Chapter 35
One week later, when she picked up the mail, Sage noticed the envelope immediately. The address was written in the now familiar, steady masculine script, which made her pulse quicken. Inside was the same crisp, expensive stationery as the last letter.
She sat at the kitchen table, smoothing the page flat.
My dear little moonbeam,
I can feel your reticence all the way across the miles. You don't answer my texts beyond the odd "yes" or "no." I used the big word in my first letter, and now you're wondering what on earth is wrong with me. I must have an ulterior motive, you tell yourself.
Men are commitment-phobes, you're thinking. Why does he want this?
Well, could it be for your money? Then I suggest you do a bit of investigating into how much I'm worth, because, truth be told, it's not a small amount.
Or maybe you're thinking I've got some kink you don't know about. No, not that—well, alright, I do have fantasies of tying you up and having my way with you, but that can wait until we know each other better. Because I am game, if you are.
So why, you ask, would a confirmed bachelor like me suddenly act so out of character? And you might say I don't really know you.
Well, here's what I do know:
· Your favourite colour is blue—and it happens to be the colour of my eyes.
· You love spicy food, as do I, though I admit I've a stronger stomach for it.
· I love your body. I'm a man, I admit it, that's what we notice first. If a man tells you otherwise, he is a liar. I won't wax poetic. I love your long brown hair, the colour of chestnuts, and I can't wait to run my fingers through it.
· I love your grey eyes—storm clouds one day, soft silk the next.
· You have the plushest pair of lips, and they give me all kinds of ideas.
· I've been told I don't snore too badly by a reliable source, I promise. If you snore, I don't care because I am a deep sleeper.
· You have a way of laughing with your eyes before the sound comes out. I noticed that the first time I tried your Sour Patch Kids and made a face.
· You tuck your hair behind your ear when you're thinking and sometimes bring it to your mouth, then scowl at yourself for doing it
· You're quick with sarcasm when you want to protect yourself, but underneath you're tender, too tender, and you don't even realise it shows.
And so, the list goes on. If this were a debate, I would have won with my bullet points and all.
I have shocked you wordless and petrified you with my first letter. This one, I hope, explains some of it.
More to follow...
Do you remember us watching Sleepless in Seattle? Sam Baldwin says,
"I knew it the first time I saw her. It was like coming home, only to no home I'd ever known."
That is exactly how I feel about you.
Always yours,
Euan
Her fingers lingered over the keyboard, heart thudding. Finally, she typed:
I like you...but I've been burnt before. Can we take it slow?
The three dots appeared almost at once.
We'll take it as slow as you want, lass.
She exhaled, shoulders easing, the tension she hadn't realized she was holding in loosening a fraction. Maybe, just maybe, this wasn't another trap; maybe it was something she could step into at her own pace.
The hospice was nothing like Sage had expected. She had imagined shadowed corridors and the smell of antiseptic. Horace walked beside her down the bright corridor, his stride unhurried, his hands folded behind his back.
"We like to keep things cheerful here," he said, nodding towards a volunteer arranging flowers in a vase at the reception desk. "No one needs more cold in their lives—not the patients, and certainly not the families."
He pointed out the dayroom, where a pair of women were playing cards with a man in a wheelchair. "That's Elsie and Joan—volunteers, both of them. They are retired nurses. They'll tell you the trick isn't what you do, it's how you listen."
Sage smiled faintly, tucking her hands into her sleeves.
Horace caught the gesture. "Don't feel you have to be a nurse, Sage. We've got a team of palliative specialists for that. What we need from you is time. You'd be surprised how much that matters."
He slowed as they passed another doorway, lowering his voice.
"You'll find most of our volunteers are retired—teachers, social workers, even a postman who spent forty years on the same route.
They've learned patience the long way. And they'll tell you the same thing I will: everyone here matters.
Staff, patients, families, volunteers, you included.
We are like a family here. It is hard on everyone when the person you spoke to the day before is gone when you clock in the next day. "
Sage felt the knot in her chest ease slightly.
Horace gave her a warm smile. "The whole secret is in the small details. Learn their names. See them as people, not their diagnosis. You'll be just fine."
Sage was younger than most of them, and in the beginning, she felt like an interloper, clumsy and uncertain. But the palliative nurses were kind, guiding her gently, "You don't need to fix anything, just be there and listen."
Callie was one of the first Sage was asked to sit with.
She was only in her early fifties, not much older than Sage, with a wry sense of humour and sharp, dark eyes.
Breast cancer had ravaged her body, leaving her fragile and wasted, but her mind and spirit were still luminous.
The cancer had spread—widespread metastases, the nurses had said—and her pain was managed with a cocktail of medication that left her drowsy, drifting.
At first, Sage didn't know what to do with her hands.
She offered tea and adjusted pillows. Then, she sat awkwardly by the bed.
But Callie caught her fumbling and said, in a voice as dry as autumn leaves, "I don't need another nurse.
But it would be nice to have someone who doesn't look at me like I'm already gone. "
So, Sage tried to still her nervous hands and began to simply listen.
Callie talked about her garden, the roses she'd left untended, the way her son still came down from university every Sunday like clockwork.
He brought her hummus because she still had an appetite.
..well, a memory, if not an appetite for it.
Some days she wanted to talk about pain, the fear of leaving such a young son and the unfairness of it all.
Other days, she wanted silence, just the soft background of another human breathing beside her.
One afternoon, Callie asked if Sage would read to her. "Something trashy," she said with a half-smile. "None of that spiritual stuff they think we want at the end."
Sage found her Kindle, and gave her a list of options. She came up with Frayed Images by S T Moors, to which Callie agreed to let go of the trashy and proceed with the angst. Sage read aloud until Callie drifted into sleep, her hand slack but still warmed by Sage's own.
Walking out of the room, Sage realised that she wasn't thinking about her own pain. She was thinking about Callie's roses, and her son, and how small a thing it was to give another person your time and how much it returned to her.