. Brittany tried to introduce another woman into my life. She claimed she was quirky, humorous, and cherished her family. She was also known for her colourful style and her rather eccentric hobbies—one being her love for the pie-eating contests at our annual Magnolia summer festival.
“She sounds wonderful, but—”
“Why is there always a but with you?” she scolded.
“Can we move on?” I wasn’t prepared for another three-hour long conversation dissecting my dating history; that could wait.
Magnolia offered a lot in the way of activities, especially for outdoor enthusiasts like myself. My days off were filled with hiking, fishing, or kayaking. I will admit fishing wasn’t my most desired sport. Can you even call it a sport? Personally, I would’ve said it was more of a hobby, but my father disagreed. Apparently, there’s a certain level of physical activity involved. My experience with fishing was fundamentally contrasting, and I was yet to break a sweat whilst sitting in a khaki-coloured armchair and sipping coffee from a stainless steel flask.
Hiking on the other hand, I did most weeks. I loved to feel the burn in my muscles as I pushed myself to reach the top of whatever summit I’d chosen to climb. The sense of accomplishment and fulfilment far outweighed the uncomfortable fatigue the next day. That morning the physical strain in my calves was still present from the day before. Hence, I’d decided to postpone a kayaking trip down the Magnolia River.
There was one other female officer on my team, she was called Carla. She loved to kayak, play the banjo, and read anything by the Bront? sisters. She embodied the spirit of the south, hospitable, kind, and a great cook of delicious southern dishes. Carla was the reason our kayaking mornings became a monthly team bonding exercise. Kayaking encouraged teamwork, whether manoeuvring through narrow passageways or working together to avoid currents. Paddling in sync with another person took a greater amount of skill than I first anticipated. Now I loved it.
I wonder if Amelia has ever been kayaking.
I made a mental note to ask her.
The sun eventually dipped below the horizon, and I spent my evening on the porch listening to the distant chirping of crickets. The black rocking chair creaked softly as I settled into the familiar sway. It was the simple pleasures in life. A cold glass of sweet tea, the sound of birds performing their evening lullaby, and the evening breeze disarranging my hair.
It was a lone circumstance, but I wasn’t lonely. I found a quiet joy in simply being present. I wrapped my shirt across my body; the vest underneath was no longer sufficient to warm my torso. I closed my eyes for a moment, but after a long day, the moment prolonged and I woke two hours later shivering, covered in sweet tea, and with next door’s perky-eared, fluffy feline licking my knee.
The antique dresser stood tall in the corner of the room. It was made from dark wood, but its once polished exterior had aged. The intricate carvings adorning its edges weren’t enough to convince Amelia to salvage it. The shelves were empty. Amelia had already removed a box full of decorative items that now lay beside it in another box. A set of drawers ran down the front of the dresser; each was embellished with delicate metal handles.
“This thing has to be over sixty years old,” I observed. “Maybe more.”
The antique dresser had numerous imperfections. The signs of wear became more apparent the closer I inspected.
“Are you sure you don’t want to keep it? Considering its age I don’t think it looks bad,” I asked.
Amelia placed her hands on her hips, deep in thought.
“I don’t know... There’s already so much downstairs I want to refurbish. I have to let some things go. Plus, it seems a little intrusive don’t you think? It really makes the room feel small.”
I could see her point. The room was square, with only a small vintage window to allow light. The large antique dresser overhung the window frame by a few inches. It did seem like an odd place to position such a grand piece of furniture.
“I agree. The room would feel a lot better without it.”
“Do you think we can move it?” Amelia pushed at the side panel, testing its stability.
“I think if you don’t want to keep it, we should break it down.”
Amelia nodded.
I removed each individual drawer and unhinged the doors. A slight knock with the hammer removed the inner shelves, leaving just the shell.
“I think we can move it now.”
We positioned ourselves at either end of the dresser. My hands firmly gripped the edges. The weight of the wood pressed against my arms. The initial strain took me by surprise. It was a sturdy piece of furniture. It required all the strength we could muster to manoeuvre it a foot towards the door.
The dresser groaned as we dragged it across the floor.
“Are you okay?” I called out.
Amelia’s head popped out from behind the wood. “Uh-huh,” she said through panted breath.
“Just a bit further.” I strained.
Through sheer perseverance, we finally reached—the doorway. Where we went from there, I had no idea.
“Huh.” I scratched at my head.
“What?”
I stepped back to observe our next challenge.
“The door.” I nodded towards the frame and watched Amelia’s face drop as she observed that the dresser towered above it.
“Oh, come on!” She threw her hands up comically. “Hammer?”
“It may be our only option.” I shrugged .
Cruelly thrashing at the historic dresser with a piece of metal felt unjust, but option number two involved tipping it sideways, using our momentum to push it straight through the wooden spindles, and watching it crash into a pile of wooden debris at the bottom of the stairs.
I walked back over to the now vacant space. The faded floorboards were the only giveaway that the corner hadn’t always felt so spacious. My hammer lay flat, awaiting its instruction.
