A Love for Rebecca (25 page)

THE LETTER

Isle of Skye

December 2, 2006

Rory stopped the car in front of old Craig MacLeod’s house and looked at the scene with a sense of nostalgia. He’d spent a couple of summers here on Skye after Kenzie went to live with his grandfather. They were the best summers of his childhood. Grandfather MacLeod paid hardly any attention to their running around, and the two boys were free to roam the island at will. He remembered every one of their expeditions. He used to like imagining they were lost on an uninhabited island like Jules Verne’s mysterious Lincoln Island, where they performed mysterious and dangerous exploits. Those were good times, as Rory remembered them.

At the time, Rory hadn’t yet figured out his friend’s family troubles. Like most young boys, he was only thinking about looking for outdoor adventures. Now that he considered it, Kenzie hadn’t seemed all that worried then either. It was true that Kenzie had become a little more reserved, and his relationship with his grandfather was always a little tense, but that was all. They never talked about it. Rory wasn’t brave enough to ask, and he was sure Kenzie wouldn’t want to talk about it, so they just had fun together. He remembered little Sophie jumping around them, lobbying mightily to be taken along on their adventures, but Grandfather MacLeod had stood firm and never let her go along.

It had rained the whole drive from Edinburgh, which wasn’t unusual for this time of year. It was a long drive, and he had been putting it off. Two months had already passed since Rebecca’s wedding, and each time he thought about the letter, his conscience bothered him. He knew he should have already delivered it, but whether because of work or fear that the letter wouldn’t do his friend any good, he had kept putting it off.

Rory saw Kenzie’s truck parked under a makeshift wooden garage that protected the vehicle from the wind and rain. Smoke was rising from the chimney.

The icy breeze scoured his cheeks as soon as he got out of the car. He covered his head with a wool hat and anxiously approached the door, knowing what he brought would disturb the relative peace Kenzie had come to the island in search of.

He knocked and waited. Then he heard noise coming from behind the house. He headed around to the back, rain in his face. The shed was open. Kenzie was inside, his back to the door, piling split wood against the walls.

“Hello, mate.”

Kenzie whirled around in surprise. “What are you doing here?”

“I was passing by the island
 . . .
”

“Breugach
 . . .
”

Rory didn’t speak Gaelic, but he’d learned his friend’s expressions when he was little. “I’m not lying.”

“Did my father call you again?”

“No, it’s not that.”

Kenzie wiped the sweat from his brow. He had just finished splitting all the wood and was stacking it along one wall of the shed. “Has something happened?” he asked, alarmed.

“No, nothing like that,” Rory said. “I’ve just brought you something.”

“Good,” he said. “Tea?”

“Thanks. I could use a cup.”

In the house, Kenzie threw a couple of logs on the fire and put the kettle on. As they waited for the water to boil, they recalled their old adventures on the island, laughing and longing for those carefree times when they had no responsibilities and no one controlled their comings and goings.

They sat next to the fire with their steaming tea, and without preamble, Rory took the letter out of his jacket. Handing it to Kenzie, he saw his friend’s puzzled look.

“What is it?”

“A letter. Rebecca gave it to me on the day of her wedding.”

Kenzie’s jaw tightened. He clenched and stiffened. “I’m not going to read it,” he said, getting up to stir the fire.

“I promised to give it to you
 . . .
”

“Well, you’ve done that, and I don’t want it. You can tear it up or take it back to her, whatever you want.”

Rory didn’t push it. He knew Kenzie wouldn’t change his mind, and he didn’t want to get into an argument. They finished their tea in silence. Then, over a lunch of bread, cheese, and fruit, they talked about the weather, the work Kenzie had done on the house, and other inconsequentialities.

Kenzie went out with Rory to say good-bye. The rain had stopped, but the wind was constant, as it always was on Skye. While he watched the car disappear in the distance, Kenzie’s thoughts turned to the letter. Why would Rebecca write now? What could she have to say? Over the last several weeks, his anguish had eased. In spite of the painful memories, the island had gradually worked its magic on him and afforded him the perspective he needed to climb out of the black hole of resentment and rage that had threatened to destroy him.

He couldn’t hate Rebecca; he had loved her too much. But reading the letter meant returning to the heart-wrenching pain of his loss. Bad enough that it revisited him every night as he waited for sleep.

