That Haunting Melody - Chapter One

"Life is either a daring adventure or nothing at all."

-Helen Keller

Chapter One

Monday, September 29, 1913

Mulligan, California

Edith stood still, in the center of the golden September sunlight that poured in through her open bedroom window. She kept her eyes closed. The leaves of the old maple tree in the front yard rustled in the warm breezes, sending familiar, dappled shadows across her face. She took another deep breath. Her chest shook. She pressed a postcard to her chest with both hands, curling her fingers tight around it and the fabric of her white blouse…

And let the breath out.

It hurt.

Her brow twisted. The leaves rustled once more, and the fragrant air slipped through and shifted her lace curtains…as if whispering a question…

Everything else within the big house was silent. Her mother had stopped all the clocks.

It was an old-fashioned, Victorian thing to do. Her mother had held to that tradition all her life, as had Edith's grandmother. Performed, without fail, upon the death of a loved one.

Except this time, no one had died.

It only felt as if he had.

Edith opened her eyes. Sunlight filled her vision, glittering and shifting. She lowered her head and tilted the postcard just a little, so she could glimpse the bold written lines against the brilliance of her checkered skirt.

My Sweetie-pie,

I miss you so very much! These business trips to San Diego really gall me when I can't take you and your mother with me. All I do is think of the two of you, and how much you would enjoy the things I am seeing. I saw a juggler on the street corner today who tossed sticks of burning wood as if they were apples! And I went to the movie house and watched a brand-new Keystone film called "Hoffmeyer's Legacy," which nearly knocked me over with laughing. Seems as if I have run out of room. I love you, sweetie. I shall see you soon. -Daddy

Edith touched her fingers to her lips, reading and re-reading those words until they lost their meaning. It hadn't seemed to matter how old Edith got, and that she was now a young lady of twenty-two—her father had never relinquished his right to call her "Sweetie-pie," and himself "Daddy."

Again, she pressed the postcard to her chest and shut her eyes.

Right after breakfast this morning, she had retreated back upstairs. She didn't know why. Perhaps she had thought that her soft, airy room, with its pale floral wallpaper, bouquets of fresh roses, little painted portraits of cats and children, and her bed frothing with white pillows, could simply swallow her—hide her—like Rapunzel in her tower.

But it hadn't.

Because everywhere she turned, she saw him.

There he was, on her white vanity in front of the mirror—he'd gotten her that silver brush and comb, embellished with gold roses, for Christmas last year.

There he was again, on her wall. He had collected lobby cards from every movie he saw when he went on business trips, and faithfully brought them back for her. Dozens of lobby cards hung in neat rows there, pinned to the wallpaper, their black-and-white faces as familiar to Edith as old friends.

There again, in the rosy Tiffany lamp on her nightstand, which he had giddily surprised her with on her eighteenth birthday.

And there he was, unmistakably, in the wide, gorgeous landscape above her headboard: rolling English hills that nearly hid the walls and turrets of a distant castle. The painting had belonged to his mother, and he had proudly hung it in that very spot when Edith had turned five years old. As a little girl, she had sat on her bed amidst a profusion of cushions, right in front of that painting, for hours at a time. She had gazed deeply up into it, dreaming of the knights and ladies that rode back and forth before the gates of that faraway castle. And always, at the head of their colorful parade, rode a tall, broad-chested man in flashing, silver armor. He had a red mustache, exactly like the one her daddy wore…

Edith wearily opened her eyes again, took a step forward, and sank down onto her window seat. The postcard went limp in her hand. She wondered if her mother would even get out of bed today. This morning, Edith had watched as their maid, Sarah, assembled a tray and taken it up to her—but in a few minutes, the maid had returned and carried it back into the kitchen. Edith had managed to get herself dressed, wash her face, and brush her teeth. She had even taken the time to dutifully brush out her long, blonde hair, and twist it into a neat bun at the base of her neck. But she could only eat a few spoonfuls of Cream of Wheat. And that was all.

Movement, down in the shady street in front of their lawn.

Edith leaped up onto her knee, leaning out her window—

She could just see him through the swaying maple leaves, and past the bushes that lined the iron-wrought fence: a young man in a stylish tweed riding suit and flat cap, astride a smart bay horse, trotting toward her house along the dirt lane.