As I took a step forward the floorboard gave way beneath me. My foot crashed through and into the empty space below. My heart raced; a mix of shock and adrenaline surged through me as I attempted to use my body weight to avoid breaking a bone.
My eyes widened. “Ow.”
“Are you okay?” Amelia rushed over. There was real concern on her face.
“Let me help.” She leant forward to try and manoeuvre my leg from its awkward position.
“Wait...” I flicked my foot forward. “I think there’s something down here.”
I peered into the darkness below.
Please don’t be a dead body.
With cautious curiosity, I reached into the hole.
“What is it?” Amelia hovered over my shoulder; she had one hand on my back, but her feet angled towards the doorway and stood a good metre apart. She was ready to bolt if necessary.
“I think it’s a box,” I mumbled.
I brushed off the dust that clung to the surface of the small wooden box. It was no bigger than a shoe box and severely weathered but free from any detrimental damage. My foot was still lodged in the broken floorboard, but the throbbing pain in my ankle eased.
I handed the box to Amelia. “Open it,” I encouraged.
Inside, she discovered a collection of letters, neatly banded together with a piece of rope.
“Letters . . .” Amelia observed.
“Are they addressed to Mrs. Baker?” I asked.
She flicked through the pile; each letter bore the marks of time.
“It looks like it.”
The address was delicately written, showcasing the elegance of the authors handwriting.
“Some of these letters are over thirty years old.” Amelia touched the space where the faded ink displayed the date.
“Do you think they’re love letters?” I raised my eyebrows.
“Maybe, but why hide them?” Amelia questioned.
“Safe keeping?” I shrugged. There was no safer keeping than buried beneath the floorboards under a giant piece of furniture.
“Will you open one?” Amelia asked.
“Sure.”
She handed me the box, and I delicately removed one of the letters. I carefully unfolded the yellowed pages. I felt a sudden sense of secrecy, like I was about to be inducted into some classified society.
My heart quickened as I read the first line of the letter.
My darling Caroline .
I hope this letter finds you well. I have been grappling with a heavy heart lately. I miss you dearly, and the emotional turmoil I feel daily doesn’t seem to ease.
The immeasurable joy and happiness you’ve brought to my life is a testament to our love. However, there is a painful truth I struggle with most days.
It breaks my heart to consider the possibility of a life without you by my side, but I find myself torn between my love for you and the need to keep my family intact. The thought of disappointing my family and bringing them pain isn’t something I can comprehend. I know you understand this.
Can I ask for your patience? My love for you remains unwavering, and yes, there might be hundreds of miles between us, but my heart is with you. It always has been.
I hope to one day find a resolution that allows us to be together. Until that day comes, I will continue to hold you close in my thoughts.
All my love,
Frances
“She was having an affair,” Amelia gasped.
“You don’t know that,” I reasoned.
“The letter is dated when my grandfather was still alive.”
Amelia sat slumped, her hands holding the box like it might disappear at any moment. There were at least three hundred letters inside. At first glance, they all looked to be written by the same person .
“How could she do that?”
“We don’t know the facts,” I said.
“I think these letters are facts enough. Are they not?” She placed the box on the floor and started tapping at each individual floorboard; she applied extra pressure to the ones that creaked.
“I wonder if my mom knows,” she said.
“What are you doing?” I eased myself up. My ankle didn’t buckle under the weight. I took that as a good sign.
“I’m checking if there’s any more loose floorboards—” She halted.
The variation in resistance was evident as she pushed her foot into the floorboard; she inserted a screwdriver into the crack between the boards. Nothing.
She continued like that for a few minutes, determined to find some more evidence.
“Are you hungry?” I asked.
“Yes.” Amelia nodded.
“Let’s take a break.”
Cooper’s was oddly quiet. It was a Thursday afternoon, so I didn’t expect to see a typical weekend turnout, but still. We took seats outside at a paint-chipped wooden table. The warm breeze carried the scent of home-cooked food. Despite the weathered look and feel of Cooper’s, it felt cosy. The colourful seat cushions added comfort, and the sound of the river flowing behind the diner created a calm backdrop.
Cooper suggested the smothered pork chops, a side of collard greens with ham hocks, and some freshly made sweet cornbread. When I was unable to choose, I asked for his recommendations, and I never regretted his choice.
“How’s your ankle?” Amelia asked.
It was tender to touch, but I refused to let it affect my mobility.
“It’s okay.” I shrugged.
“I’m sorry,” she said sincerely.
“Why are you sorry?”
“Well, you came to help me clear out the house because you’re basically Mother Teresa in lieutenant form, and you’ve hurt your ankle, got a hole in your T-shirt, and now you’re having to play therapist whilst I uncover whatever the hell is going on in these letters.”
“When you put it like that, I accept your apology.” I smiled.
The waitress placed two iced lattes on the table. I swirled the contents with the paper straw.
“So, what now?” Amelia asked.
“If you want to find out more, I think you need to read more letters.”
Amelia removed the wooden box from her canvas bag and set it on the table. “You choose one.” She slid the box to my side. I opted for the first letter. I figured if they were in some sort of date order that might give us something to work with.
