More Than Words Can Say (34 page)

After getting into her car, she started the engine and quietly departed Lake Evergreen for the last time in her life.

B
RANDON CLOSED THE
journal. Like she had done with the first telegram, Brooke had folded and pasted the second one into her old journal as well, and he had read directly from it. He then turned and looked at Chelsea. She was crying, and shaking slightly. Knowing that she needed to be held, he put his arms around her.

“My God . . . ,” Chelsea said, her voice quivering. “Do you think that Brooke actually tried to—”

“I don’t know,” Brandon quickly said.

Although he had purposely cut her off, this tone had been loving rather than harsh. As he looked into her eyes he saw her pain there, much the way Greg had seen the pain in Brooke’s eyes that night, here on this same couch, some sixty-odd years ago.

“People sometimes do strange things when they’re in shock,” he added softly. “But that doesn’t mean that she . . .” Sighing, he searched for the right words.

“There’s no point in trying to figure it out, my love,” he said. “All that will do is cause you more torment. And besides, is that really how you want to remember her?”

Chelsea dabbed at her eyes with a handkerchief. “No . . . ,” she answered quietly. “And like I said before, I will not judge Brooke. I wasn’t there, but in some ways I can feel what she was going through—her worry, her pain, her sense of shame over simply having loved someone. And then her guilt over having acted on it, out of such a sudden and overpowering sense of grief. But at least now some of our questions have been answered.”

“Such as . . . ?” Brandon asked.

“Well,” Chelsea said, “for one thing, I now know why she never returned here. As she said in her journal, the pain of seeing Greg again, coupled with her shame over having been with him, conspired to keep her away. And I now also know why she never sold this place, too.”

“Why?” Brandon asked.

“Don’t you see?” Chelsea answered. “Her journal and photos were still hidden here. If some new buyer happened to find them, they would in all likelihood return them to her. And because Brooke lived with my mother she couldn’t risk that, so she kept the cottage and willed it to me. But what I still don’t understand is why she wanted
me
to learn the story, rather than Lucy. Perhaps whatever Allistaire has to show us tomorrow will answer that.”

As Chelsea blankly gazed at the fire, she took another sip of wine. “It’s amazing, isn’t it?” she asked.

“What is?”

“That like my grandmother, I too would fall in love with the man in the neighboring cottage,” she answered quietly.

“Yes,” Brandon answered. “But this time, it will have a happier ending.”

At last, Chelsea smiled a little. “Promise?” she asked.

“Yes,” he answered. “I promise.”

But while Brandon thought some more about things, his expression darkened.
She still doesn’t fully understand,
he thought.
She is so immersed in Brooke’s feelings that she hasn’t realized the ramifications for herself. And I must be the one to tell her, because I’m the only other living person who knows the full story. . .

Brandon turned and looked into her eyes. “I’m sorry to say this, Chelsea,” he said. “But you either haven’t grasped it or you do in fact realize it and simply don’t wish to face things. Either way, I think we should talk about it.”

“What are you trying to say?” she asked.

“Well,” Brandon said, “the truth is, there’s a fifty-fifty chance that Gregory Butler was your grandfather, rather than Bill Bartlett.”

For several moments Chelsea simply sat there, speechless and unmoving. Then at last, she buried her face in her hands.

“My God,” she whispered. “You’re right. Why didn’t I see it sooner?”

Brandon smiled a little. “Your focus was on Brooke rather than on yourself. You loved your grandmother, and you always will. But given that she slept with Greg only four days after being with Bill, you’ll probably never know for sure. The real question, I think, is whether you can live with that.”

As Chelsea again reached for her wineglass, Brandon noticed that her hands were still shaking. After a time, she nodded.

“I think so . . . ,” she answered. “I never knew Bill Bartlett at all. But after reading Gram’s journal, I now feel that I know Greg Butler. Either way, it doesn’t change who I am.”

After thinking for a few more moments, Chelsea sighed. “But now,” she said, “all of this raises another equally difficult issue . . .”

