The Letter - Chapter 3

I heard the water start to boil and pulled the jar full of assorted tea bags from the shelf above the kitchen table.  Earl Grey seems somehow appropriate, I thought as I poured the hot water into the mug containing the tea bag.  When the tea was ready, I added sugar and a dollop of milk.  I sat down at the kitchen table and picked up the letter.

Dear George,

You may be surprised to be hearing from me after all these years.  In fact, you may be surprised to be hearing from me at all.  Though we graduated from high school together, I don’t believe we ever spoke more than a word or two with one another the entire time we were there.  We were only in one class together our sophomore year - English with Mr. Bennett.  So you are probably wondering why I decided to write this letter to you now.

The phone rang.  I considered ignoring it, as I walked over to check the number on the caller I.D.  It was my brother.  I waited for the answering machine to pick up the call.

“George.  I hope you‘re there.  Please pick up.  I’ve got sort of an emergency . . ..”

“Hello,” I said picking up the receiver.  “Bob, what’s up?”

“George, hello.  Thanks for picking up.  Hey, my car conked out.  I’m out here on Route 88.  I called triple A, but they told me it’s likely to be two hours before they can get a tow truck out to me.  They said they’d give me, like, a fifteen minute warning before the tow truck gets here.  Is there any way, you could come out and get me?  Maybe we can go someplace to get a coffee while I’m waiting.  It’s cold as hell out here, and you can’t be more than twenty minutes or so from where I’m stranded.  What do you say, brother?  Can you help me out?”

I hesitated for a second, but knew I had no choice.  “Sure, Bob.  I’ll be right there.  Now where exactly are you?”

“Out on 88.  I’m about a mile from that little shopping center where there’s a coffee shop.  Uh, what’s the name of the place?  It’s not a Starbucks.  It’s an independent.” 

“The Mug and Kettle?”

“Yeah, that’s it.”

“As I recall, they have great coffee and they make their own pastries.  Soup too.  You’re a mile on what side of the shopping center?” I asked.

“Towards your place.  You sure I’m not interrupting anything?”

“No.  Nothing important.”

“George, I really appreciate this.”

“Not a  problem, Bob.  See you soon.”  

I grabbed my coat and hat but had some trouble finding my keys.  I raced from room to room searching until I spotted them on the floor beneath the front table.  They must have fallen when I tossed them there last evening.  I picked up the keys and noticed that the book I’d been reading was on the coffee table.  I grabbed it and headed out the door.  This could be a long wait. 

The Letter - Chapter 2

I poured boiling water into my favorite porcelain cup – the one with the violets.  A dark brown color emanated from the tea strainer and began to diffuse throughout the clear, hot liquid.  Steam rose, and I inhaled the distinctive aroma of bergamot.  God, I love that scent!  Why don’t I brew Earl Grey more often?  It seemed particularly fitting on this day as I watched a bone chilling rain fall outside my kitchen window.

The doorbell rang. I clutched my bulky cardigan closer as I walked from the kitchen toward the front door.  I felt a twinge of something – regret, perhaps – as I walked past my desk and saw my red pen sitting on top of the packet of lavender stationery.  I looked out the window at the top of my front door to see who had disturbed my solitude.

“Beverly!” I exclaimed, opening the door.  My neighbor and dearest friend.  I would have been annoyed if just about anyone else in the world had been standing on my front porch at that moment.  But not her.  Beverly handed me a small box and turned around to give her umbrella a few good flaps before setting it on the porch floor to dry. 

“What brings you out on a day like this?” I said.  “Please come in.  I was just about to have a cup of tea.  May I make one for you?  And what’s in this box?”

“Lady locks.  A treat to lift your spirits.  And mine too,” Beverly chuckled.  “I bought two of them and hoped you might share one with your favorite neighbor.”

“You hoped I might share one with Mrs. Mulligan?” I teased.  We both laughed.  Mrs. Mulligan is the crabbiest woman in our neighborhood. 

“But seriously,” Beverly continued, “I noticed that you seemed really down . . .and a little distracted when I saw you at the grocery.  Is it Jim?”  Beverly followed me into the kitchen.  “Is that Earl Grey?  I’d love a cup of that.”

I removed the tea strainer from my cup, shook out the spent leaves, rinsed it and refilled it with fresh tea leaves from my purple, tin canister.  I pulled a tea cup from the shelf and put the tea strainer in.  The water in the kettle was still hot.  I sighed as I poured it in.

“No, it’s not Jim,” I said, reflecting on my late husband. 

“Are you sure?  I still get depressed when I think of Jerry, and it’s been ten years since he passed.  You may recall that Jerry retired early so we could enjoy our so-called golden years together.  Two months later, the bastard died on me.  Fifty-eight years old.  I’m never sure whether to be sad or angry when I think of him.  And for you, it’s been what, two years?”

“Nearly two.  No, it makes me sad when I think about it, but I was upset when you saw me at the store because I was thinking about something I did that was so incredibly stupid.”

“Ellie, honey, you are one of the brightest, most level-headed women I’ve ever met.  What could you have done that was so bad?”  Beverly lowered her voice to a whisper.  “Are you having an affair?”

I burst out laughing.  “Beverly, you slay me.  An affair?  I should be so lucky at my age.”

“Your age?”  You’re what – late fifties or early sixties?  You’re a spring chicken.  You’re still young enough to sow some wild oats.  Jim wouldn’t mind.  Those vows were ‘till death do us part.’  He’s dead – game over.  I’m sixty-eight, and I wouldn’t turn away opportunity if he came knocking at my door.  That’s what I say.”

“I say, sit down.  Your tea is ready, and I can’t wait any longer to bite into one of those lady locks.  And then I’ll tell you about the letter I wrote that was probably a huge mistake,” I said, sitting down at the kitchen table.

 

“OK, give me a lady lock, lady,” Beverly grinned and sat down across from me.  “I am all ears.”