"Bert," she gasped, standing up and pressing her hand to her heart again. "Oh, Bert, Bert…"

She spun and laid the postcard on her vanity, hurried to her door and threw it open. Tears suddenly blurring her vision, she hurried along the short corridor, clapped her hand onto the wooden railing and flew down the stairs, her feet thudding rapidly against the carpet. She leaped through the dark front parlor and shoved through the screen door. There, she faltered to a stop on the broad, shady front porch, beside her mother's white rocking chair. The screen door slammed.

Bert drew his horse up right outside the garden gate, dismounted, and tied the reins to a hitching post there. Then, he slowly straightened up, took off his cap…

And looked at her.

Edith had always thought Bert was the handsomest man she had ever seen, with his tall and athletic build, his brilliant green eyes, close-cropped golden hair, and clever, winning smile. But now, even though he was not smiling, the very sight of him flooded her with such relief that it spilled over in tears and ran down her face.

"Bert!" she cried, hopping down the three steps into the grassy front lawn and racing down the straight little sidewalk toward him. She pushed through the squeaky garden gate and leaped into his arms, burying her face in his neck and squeezing her eyes shut.

"Bert, I'm so glad…I'm so glad you came…" she rasped, gripping him tighter. "Oh, Bert, I can't believe..."

He didn't say anything, but she felt him slowly run his hand across her back. Edith feverishly stroked his short hair, taking deep breaths of his Clubman aftershave. He always smelled this way when he got a haircut and shave, right before he would take her out to a dance or the ice-cream parlor, where they would spend the whole evening laughing. Now, that sharp, masculine scent cleared her head, calming the frantic pounding of her heart.

"You won't believe it either," she moaned, shaking her head. "You won't, nobody will." Edith unbound her arms from around him and backed up just a little, her unsteady hands curling around his tweed lapels. He reached up and tugged his white handkerchief out of his breast pocket and handed it to her.

"Oh, I can hardly look at you, I'm so ashamed." Edith trembled as she took the hankie and dabbed her cheeks. "And it doesn't make any sense, none of it. I haven't…I haven't told anybody about this, not even Florence."

Sniffing, she glanced up into his bright eyes. He just waited, his brow furrowed, watching her. And all at once, Edith noticed that he looked pale.

She frowned, more tears slipping loose. Her chest gave hard pang.

"Did you…Did you hear something already?" she breathed.

"Why don't you tell me what happened first?" he asked quietly, forcing a small smile.

Edith swallowed hard, pressing the hankie against her trembling lips.

"Friday night," she began shakily. "I came home from working, and I saw Dad's trunks piled up in the hallway. I didn't understand what was happening, because I knew he didn't have a business trip scheduled. But there he was, all dressed up to go somewhere in his coat and hat. And when he looked at me, he…" Edith stared off, her mind filled with the image of her father caught in the dim lamplight. "He looked frightened. Or angry. Or both, I couldn't tell. But it scared me." She took hold of the front of Bert's suit with both hands, staring straight into the pattern of his tie. "And then I heard Mother crying. I went into the parlor, and she fell into a chair, crying harder than I had ever seen her. I tried to ask her what was the matter, but she couldn't talk, so I went to Dad to ask him the same thing. But he just told me he didn't have time to explain, because he had a train to catch. Then, a hired car drove up to the house, and two men loaded up Dad's things…and he just left. He left. And when the door shut, I heard Mother collapse onto the floor. Sarah and I had to carry her up to her room, and we called the doctor. She…She slept until yesterday afternoon. That's when I finally could go in to her. She was sitting up in bed, and her face was as white as her nightgown. But she told me the truth." Edith shut her eyes, and swallowed again. "She told me that my father has been having…a love affair…for almost a year now. With a girl called Lucille Johnson. She's twenty-seven years old, and she brought a divorce case to my father last November. She said her husband was mistreating her. Dad took her case and won her divorce…and kept seeing her after that. This past Friday night was the night he finally told my mother about it. He said that at least half the business trips he's been taking were actually trips to go see her. She lives in San Diego now." Edith's brow twisted, and she crushed the hankie in her fist. "He says he's tired of lying to everyone, tired of living in a place where he says he doesn't belong. He wants a divorce, so he can marry this Lucille." Again, she screwed her eyes shut and shook her head. "Didn't he…Didn't even care that you and I are getting married next month? What…What about our wedding, and all the invitations, and how much I wanted him to be there to walk me down—" Edith burst into sobs, pushing her face into Bert's chest. He laid his hand on her head as she cried helplessly, soaking the delicate hankie with her tears.