He was right to refuse the letter, even as his heart had jumped in his chest when he heard her name. He hated that his emotions could rise up, unbidden, like that. In his heart, he had wanted to tear the letter from Rory’s hand, to feel her closeness, if only through words on a page. But he hadn’t, and he started to think that refusing the letter might prove to be a greater torture than reading it would have.

Too late for that,
he said to himself, and went back in the house, cursing his pride. He washed the teacups and lunch dishes and was putting them back in the cupboard when he found the envelope, propped on a vase. Rebecca had written his name on the front.
He reached for it, grateful his good friend had not respected his wishes. Taking a seat next to the fire, he took it out and began to read.

My Dearest Kenzie,

There are so many things I want to tell you, I don’t know where to start. I’ve been awake all night, trying to find some words to soothe your heart and ease my guilt.

In a few hours I will marry Mario, and my spirit rebels at betraying you. The promise we made that night still lives in me, echoed by every beat of my heart. The thing I want above all else is to be with you. Sadly, I have come to understand that we are not masters of our own destinies. We might be if no one else mattered to us, but then I would be a different person than the one you knew, and you may not have fallen in love with me.

In choosing to marry Mario I am making a wrenching sacrifice. I am giving up the man I desire above all others. My love, I want you to know I love you with all my heart, and the days I spent by your side were the happiest of my life. I long to look into your eyes again, to hear you whisper my name, to taste your lips.

I will think of you every day until old age steals my memories. I will remember your voice, your laugh, your kisses, and the warmth of your embrace. The memory of you and of our time together hurts as if a thousand needles were piercing my heart, but I choose to remember our every moment rather than live in a vacuum with no emotions. Please believe me when I say that I never wanted to hurt you, that my pledge of undying love came from the bottom of my heart. From my very soul.

I pray you can forgive me and start a new life with someone who deserves you. I will not deny the terrible jealousy that torments me when I imagine you embracing a body that is not mine. That jealousy eats at my insides like a poison. But I cannot be so selfish. More than anything else, I want you to be happy.

There are so many emotions imprisoned in my heart. You will always be part of me. You are an amazing man who brought out the most profound emotions in me, a depth of feeling I didn’t know I was capable of. My life is forever fuller thanks to what I experienced with you.

No matter what the future holds for me, you will always be the love of my life, a love I must relinquish but will hold in my heart forever.

Rebecca

Tears were running down Kenzie’s face as he finished reading the letter. Hoping to get ahold of himself, he poured a glass of whisky and sipped it as he stared into the fire. He read the letter again, slowly, imagining Rebecca holding the pen and the enormous effort it must have taken her to write it the night before her wedding. Then, abruptly, he crumpled it and threw it in the fire. He had considered holding on to it, saving her heartrending testimonial to their love. But he knew if he did so he would read it every day, and he didn’t want to be a slave to the past. His love meant nothing if he couldn’t have her.

The fire consumed Rebecca’s words but not his pain—it would remain with him always. Just as it had for his father before him. The thought infuriated him, and he hurled the glass of whisky into the fire. Flames flared and died.

2007

There is a time to love

2008

A time to live

2009

A time to dream

2010

There is a time to forget

2011

And a time to rise up again

THE END OF THE LINE

Barcelona

July 12, 2012

Rebecca ran her hand over the mirror’s foggy surface. It cleared to reveal a figure amid steamy vapors of hot water. Through the haze, she could see the outline of hands touching her shoulders lightly, familiarly, lovingly. It was a fantasy so devoutly and frequently longed for that it conjured its own mirage. He reached her each night, through the ether, with light-as-air caresses on the surface of her skin
 . . .
his touch, his tender, adoring touch
 . . .
precious moments that were hers alone.

She tightened the towel around her body, put her hair up, and began rubbing a nourishing night cream into her skin. She took her time; there was no hurry. There never was. She usually delayed bedtime this way, hoping Mario would be asleep when she slipped between the sheets.

Each night she went through the same ritual, and each night the cold reflection looking back at her in the mirror haunted her with its unfamiliarity, as if someone else were inhabiting her body.

She let her hair down and began brushing it. The words he had spoken when they parted, long ago now, reverberated in her head: “I’ll hold you in my dreams until you come back to me.”

She lingered over the memory of his sweet, deep voice like a Celtic lullaby. That voice had possessed her—possessed her heart and soul and body—on the Night of the Fireflies, as she had named it, a long-ago night that time could not erase.