“Which is?” Brandon asked.

Chelsea tiredly laid her head upon Brandon’s shoulder. “Just how much of this do I tell my mother, if indeed I ever do?” she asked. “She isn’t strong, like Brooke was. And she’s already had all the bad news she can handle.”

“Well,” Brandon answered, “that part of it is up to you. I don’t know Lucy, so it’s impossible for me to advise you about that. But maybe we could remedy that tomorrow, while we’re in Syracuse. I’d love to meet your parents, if I could.”

Just then, the idea that Chelsea had been thinking about resurfaced in her mind. She wanted to ask Brandon now, but was this the right time? As she sat there with his arms around her she felt safe and warm, despite the unsettling revelation about Brooke and Greg. But at the same time she didn’t want to push too hard and frighten him. Because that, she knew, would break her heart irreparably. And then another fear seized her heart.

If asking him does drive him away, would I then be in the same situation as Brooke those many years ago?
she wondered.
If Brandon stopped loving me, would I ever again feel right about returning to this wonderful place I’ve come to love so much?

Deciding that it was now or never, she sat up a bit and looked questioningly into his eyes.

At once, Brandon noticed the change in her.

“Is there something else?” he asked.

“Yes,” she said. “And it has taken some time for me to get up the courage to ask you. So please, Brandon, let me finish what I have to say before you answer.”

Brandon nodded. “All right,” he said simply.

Hoping against hope, Chelsea poured her heart out to him.

And as she did, Brandon listened patiently.

Chapter 32

A
t a little past noon on the next day, Allistaire Reynolds reached out and heartily shook Brandon’s hand. “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Dr. Yale,” he said. “Any friend of Chelsea’s is a friend of mine.”

Brandon smiled and sat down beside Chelsea. “I want to express my gratitude for everything you’ve done for Chelsea,” he said. “And please, call me Brandon.”

Allistaire smiled and leaned back in his chair. “Thank you,” he answered.

He then looked a bit more closely at Brandon, sizing him up.
So this is the man Chelsea met up at Lake Evergreen,
he thought.
Lucky fellow . . .

Allistaire then looked at Chelsea. “And how have you been, my dear?” he asked. “From what I can tell, it seems that the great outdoors agrees with you.”

Despite her nervousness, Chelsea tried to smile. “It does,” she said. “And much to my own surprise, I must admit.”

Now that the pleasantries were over, Allistaire’s lawyerly persona surfaced in full. Leaning forward, he placed his palms flat atop his desk.

“Please forgive me for asking this, Chelsea,” he said. “I mean no disrespect toward Brandon, but are you quite sure that you want him present today? I ask because even I do not know what is contained in the envelope that I am about to give to you. You are my only client in this affair, and I feel it right to make sure.”

Chelsea nodded. “I’m quite certain, Allistaire,” she answered. Then she turned and gave Brandon a little smile. “In fact,” she added, “there’s no one in the world I trust more.”

“All right, then,” Allistaire said. Then he looked at Brandon again. “No offense,” he said.

Brandon nodded. “None taken,” he answered. “As you just said, it’s your job.”

“I have a few questions first,” Allistaire said to Chelsea. “Are you still going to keep the cottage?”

“Yes, definitely,” she answered.

“Okay,” Allistaire said. “I’ll get to work on transferring ownership to you. And have you examined
everything
that your late grandmother wanted you to see?” he asked.

“As best I know,” she said.

“All right,” Allistaire answered. “But I must tell you that all of this is unusual, to say the least. Are you sure that you wouldn’t like to tell me what’s really going on?”

Chelsea shook her head. “No, Allistaire,” she answered. “One day, perhaps. But not now.”

“Very well, then,” Allistaire said.

He opened a desk drawer and produced a manila envelope. With shaking hands, Chelsea accepted it from Allistaire. Before opening it, she looked over at Brandon and he nodded.