"Edith," Bert finally said, taking gentle hold of her shoulders. "That's…That's actually the reason I came to see you."

"What?" Edith tried, lifting her head and blinking through her tears, gasping raggedly. "What, the…the wedding?"

He nodded, his mouth tightening.

"I think it's best that we…call it off."

Edith's brow furrowed dully. Then, at last, she nodded too.

"Oh. Yes…" She took a deep breath. "Of course you're right. We can't have a wedding in the middle of all this." She mopped up her spilling tears again, fighting to calm her shaking. "And…I don't know when Mother will feel better, and if Dad won't be there, then the invitations…the invitations…" Edith halted—and for a single, frightening instant, she struggled to breathe.

"That's not what I mean, Edie," Bert said softly. She managed to catch a breath as her head lifted, and she frowned at him. He had lost even more of his color. She hesitated.

"What?"

He glanced away, heaving a deep sigh. When he looked back down at her, the skin around his eyes tightened. For a long time, he said nothing—and Edith's heartbeat stuttered.

"I don't think we ought to get married, Edie," Bert said. "At all."

She stared at him.

And the whole world tilted.

"What?" she whispered.

"I don't," he stated again. He took another breath and gazed directly down at her. "I didn't want to have to tell you this, but…My dad bumped into your father at the train station Friday night. He said your father had been drinking, and told him everything about the affair he was having with a woman young enough to be his daughter. As if he was proud of it. He made a scene on the platform, in front of all his friends and neighbors. My dad was…not happy. At all."

Edith stood frozen, his words hardly registering. Bert slowly let go of her, resting his right hand on the fence instead.

"And to tell you the truth, I'm not happy either," he confessed. "Adultery is a serious thing, and divorce is…It's disgraceful. It just is. It's a terrible, terrible thing."

The muscles in Bert's jaw tightened, and he glanced out over the street, putting his left hand to his side as if something were sticking into him.

Edith's blood ran cold.

"You…" she breathed. "You don't love me?"

"It's not that simple, Edie," he snapped, pinning her with a look. "It's never as simple as two people just falling in love and living happily ever after. There's a lot more to it than that." His voice lowered. "Like trust, for example. And I am just…" He dropped his head, shifting his weight. "I'm just not certain I can trust…your family…anymore."

Edith's eyebrows drew together, and new tears—scalding tears—ran down her cheeks.

"You mean, you're not certain you can trust me anymore."

"I honestly don't know," he answered, meeting her eyes. "And if I don't know…Then how can you expect me, in good conscience, to make a promise like the one you want me to make?"

"Because I thought you wanted to make it," Edith gasped, twisting the hankie in her fingers. "You're the one who asked me to marry you!"

"I know that," he said shortly. "But that was before."

Edith's eyes widened, a new, awful idea dawning on her.

"Did your father tell you that you couldn't marry me?" she suddenly asked, pushing the hankie against her lips. Bert's eyebrows shot up.

"You think my father is telling me what to do with my life?"

"Did he, Bert?" she demanded.

"No he didn't, thank you very much," Bert answered hotly. "I'm my own man, and this is my own decision."

Edith's face flushed with disconcerted heat.

"Then you…You believe that this is my fault?"

"I don't know, Edith," he said flatly, but his gaze flickered. "I don't know what part you or your mother played in your father's decision, his unhappiness or your mother's, or whose fault this really was." He held his hands out. "I honestly thought I knew you and your parents. I thought yours was a happy, peaceful home, like mine. I thought we all believed and valued the same things. But it turns out…" He shook his head. "I was wrong. After watching this happen, I don't think I know any of you at all." He paused, his jaw tightening again. His voice lowered. "How do I know that you won't do to me what he's done to you?"

Edith's mouth opened for several seconds before she could answer.

"Because…I love you, Bert," she gasped. "I would never do that. Not ever! I promise—"

"I know you promise," Bert nodded solemnly, holding her gaze. "I'm sure your parents said the same thing to each other on their wedding day."

Stung, Edith took half a step back. She pressed her hand to her forehead, a buzzing sensation in her ears. Bert turned away from her, his hand over his mouth. Then he dropped his arm, hung his head, and braced both hands against his hips.

