Chapter 2
Chapter Two
H er workday done, Joyce sat in the small living room of her home, the guest house on her employer’s property. Mitchell Ripley, beloved author and grieving husband. He was a good man with a kind heart. Even if the last few years since his dear Jeanie’s passing had been dark ones.
The telly flickered, but she had it on more for company than anything else. She opened the notebook she’d taken from her bedside table and picked up her pen.
She couldn’t believe he’d offered to fly Beryl over. Joyce hadn’t seen her sister in years. Her heart was so full at the thought of their impending reunion. Mitch’s generosity and kindness toward her these last few days was just remarkable.
Meeting Harper had done wonders for Mitch. The change in him over such a short span of time was wonderful to see. For that, Joyce was infinitely grateful. Nothing she’d ever attempted had gone very far toward helping him. After a while, she’d given up and let him be. She wasn’t bothered. Grief was different for everyone, the one constant being that dealing with it took time.
How much time was up to the person. She knew that. She wasn’t about to push Mitch to get over Jeanie.
He couldn’t. Not really. Jeanie had been too much a part of his life. He would carry the loss of her for the remainder of his days. As he should. The kind of love they’d shared marked a person. It changed them. Jeanie had done that to him, so it was no wonder her death had torn him apart.
He and Jeanie had been like chalk and cheese, but somehow, they’d worked. Beautifully. Her constant smile and positive attitude had balanced out his often bleak and matter-of-fact view of life.
Together, each had been exactly what the other had needed. He’d kept her from floating away from reality. She’d kept him from sinking into the morass of it.
So it was no surprise that her death, which had been heart-wrenching for all who knew Jeanie, had caused him to lose his grip on happiness.
It was bad enough that she’d died, but the way the cancer had ravaged her, turning her into a frail shell…
Joyce sniffed and shook her head. Jeanie hadn’t deserved that kind of passing. She’d been such a kind, dear soul filled with light and love and the joy of life. She’d fought so hard for so long, but in the end, the cancer had won.
The lines on the blank notebook in Joyce’s lap blurred, her grip on the pen between her fingers tightening.
For a while, Joyce had thought she’d lose Mitch, too. That the cancer would claim his life as well, because he’d seemed unable to go on.
She didn’t even like to think the word suicide, but she’d watched him carefully day after day, looking for signs that he might be at the end of his endurance. Always wondering what she’d find when she entered the house in the morning. Holding her breath until she knew he was all right. If the worst had happened, she wouldn’t have been surprised. He’d been utterly despondent. A broken wreck of a man.
She wasn’t sure he’d have eaten anything the first month, surviving on the small amounts of food she’d been able to force on him and coffee.
To say he’d gotten better wasn’t accurate. He’d worn his grief like a dark shroud, shuffling through the house with all the presence of a shadow, moving through the day with a kind of robotic bearing. He’d gotten so thin. His eyes had sunken into his face, the dark hollows beneath them like bruises.
But that made sense, didn’t it? Life had certainly given him a beating.
Some days, he’d stay in bed. Others, he’d do nothing but sit in his office, staring at his computer. Not typing. He rarely bothered to turn it on. Just stared at the blank, black screen, shoulders slumped.
Thinking, she knew. He’d been lost in his head. In his memories. The poor lamb.
Joyce had shed as many tears for him as she had for Jeanie. Not in front of him, of course. Here in her own private space. In front of him, she’d been as cheerful and upbeat as she could manage.
She’d done what she thought Jeanie would have wanted her to. Put on the kind of brave face that Jeanie would have.
But now? Things had changed. What was that saying the Yanks liked? There was light at the end of the tunnel. The end might still be a long ways off, but she’d take even the small glimpse of sun that seemed to be peeking through.
Which was why it was time to write the letter she’d been thinking about for so long. She’d send it as an email, but she wanted to write it all out first. Like she was writing a letter to a friend, which she was, really.
Writing it out was good. It would help her give the words the right tone, she hoped. Emails were so impersonal. But she’d email it all the same, because she was done putting it off. She wanted it done and dusted.
There was a lot that needed to be said, but it had to be done carefully. Firmly. With kindness and affection, but without any excuses for the behavior on either side. She was going to be truthful.
And then she was going to hope for the best.
She took a breath and put her pen to the paper.
Dear Kyle,
I hope that you’re doing well. I miss you terribly. I know it’s silly of me, but I can’t help feeling like a nan who’s lost her grandchild. Age does that to you. Makes you sentimental. You’ll see one day.
Are you getting on all right? I don’t even know what you’re up to these days.
I suppose that’s why I’m writing. To tell you I miss you. That I think about you every day.
It would be lovely if you came for a visit. I know your father has reached out to you a few times, but he’s heard nothing back. Maybe you haven’t gotten his letters? Or your phone hasn’t been working?
She knew that wasn’t true, but she wanted to give him an easy way out of his stubbornness. Kyle was as intractable as his father, but Mitch only had himself and his genes to blame for that.
I understand that your father didn’t live up to your expectations during your mother’s illness. You know what? He didn’t live up to mine, either. You know something else? Neither did you. But I realized those were my issues to deal with, not his or yours. You can’t expect anyone to live according to your own rules, can you?
Everyone deals with horrible, painful things in their own way. Just like how you focused solely on your mum and ignored the fact that your father was falling to pieces, too. If that was harsh of me, I apologize, but I doubt anyone else has had the courage to say such a thing to you. And it needs to be said.
You might think he abandoned you and your mum by concentrating on his work, but that was his way of dealing with a situation that had no good outcome. Not defending it, mind you, just pointing out something you might not have realized. His writing was a safe place for him. A way for him to keep things routine. I believe he was hoping that routine would somehow make everything better. That if he tried hard enough, life would go back to being the way it was. The way it had always been before the wretched C word was spoken.
After your mum’s passing and after you left, I worried for him. I wasn’t sure he’d get through his grief. He still hasn’t, if I’m being honest, but he’s trying. He’s been talking to someone who’s helping him a good deal. More than that, it isn’t my place to say.
I don’t know if I’ve said too much or too little, so that’s probably a sign I should close. Could you do one thing for me? Give serious thought to speaking to your father. Neither of you is ever going to heal completely until that happens. And this separation, or whatever you call it, is only keeping the wounds fresh.
Listen now, if you don’t want to do it for me, do it for your mum. You know in your heart it’s what she’d want.
Whatever has happened between you and your father is fixable. He still loves you very much. As do I.
With great affection,
Joyce
She read the letter through again, changing a few words here and there, fixing a mistake. Wondering if it would have any effect or if she was just wasting her time.
Well, there were worse things to waste time on, weren’t there?
She took her notebook and pen over to the end of the kitchen counter, where she kept her laptop, a present from Mitch and Jeanie some years ago, and sat on the stool in front of it.
She opened it up, waiting for it to come to life.
Once it was ready, she logged into her email, ignoring the sales adverts she had no memory of signing up for, and clicked on the button to compose a new message.
She carefully typed in the letter she’d written, giving it another thorough read. She nodded when she was done. She’d said everything she’d wanted to.
Hmm. Or had she?
She quickly added a P.S. Your father doesn’t know I’m sending this, so if you could keep this between us, I would appreciate that. I’ll make you that cake you like when you come to visit, too.
There. That would do it. But would it do any good? She could only pray it would. She added Kyle’s email, hoping it was still the same, then took a breath and hit Send.
She stared at the screen. What was done was done.
Now all she could do was wait and see how Kyle would respond.
If Kyle would respond.