She completed her nightly ritual and looked at her watch; it was almost one. She put on her white satin and lace nightgown and emerged from the bathroom. Before going to bed, she went to her daughter’s bedroom and knelt beside her. A night-light by the headboard illuminated the sleeping child. She caressed her little one’s brown hair, and a faint smile came to her daughter’s lips as she slept.

Rebecca retraced her steps to the bedroom. Mario’s breathing told her he was sleeping. Noiselessly, she slipped between the sheets, a protective aura already covering her. She caressed the silver band on her finger and soon took refuge in faraway dreams, in a land of rain and wind and spectacular clouds.

“Look, Mama,” little Sofía said, showing her mother some starfish shapes she’d made in the sand.

“They’re beautiful, darling. Why don’t you try an octopus?”

“Their squiggly arms always break off.”

Rebecca watched as Inés returned, dripping wet and wringing out her hair. Her kid sister’s body reminded Rebecca of hers when she was that age, although Inés was a little taller. At thirteen, she already had the figure of a woman, but she still had the face of a child.

“The water’s great,” Inés said as she lay down on her towel. “Do you want to go in? I’ll stay with the munchkin.”

“I don’t feel like it now, unless Sofi wants to.”

Sofi shook her head without looking up from her work. She was trying very carefully to lift the octopus-shaped mold that she’d just turned over onto the sand. “It broke again!” she complained.

“The sand has to be wetter,” Inés advised. “This sand is almost dry; that’s why it won’t stick.” The two of them set to work on it.

Rebecca heard her phone vibrating inside her beach bag. She looked at the caller ID and saw that it was Lola. It had been ages since they’d talked—since last Christmas, if she remembered correctly. “How are you, Lola?”

As she talked with her friend, Inés dug into the sand to get some wet enough that it wouldn’t break apart when they turned the molds over. Sofi watched her closely and copied everything she did.

“See?” Inés said. “It’s perfect.”

“Yay!” Sofi exclaimed, clapping. “Now me.”

Her aunt left her to it and lay in the sun.

After hanging up, Rebecca said, “Lola and Rory are coming to Barcelona.”

“How long since you’ve seen her?”

“A year, since her mother moved to Madrid. There’s nothing left for her in Barcelona.”

“She’s got a friend here. That’s something.”

Rebecca smiled faintly. “It would be perfect if Berta could come too. Valencia isn’t that far. But I’m sure she has her hands full with the twins.”

“Yeah, what a pain to have two kids at once,” Inés said. “I don’t think I’m ever having kids.”

“You’ll change your mind someday, Inés.”

“Do you have money for ice cream?”

“Of course.”

“Sofi and I are going to get some. Right, munchkin?”

“Ice cream!” the little girl shouted. She put on her pink Crocs.

When Rebecca was alone, she stared at the water, at the mesmerizing rhythm of the waves. She thought about Inés and what her future would be like. Inés had a mind of her own, and she had been causing headaches for their mother since about the age of ten.

Rebecca wished she’d been more like her sister, but over time she’d come to understand that everyone was different, and it wasn’t worth wishing you were someone else. Over the last few years, Rebecca had increasingly felt as if the world were moving on a different course than she was, as if she could view the Earth from another planet and see other people’s lives speed by while hers was stuck in time. Some people tried to preserve the past; others let go of it. She held on to it so tightly that she thought she might get trapped in a parallel dimension where the lines would never cross.

Sofi’s birth had lessened the feeling. She had often wondered what might have become of her without Sofia. Her daughter’s company kept her feet on the ground, even if it was only on tiptoe.

Rebecca couldn’t have imagined a better name for her. She had named her daughter Sofía in honor of her distant redheaded friend, Kenzie’s lovely sister. She had so much to thank Sophie for. If she hadn’t met her that summer, she would never have experienced true love.

Rebecca laughed at herself. She spent so much time in the past, her memories had a life of their own. To be honest, her marriage to Mario hadn’t been the hell she’d expected. There had even been a time when she thought she might love him. But she could never sustain the feeling for long and attributed it to a trick her subconscious used to alleviate the void she felt at her core.