"Look…" he finally sighed again. "I brought back your letters." He reached into his coat and pulled out a stack of envelopes neatly tied with twine. He stepped up to her, took up her hand and folded her fingers around the packet—then paused, holding onto her hand with both of his. His fingers trembled.

"I'm sorry about this, Edie. I really am," he murmured. "You can…You can return the engagement ring whenever you're able to. I'd appreciate it."

Edith didn't speak. She couldn't see anything but the center button on his coat. Then, Bert leaned in, bent down, and kissed her softly on the forehead.

"Goodbye, Edith Ambrose," he said—and let her go. All at once, the space he used to occupy turned into the empty sidewalk. Vaguely, she sensed him untying his horse and climbing up into the saddle. Then, with a sharp click of his mouth, he turned the animal's head, and the dark shape of him moved back up the street and disappeared into the colors of the trees and houses.

Edith's free hand fluttered out and weakly grasped the iron rail of the fence. She clenched the letters hard, and they crinkled in her grasp. Everything around her turned hazy, and the sounds of the leaves and the birds slurred together as if she were underwater.

"Miss Edith?" came an indistinct shout from somewhere. "Miss Edith, are you all right?"

"Yes, I'm fine, Sarah," she tried to say. But no sound came out.

No sound came out, because Edith couldn't breathe. Suddenly, she pushed the letters against the center of her chest, opening her mouth and fighting to draw in a gasp. She succeeded once, twice—

Stabbing pains started dancing all around inside her ribs, and the buzzing sound mounted until panic blinded her—

And everything went dark. She almost felt her knees and shoulder hit the sidewalk. Then, she felt nothing at all.

Darkness. Darkness deeper than sleep, restless and hot. Sounds swirled all around her. Her body felt like water, and her head pounded. For hours on end, she lay wrapped inside that darkness. Senseless phrases repeated themselves over and over, rolling through her brain like marbles on a circular track, as her balance twirled around and around in circles.

At last, the darkness lifted a little—enough that she could faintly open her eyes to see Dr. Mitchell and her mother in the room, sitting in chairs, talking in hushed tones. She glimpsed Dr. Mitchell's customary pinstriped black suit, and her mother's dark blue skirts, but their features were smudged and cloudy. She could only discern who they were by their voices. Absently, she thought she must be lying in her own bed—and she felt a cold compress on her forehead.

"She's just had a terrible shock, Mrs. Ambrose. Two terrible shocks, really, and this was almost inevitable," Dr. Mitchell muttered to her.

"Is this the same as what happened a few years ago, when my father died suddenly?" her mother asked with quiet urgency. "When we told Edith the news, she said she couldn't breathe, and then she fell off the stoop—"

"Yes, I'm certain it's the same condition," Dr. Mitchell said. "She doesn't physically cope well with sudden, misfortunate news. But neither, I must say, does her mother."

"Oh. Yes, I know," her mother sighed. "I'm afraid this is my fault."

"In what way?"

"I gave way to my grief," her mother said, simple and bleak. "I abandoned my child to fend for herself while I locked myself in my room and…and wallowed in my own misery. I had no idea what was happening with her young man yesterday, because I wasn't even out of bed."

"Don't punish yourself, Mrs. Ambrose," Dr. Mitchell soothed. "You are grieving a very difficult loss. At the moment, though, I am more concerned about the bump she took to the head than the reasons for her collapse. Please watch her carefully, and make sure..."

Edith heard no more, and fell asleep again.

That afternoon, she awakened fitfully, feeling weak, nauseated and listless. She was lying on her left side, her back to the window, her face toward her bookshelf and the rows of lobby cards on her wall. Her mother stepped quietly through her door and crossed to the chair beside Edith's bed. Edith could see her clearly, now. She wore a black, high-collared mourning dress with a rustling skirt that spilled to the rug, her hair pinned back.

Edith's mother was very beautiful, in a handsome, daring way—dark hair, eyelashes and eyebrows; strong features, and striking eyes. Early on, Edith's father had jokingly called her his "gypsy woman," for her fiery dignity and willful spirit.

Now, as Edith watched her wearily settle into the chair, it seemed that her mother had diminished. In her place, Edith could only find a thin, colorless lady, with shadows around her eyes.

"How are you feeling, dearest?" her mother asked, tilting her head.

Edith's brow furrowed.

"I have an awful headache," she whispered. "And I feel dizzy."

