Chapter 32 I Wish You Were Here
I Wish You Were Here
Jenny
For the next two days, I baked almost constantly.
Deacon manned the front of the store, leaving me to the peace and solitude of my kitchen, dulling the sharp edges of my grief in the place I first found love and acceptance.
I could have closed, nobody would have questioned, but I needed to punch my hands into the dough and recreate the magic Ansel had taught me so many years before.
It was a shame for it to go to waste, so I opened the store for a few short hours both days.
On the day of the funeral, I closed.
Ansel’s funeral was beautiful. Walking into the church with Deacon and Darlene, my knees nearly buckled at the sight.
Pink roses, and only pink roses, everywhere.
Even his casket had a strip of pink around it, and a huge spray of pink roses over it.
“Looks like he was intent on making a statement,” Deacon murmured, his hold on me tight.
“He loved you so much, honey,” Darlene murmured, dabbing her eyes with an embroidered handkerchief. “Said you turned his life from grey to pink.”
Everyone who had read his obituary turned and stared at me as we walked in.
Faces that had been stern and unforgiving now softened.
Ansel’s final parting gift.
Since Deacon showed up at my apartment the day Ansel passed, we spent every minute together, asleep or awake.
One thing we didn’t do was talk.
With Ansel’s death, I’d almost taken a step back, loathe to leave the safe space he’d given me.
Deacon didn’t quibble; he simply packed up his clothes and moved into the apartment.
When Ansel’s lawyer called for an appointment, Deacon came with me.
As I suspected, I inherited everything save a donation to Hope’s Place.
And the letter Ansel left me penned in his shaky hand.
Unable to face it, I tucked it away in my purse.
It wasn’t until the next day when Deacon had a follow-up appointment at the bank that I opted to stay home. I sat down at my kitchen table and smoothed the paper out in front of me.
Dear Jenny,
First, I’m sorry, so sorry to leave you. It’s the last thing I ever wanted to do, but time waits for no man.
Everything in this world that was mine is now yours. It’s nowhere near enough to match the joy you brought when you turned this old man’s grey world pink.
Back to the issue of time and her impatience: embrace the storms, Jenny. They bring the rain, and the rain promises growth and beauty and life.
All the things you deserve.
Please, if your old man can ask one last favour of you, look after my Darlene.
While it’s true she’s partial to your brownies, if you really want to make her smile, bring her a batch of your oatmeal raisin cookies.
She thinks the oatmeal makes them healthy and allows her to indulge. I want that for her.
She’s the love I never expected to find, and a staunch supporter of you and that grumpy bear you fell in love with so long ago.
He shared his plans with me. I want you to know you both have my blessing.
I’m more grateful than I can ever express for the role you allowed me to play in your life.
I just know the rest of it is going to be epic.
Don’t be afraid of the rain, Jenny.
I love you.
Ansel.
I folded it carefully, slipped it back into its envelope, and held it to my heart.
Tears streamed down my cheeks in a steady rivulet, and I let them.
These didn’t hurt.
These honoured.
The truth I’d blocked out for so long became clear. I’d had a family. I’d had a family all along, but I couldn’t see past my disbelief.
Now there was another who loved me, who, perhaps, had always loved me just as I had loved him.
Bringing Ansel’s letter with me into my bedroom, I opened my closet and dug through to the back where my box of letters lived.
Taking it out, I brought the whole thing to the kitchen and set it down on the table.
My heart pounded as I lifted the lid.
On the very top, there was writing paper, envelopes, and pens.
Only with Deacon had I ever been able to share my deepest hopes.
And greatest fears.
Even after he left, I never stopped talking to him. My heart, my pain, and my worries flowed through the ink onto the paper. When I was empty, I folded them up and sealed them away to live between the six walls of this box.
But there was joy here, too, like the key Ansel gave me for the bakery. I’d had a copy made and tucked the original away for safekeeping.
I’d also kept every card he ever gave me.
But there were also the unsent letters, sealed in envelopes, and bound with ribbon.
I lifted them out and set them aside. Underneath lay the cards from Deacon, two Christmas, two Valentine’s, and one birthday card.
There were the flowers he picked from the church garden when he was late picking me up, pressed flat and encased in wax paper.
The ticket stubs for every movie and the play we saw in Mistlevale.
There was a small photo album full of pictures I never looked at, but I looked at them now and laughed.
I cried a little, too.
We were so young, and he was so slender.
No wonder I barely recognized him when he came back to me.
Last, a red velvet box sitting on the bottom contained the heart linked tennis bracelet he gave me when he first told me he loved me. I opened the box, clasped the bracelet around my wrist, and held it up to the light coming from the window.
Flashing and sparkling in the light, it was back where it belonged.
And so was I.
I turned to the stack of letters, ten of them, one for every year we were apart. Slipping off the elastic, I slid my thumb under the flap of the first envelope.
It was time to put the past to rest.
Dear Deacon,
I need to tell you what happened.
I didn’t cheat on you; I’d never cheat on you.
Page after page, I poured out my anguish and my need for him. My throat closed as the old heartache came rushing back.
God! There was no way, even now, I could bear to relive it.
I flipped to the last page.
I wish you were here.
I’d missed him; even when I thought he hated me, I missed him.
Dear Deacon,
It’s been a year, and I’m almost okay. I still miss you. And I wish the baby had made it. You would have been a wonderful father.
Do you think I would be a good mom? It scares me, but I want it.
I want it so badly.
He was my only love, the first man I trusted with my heart, and he broke it the way no one else ever could.
Dear Deacon,
I heard you were deployed again. I pray for you every morning and every night.
I bet you didn’t know I prayed.
I do.
Maybe not to the God you believe in, the One who bestows favours and blessings if only we pray the right way.
My God is wild and unpredictable, a parent unafraid of allowing His children to learn and grow from consequences.
Sometimes I almost hate Him. Why did He make this mess? Why did He make me and drop me in the middle of it?
But He gives me the strength to carry on.
And I pray He does the same for you.
I hope you’re okay. Are you happy? God, I hope you’re happy.
Was it me who pushed him to enlist? He hadn’t been sure what he wanted when we were together, and then, when it all fell apart, he enlisted.
I opened every single letter. My breath caught in my throat at the next one.
Dear Deacon,
Ansel moved into St. Michael’s today. It’s just me here now. I miss him.
People are talking about me again.
And I have only you.
No offence, but you’re awfully quiet.
I’d been so lost without Ansel. It took another year for me to find my feet and run the bakery with confidence. The rumours abounding over me taking advantage of Ansel nearly crippled me.
Dear Deacon,
I met your grandma. She’s a hoot. She speaks of you often.
I wonder if she knows you loved me once.
I’d been wary of her at first, but she was nothing like I expected.
Dear Deacon,
I saw you with your wife today. I guess this means it really is over. Are you happy? I hope you’re happy.
I can’t cry over you anymore.
But I don’t think I’ll ever unlove you.
This letter, like all the rest, ended the same:
Love, Jenny.
P.S. I wish you were here.
Every single one of them, I wish you were here.
Deacon, though he never read or received these letters, was the only person to whom I could pour out my heart.
I tucked them back inside their envelopes, tied the ribbon around them once more. One day, soon, I’d throw them out and release the pain.
For now, I withdrew the pen and a fresh piece of writing paper.
I had one more letter to write.
Dear Deacon...