The Storm
LANDON P. FITZROY, ESQ.
E—
Sorry if my handwriting’s a little shaky, but that’s what seeing your return address on an envelope did to me. Not even two fingers of bourbon could get my heart to stop racing, so I figured I needed to write back to you right away, penmanship be damned!
First of all, you’re welcome for the bracelet.
I need to come clean and confess I didn’t have it made—I actually found it in a flea market on the road between Foley and Daphne.
One of those little side-of-the-road things that sells fruit and big bags of boiled peanuts.
But I think that makes it more magical, and I hope you do, too.
Like it was meant for me to find, meant for me to send to you, meant to open up some kind of path back to each other.
It made me think of you because it was so delicate, so feminine. The filigree, the little enamel flowers, all of those seemed so you, so imagine my surprise when I looked more closely and saw there was an “L” engraved on that little silver disk in the center.
Is it awful and chauvinistic of me to like the idea of you wearing my initial?
Maybe. But if this is all I can give you of my name—for now—that’s enough.
Ellen, I know there’s a chance that you just wrote me that note to be polite, a good Southern girl sending her thank-you notes—even to a bastard like me—but I have to believe it’s more. I have to believe you miss me, too.
Lo and I are done. It never should have started, and I’m so sorry for all of the pain it has caused you, but you broke my heart, sweet girl.
You stopped talking to me, and I didn’t know how else to get your attention.
I promise you—I swear, yet again—that she doesn’t know about us, never even suspected.
I haven’t even told her I’m planning on coming back to St. Medard’s Bay for Memorial Day.
I’m planning to take the boat out to that little cove you showed me. The one my bootlegging great-uncle apparently used to hide out in.
May 28. Early evening for the sunset.
Meet me there?
In hope (as always, forever),
LPF