Her mother nodded.

"You hit your head against the paving when you fell," she said. "Sarah and I have been keeping a compress on it, and I think the swelling has gone down."

Edith nodded a little. Her mother reached over and softly straightened the top coverlet.

"Harriet Easter came on her bicycle earlier this afternoon. She told me that you and she were supposed to ride to the library today," her mother said. "I told her you were feeling ill, and gave her your overdue books to return."

"Mm," Edith sighed, blinking slowly. Her mother reached out and laid her hand on Edith's forearm, studying her.

"What happened with Bert?"

Edith stared back at her mother—and in a moment, she screwed her eyes shut against a rush of tears.

"Did he break your engagement?" her mother guessed.

Edith nodded, blinking and stifling a sob.

"Why?" her mother murmured, leaning closer.

"He said…he couldn't trust me anymore," Edith whispered. "He couldn't trust any of us anymore. That this was your fault, and my fault…"

A dark cloud passed over her mother's face.

"Now, I want you to listen to me," she said, quiet and firm. "Whatever this is, Edith, it is not your fault. Do you understand?"

Edith shivered, gazing at her. She didn't say anything. Her mother rubbed her hand up and down Edith's arm.

"Well. I'm going to have Sarah bring you some broth and crackers," she finally said. "I want you to sit up and eat everything. All right?"

Edith could only nod again. Her mother gave her a small smile.

"All right. I'm going downstairs to talk to your Aunt Josephine over the telephone. I told her I would ring her at four o'clock."

Her mother arose and left the room.

"It is not your fault…"

In about fifteen minutes, Sarah—a short, curly-haired young woman with freckles—brought in a tray bearing the promised broth, crackers, and a glass of milk. She helped Edith sit up—which sent her balance spinning again—but Edith did her best, and finished all the food on the tray before sinking back onto the pillows. Her head pounded, and her eyes hurt.

After this, she stared distantly at her bedroom window, watching the reflections of the green leaves against the glass. She only climbed out from under the covers to unsteadily visit the bathroom, and then returned directly to bed. When she caught sight of her ragged reflection in the mirror, her face looked ghostly, the bruise on her forehead standing out like a black smear of coal soot.

That evening, her mother returned with dinner for her: porridge and toast, with a banana. She sat with Edith as she ate, and after, her mother crocheted a doily by lamplight, humming scraps of soothing lullabies—tunes that calmed Edith's rolling, senseless thoughts, and quieted the whole room.

That night, Edith's large Persian cat, Duchess, came to keep her company. She curled up snugly in the crook of Edith's knees as she lay there, purring to vibrate the mattress. Often, when Edith awoke with a confused jolt, the feel of Duchess' warm weight against her legs brought her back to her room, the hoot of the owl outside, the sound of the silent house…

Wednesday morning, she awakened to the brisk, metallic trill of the telephone ringing downstairs. She heard Sarah answer it. A little while later, Sarah brought in the breakfast tray: a steaming bowl of Cream of Wheat and an orange. Edith felt much less dizzy as she sat up to eat.

"Miss Florence called for you on the telephone this morning, miss," Sarah said as she set up the tray. "I told her you were indisposed. She says she hopes you will feel better, and she will see you at the theatre Thursday evening."

"Oh," Edith picked up her spoon, staring down at her Cream of Wheat. "I…don't think I'll be going back to work this week."

"I think that's a smart idea, miss," Sarah nodded, adjusting the covers. Then, she gave her a sparkling look. "You know what else is a smart idea? A bath. As soon as you're finished with breakfast, I'll draw a hot one up for you, and put in some of your mother's rose bath salts."

"Thank you, Sarah, that would be lovely," Edith smiled faintly.

"Eat up, then," Sarah lightly slapped Edith's leg, and left the bedroom.

That afternoon, after her hot bath, Edith distinctly heard the chiming ring of the front doorbell. Not long after, her mother came into her room bearing a small vase of brilliant autumn flowers, and set them on Edith's bedside table.

"What are those?" Edith asked in surprise, turning to look at them.

"They're from Florence," her mother said, sitting down in the chair. "Sarah told her this morning that you didn't feel well. She brought these over herself. They're from her garden."

"She's such a darling…" Edith murmured, reaching out to finger a petal of one of the painted daisies.

"Yes, she is," her mother agreed. "A very attentive friend."