She decided to cool off in the water and swam out to an unoccupied area where she floated on her back. She loved the sense of weightless freedom the water provided, how it gently rocked her body and soothed her troubled spirit. She closed her eyes. Christmas three years ago came to mind, when Lola—spurred on by a couple of bottles of Spanish
cava
—told them in fits and starts that Kenzie had gotten married. She remembered every one of the feelings the news had produced in her. And although she had no right to be hurt, she was devastated. She knew then that she had lost him forever. Perhaps she’d clung to hope before that, thinking fate might yet reunite them. That cherished hope had made her days more manageable.

For a year she tried to imagine what the woman who’d managed to win Kenzie’s love was like. She obsessed about it more than she admitted even to herself, picturing one type of woman after another. By the following Christmas, she was determined to satisfy her curiosity. She had begged Lola, saying that if she was truly still her friend, she would tell Rebecca what Kenzie’s wife was like. Not knowing was eating her up and wouldn’t allow her to heal. Lola resisted at first, telling her it would only make matters worse. Rebecca insisted to the point that Lola relented. But Lola didn’t describe her; she didn’t need to. She merely said her name.

“He married Mary.” She said it softly, knowing the impact her words would have.

And she was right. The revelation stunned Rebecca. She called Lola a liar, said it couldn’t be true, that Kenzie would never have married her. Lola was wrong! It had to be someone who only looked like Mary.

Acceptance came slowly. But far from healing her wound, it opened it again, and a deep sense of dejection began to fester, leading her to the very edge of a serious depression. She hardly slept at night, and during the day she looked like a sleepwalker. Only Sofi appeased her anguish. At Rebecca’s school, they suggested she take a leave of absence. Instead, Rebecca threw herself into her work, knowing inactivity would unmoor her even more. She had to remind herself that her infant child depended on her emotional stability; she couldn’t allow herself to be carried away by melancholy.

Six years earlier, just before that fateful trip to Scotland, she had imagined forming a life with Mario. They would have two or three children, and she would be a faithful and understanding wife who enjoyed caring for her family. They would live in a good neighborhood, and she would have a job as a teacher. It was all perfect, neatly packaged and tied with a pretty bow. Perfect, until her path crossed Kenzie MacLeod’s and she saw that her girlish notions of a life with Mario were just that.

Rebecca noticed a school of fish swimming past her. She stretched out a hand to touch them. They darted out of reach and continued on their way.
I wish I could keep moving forward like they do,
she thought. But where to? She didn’t see the path before her, and her destination was unclear. She’d taken a detour on the back roads of the Scottish Highlands and lost her way among clouds and moors, good whisky and Celtic music. And a love like nothing she had ever known. She had touched the dream—then seen it slip through her fingers.

That same afternoon, an unprecedented meeting took place in the offices of Caralt & Bassols. Mario came home late, and Rebecca was getting ready for bed when he came in. She was used to his mood swings when it came to work, so she didn’t ask him anything. Their lives ran on separate tracks; their only topics of conversation were household matters and Sofía.

She saw him loosen his tie and undo the buttons of his shirt. It had been some time since she’d looked at him in any detail. He was about to turn forty, and his hair was thinning, his belly expanding. He was turning into his father, but without the latter’s distinguished looks.

Something different in him prompted her to ask if anything was wrong.

“Your father threatened to leave the firm if Enric isn’t made partner,” he said as he yanked off his shoes.

“Did you think he would be an associate his whole life?”

“His image isn’t good for the firm.”

“Don’t be so high and mighty. No one cares about a lawyer’s sexual orientation.”

“Clients from the Persian Gulf do.”

“Don’t be so dramatic, Mario. I know you finished your business with the men from Qatar a long time ago. Enric has just as much right to be made partner as you did. And honestly, he’s put up with it far too long.”

“There are new negotiations in the works.”

“You’ve been working on those negotiations for four years and haven’t gotten anywhere.”

“I will close the deal, as long as I don’t have a fag for a partner. They won’t trust a homo.”

She glared at him with disgust. He held her gaze for a moment before shutting himself in the bathroom to shower.

The next day Rebecca went to her parents’ house for lunch. Mario wasn’t there, but everyone else was, including Pablo. Five years ago Enric had gotten up the courage to introduce Pablo to his mother. Elvira had been so stiff and standoffish that Enric had to beg Pablo to come back. In time, the relationship grew less strained, although she hardly spoke to Pablo beyond an insincere greeting. It was plainly understood that Elvira Brañanova would rather her son be alone than accompanied by another man.