The letter revealed more than I’d anticipated:
Caroline,
How are you?
My parents convinced the family to take a trip to Big Bend National Park this past weekend. I completed a twelve-mile hike in record time. It was strenuous, but you know how much I appreciate the outdoors. I had my picture taken at the most wonderful canyon overlook. Once I get the film processed, I will send you a copy. The view was breathtaking.
However, it was missing one thing. You.
How are things in Grapevine? I heard they’re building a new airport inside the city limits. Richard is excited about the prospect. He thinks it’s a good employment opportunity. Maybe, a move back home to Grapevine is on the cards. I would love to be closer to you again. I miss you.
I hope little Pamela is thriving. I know it’s her birthday soon, so please wish her a big happy birthday from me. I thought about our time together at the lake yesterday. I miss playing with Pammy, watching her grow, and watching you fall in love with her more and more every day. I remember feeling like a family for a fleeting moment, and it is a memory I will treasure forever.
This letter is brief. I have a busy few months ahead, but I promise to write you again soon.
All my love,
Frances.
Amelia let the words sink in. All of a sudden, her eyes widened.
“Oh my God! The coffee shop.” Amelia jumped up. “The inscription on the work surface signed off with an F — ”
“ F for Frances,” I finished.
“So, Frances has been here in Magnolia.” Amelia sipped on her iced latte. “What if Caroline moved here to be with Frances?”
I shook my head. “I don’t recall Mrs. Baker ever living with anyone. I can ask my parents, but from what I remember, she was always alone.”
“Oh,” Amelia said. She sounded disappointed. “What do we do now?”
I carefully closed the letter. It folded effortlessly in two.
“When I investigate a crime, I gather the evidence from the scene first. Then I look to interview any witnesses before I analyse all the evidence. Only then do I build the case for arrest and eventually prosecution.”
“Are you suggesting we should be arresting someone?” Amelia questioned.
“God no, but it’s the same sort of concept. First, we need to gather the evidence.”
“Okay, where do we start?”
I reached for my phone and tapped into the search engine: Where is Grapevine?
“Grapevine is in Dallas, Texas. Is that where your family is from?” I asked.
“I think that’s where my mom was born, but we moved to Austin when I was a baby.”
“Okay,” I started to make notes on the back of a napkin. “Who’s Richard?”
“I have no idea.” Amelia shrugged.
I noted down, Richard?
“Who’s Pamela?”
“That’s my mom.”
“So, Frances spent time with your mom as a baby.” I searched again: When was the airport in Grapevine built ?
“This letter has to be from the late sixties because that’s when they started to build the airport.”
The letters weren’t in their original envelopes. There were no original stamps, no return addresses, no evidence to suggest their origins.
“Caroline must’ve been—twenty-eight? Maybe twenty-nine,” I guessed. My maths was being put to the test.
“I know she had my mom when she was twenty-three years old, and my mom was born in sixty-three, so that’s probably about right,” Amelia confirmed. “She had to have been having an affair with Frances for decades.”
“We need more evidence.” I nodded towards the letters. Amelia reluctantly removed another.
In between smothered pork chops and iced tea, we dissected letter after letter. They varied from short carefree notes to lengthy thought-provoking reports. We struggled to piece together a consistent timeline at first. They didn’t seem to be in any particular order, but with each letter we found ourselves transported to a different time. The wrinkled pages whispered tales of love, heartbreak, yearning, and betrayal.
Amelia’s eyes sparkled with curiosity each time we placed one letter neatly back in the box and removed another. We learnt of Caroline’s second child, her time working as a bookkeeper, and then an administrative assistant for her husband in the seventies. The economic boom in Texas saw her husband, George, profit ten-fold from his tech company.
Frances told tales of their various rendezvous: the time they got blind drunk on the newly invented frozen margarita. The first ever time they tried nachos—with cheese dispensed from a pump at a Texas Rangers baseball game. A new antiques and furniture shop on Main Street had been the setting of their second first kiss, after almost half a decade apart. Frances mentioned their trip to the Palace Theatre to watch Willie Nelson; she even enclosed a ticket, which allowed us to place the letter to 1979. The town square gazebo became a significant monument in their story. It was the place they almost got caught kissing in the late eighties and the meet up location for what transpired to be their final goodbye—we thought.
As the hours passed, we became completely engrossed in the lives of Caroline and Frances. We had a rare glimpse into a different era. The deeper we delved, the more we weaved the story. We were careful to keep the authenticity. We built a timeline. The earliest discovery was in 1960 and the latest was in 1996. Amelia became an honouree detective, deciphering clues, mapping out timelines, and unravelling the contents of each letter with a fierce determination. There were so many clues hidden within the ink. The elation we felt once we uncovered a new piece of evidence was addictive.
The letters brought us closer together. It felt like our secret, like we’d been trusted to keep the contents hidden from the world, but there was so much more to unearth. On the surface, it was a love affair spanning four decades, maybe more, we couldn’t be sure, but the questions at the forefront of my mind were shrouded in uncertainty—
How did it end?
Did it ever end?
Where was Frances now?