"The best in the world," Edith whispered—and her heart fell. She shook her head. "I don't know how I'm going to tell her."

Her mother shifted in her chair, her left hand closing tight for a moment.

"Well—You will be straightforward, and you will tell her the simple truth," she finally said. "The truth cannot be escaped or changed, so it might as well be faced. We must bear up."

Edith nodded slowly, still gazing at the flowers.

"Is your head any better?" her mother asked.

"Yes," Edith said. "A little."

Without anyone taking note of it, September turned over into October. The breezes through the maple leaves shifted direction.

And Thursday morning after breakfast, as Edith studied the golden light shimmering against the windowpane, she realized she could get out of bed.

She sat up. She was alone. Her mother hadn't come in yet, and neither had Duchess. Outside, starlings chattered amongst the tree branches. She climbed slowly out of her tangled covers, pushed them out of the way, and stood up.

She remained still for a while, her stomach hollow, cautiously gauging her body. But her head didn't spin, and her legs felt stable. So, she went to her wardrobe and pulled out clean underthings, as well as a beige skirt and white blouse, and then put them all on, and laced up her shoes. She paced out her door, down the short, creaky hall and into the bright bathroom, where she mechanically washed her face and brushed her teeth.

When she came back to her room, she sat down in front of the vanity, loosed her tattered braid, and spent half an hour brushing out her hair with long, even strokes. At last, she smoothed it around her face and wrapped it into a bun. She didn't put on any powder or rouge.

For several minutes, she just sat there in front of her vanity, staring into her own grey eyes. Eyes the same color as her father's. And if she looked, bathed as she was by the sunlight, she could see tinges of ginger in the gold waves of her hair. Just like his.

She turned and opened the top drawer to her right, and drew out a polished box made of rosewood. She retrieved a little key out of her jewelry box and opened the lid. Then, delicately, she drew out a pile of letters and laid them on the vanity top in front of her. She gazed down at the address of the first one, written in an elegant and masculine hand.

Miss Edith Ambrose

762 E. Hayworth St

Murphys, CA

Of course, each letter had already been opened and read a hundred times over. Still, she took this one on the top and slipped the well-worn paper out of the envelope and unfolded it.

May 1st, 1913

My dearest Edie,

I am simply bursting with joy, you cannot understand it. You have made me the happiest man on earth. Honestly, once you said you would marry me, I must tell you that I would agree to live on the moon if you said that's where you wanted to set up housekeeping. But yes, you are right, the white house on Edward street is completely charming, and if you adore it, so do I. I think I especially like the apple tree in the front—and of course, the three extra bedrooms upstairs. And you're right, rose bushes for the flower beds and nasturtiums for the window boxes is just what it needs. About a week before our wedding, let's you and I go see it again, and put in an offer for it.

I've forgotten to ask you—do you want all girls, all boys, or several of both?

I cannot wait to see you tomorrow. Wear that pink dress I love so much.

I love you. I love you. I love you.

Yours,

Bert.

Edith read it three times. Then, slowly, she put it back in the envelope, set it aside, and picked up the next one.

January 14th, 1913

Darling of my heart,

I'm not sure you understand what you've done to me. All this past week, I've been absolutely useless at work. If I wasn't employed by my father, my boss would have fired me three times by now. I can't think of anything rational, I can't make any decisions. All I do is skip around the office, smiling stupidly, and humming that little ditty you're always humming. What is that melody from? Can you possibly find out, because it's driving me crazy, only knowing that one little phrase. Or really—I think you are the one driving me crazy. It's your fault, and I'm not afraid to say so. All I can think of is your lovely face, your sweet mouth, and what it felt like to kiss you. And more than that, all I can think of is what it will be like to kiss you again. Please don't force me to wait too long, or the men in white coats will be hauling me away…

I love you. Have I told you that?

Yours,

Bert.

This one she read five times, all while running her forefinger back and forth, back and forth, across her lower lip. At last, she put it down and picked up the next one.

December 24th, 1912

Edith,

You cannot mean it. I'm still incoherent, and I'm sure you can see that my hand is shaking. You cannot mean that you love me. How could you say such a thing, if you knew that it feels like the most glorious arrow in my heart?

Do you know what it means to me, that you've said those words? You can't! You can't possibly know what I felt when you said them to me. I keep revisiting that moment in my mind, over and over, until I hardly believe that it's real. It must have been a dream! And that idea makes me terrified. So terrified that I want to hear you say them again—yet I'm too much of a coward to ask you. Especially since you said them first, to me. To me.

I wanted to say those words to you myself, out loud. But now, I think I will write them. Write them in indelible ink, so that, decades from now, when you pull out this letter with grandmotherly hands, after brushing out your beautiful white hair, you will smile down on these words that are true now, and will be true fifty years from now.

I love you, Edith Danielle Nadine Ambrose.

I love you.

Yours,

Bert.

One by one, Edith read through all his letters, going back two years, to the beginning of their courtship. After she read each one, she replaced it in its envelope and set it aside, until she came to the very first letter of all.

May 5th, 1911

Dear Miss Ambrose,

I must tell you how much I admire you. Not just your beauty, but your sweet temper and your talents. When we spoke after the picture show yesterday, I had in fact been there twice already to see the same movie, but I didn't look at the screen a single time. I was watching you as you played the piano, with that pretty smile on your face. And you were watching the screen! You didn't need to look at the music at all. You had become the voices, the souls, of those actors. I'm sure they would be pleased to know that the spirit of their film lies in such capable and happy hands. I was so surprised by our conversation afterward, and your graciousness in even giving me the time of day. Could I intrude upon your afternoon this Wednesday or Thursday, to take you for ice-cream? I know that your evenings are often busy with your work at the theatre. Please send me your answer as soon as it is convenient for you.

Sincerely,

Albert Walker

Edith read that one through more times than any of the others. At last, she folded it and put it in its envelope, stacked all the letters and replaced them in the box. Shut the lid, and locked it. Then, she lifted her head and looked up at the wall, to a small, framed painting.

Her sophomore year in high school, she had painted an exact likeness of that white house on Edward Street, with the apple tree in the front yard. She had taken great care with its proportions, the gabled roof, the latticework around the porch, and the dreamy way the springtime light hit its pale face. After creating a near-photographic likeness—except hers was in color—she had added red-blooming rose bushes in the beds, and nasturtiums in the flower boxes. She had also painted in a swing to hang from the apple tree, and a little girl in a white dress sitting in it, her pigtails flying. When it was finished, Edith's mother had taken this painting to a shop downtown to have it framed, and then Edith had entered it in the State Fair. It had won a blue ribbon.

Edith stood up from her vanity, folded her arms, and stepped over to the painting. For a long while she gazed at it, almost catching a hint of the heady scent of those apple blossoms. Then, she reached up, took the painting down from its nail, opened a drawer of her vanity and set it inside, and shut the drawer.

She paused, staring down at the handle of the next drawer. Almost against her will, she bent and opened that heavy drawer…

Then wilted to her knees beside it.

This drawer was filled to the brim with hundreds of postcards. Postcards from San Diego, Los Angeles, Las Vegas, Portland, Denver, Dallas, and even a few from New York City. Every single one addressed to "Sweetie-pie," and signed, with love, from "Daddy."

Her lifeless hands draped over the edge of the drawer, her fingertips resting on the top layer of cards. And she didn't move from that spot for the rest of the morning.

That afternoon, Edith finally ventured out of her bedroom and down the stairs. Glancing over the banister, she spotted her mother sitting in the parlor in front of a low fire. A tea tray waited on the coffee table, but it didn't look as if Mrs. Ambrose had touched it. Sarah had closed the thick curtains of the tall front window, turning the day into night.

Edith's mother sat in her husband's tall leather armchair, gazing into the flames, her left hand lightly touching her chin. The firelight flickered against her obsidian eyes. She hardly moved as Edith trailed down the stairs and wandered closer. Silently, Edith knelt down on the rug beside the chair, leaned over, and laid her head against her mother's knee.

Soon, her mother's long, graceful hand came down, and began methodically stroking Edith's hair away from her temple.

"Feeling better?" she asked softly.

"Yes," she murmured. "How are you?"

Her mother took a deep breath.

"Never mind about me, dear. Would you like something to eat?"

Edith closed her eyes, lulled by her mother's fingertips.

"No, thank you."

For a few minutes, her mother said nothing. Then, her hand settled against Edith's neck.

"I heard the floorboards of your room creaking earlier. What have you been doing?"

"Nothing," Edith whispered. "Just…reading through old letters."

"Ah. Yes," her mother whispered. "So have I."