Chelsea opened the envelope and found a smaller one inside, which was addressed to Chelsea in Brooke’s familiar handwriting. Chelsea opened the second envelope to find another letter from Brooke. It too had been written in her grandmother’s familiar black fountain ink. But this time, the aged handwriting was more difficult to read:

Thursday, February 22, 1994, 4:00
P.M
.

Dearest Chelsea,

Hello again, my child. I fully understand that this second letter comes as a shock, but it was necessary. I have written this to you and entrusted it to Allistaire’s care because now that you have been to Lake Evergreen and have read my journal, and seen the photographs and the telegrams, you know my story. And I also write this because as you will soon learn, I have two further wishes to ask of you.

I sense that my time left on this earth is growing short, and so I wanted to write this letter now, to ensure that it is placed into Allistaire’s safekeeping before something irreversible happens to me. As I write this I am sitting in my wheelchair, on the sunporch of your mother’s house. It is a lovely winter’s day with crisp, white snow on the ground and crystalline icicles hanging from the eves. As much as I like being here, I cannot help but wish that I could see my beloved cabin just one more time . . .

By now, many of your questions have been answered. But there are some things that you still do not know. As the journal says, for sentimental reasons I did indeed pick two coneflowers from Greg’s garden on the morning that I left Lake Evergreen. But on the way home I realized that I could not keep them, for the same reasons that I could not bring with me the journal or the photographs. And so I stopped at a friend’s place and I left them on her steps, pressed inside the book that Greg gave to me that day atop Red Rock Mountain. My friend’s name was Emily Rousseau, and she still owns and runs a small Serendipity restaurant called the Blue Rooster. Should you decide to keep the cottage, you may wish to visit her one day.

You now also know why I left the cabin so suddenly and why I never returned. Nor could I sell it, because the new owners might have discovered the tin box that I had hidden and what lay inside it. I willed the cottage to you, rather than to your mother, because of the two of you, Lucy is the far more fragile, brittle, and unforgiving one. Because she never expressed any interest in the cottage, had I willed it to her, she would have likely sold it. And as I have said, I couldn’t allow that to happen. And so, my child, I made it yours. I cannot know whether you have decided to sell it or to keep it, or whether your visit there has granted you any additional happiness. Either way, I hope that you will keep the cottage. But should you choose to sell, in this too you have my blessing.

You are probably now also aware of why I took up painting after I left Lake Evergreen for good. If you assume that it was a way of staying “close” to Greg, then you are right. At first I thought that I would simply try it and soon find that I had no talent for it. But to my surprise, I was wrong. And although my humble paintings will never make their mark on the world of art history, I nonetheless enjoyed creating them. But perhaps the very best thing that came out of my growing passion for painting was that you came to love doing it too, and because of that we were able to spend so many happy hours together, as I taught you. I also like to think that Greg’s unfinished portrait of me still rests atop the fireplace mantel, rather than your having disposed of it in anger. But if the latter is true, then please know that I understand.

As for the journal, the photos, and the two telegrams, they too are yours to do with as you wish. And should you choose to tell my story to Lucy, you also have my blessing. I know that deciding whether to tell her will be a great quandary for you, and for that I am truly sorry. I cannot offer any advice in that regard, save to say that should you do so, it must be done in the gentlest possible way.

And now for the greatest of all the questions, the one that I’m sure you have already imagined but to which you have no answer. The simple truth is that I cannot tell you which of the two men I loved that summer was your grandfather. Because of the short period of time in between, I learned I was pregnant only after being with both of them. For my own selfish reasons, I always chose to believe that Bill was that man. But the truth of it is that I had never had any right to do so, and I suppose I chose that way of thinking only to ameliorate my guilt over what happened between Greg and me . . . What I did was wrong, I know, and I hope that you can forgive me.

And that, my child, is how I want to go to my final rest. Yes, I loved two men at once, but as I said in my journal, I am still unsure whether a woman can do that without going mad. And oddly enough, knowing which of them fathered Lucy might have perhaps confounded me even more. In the farewell letter I wrote to Greg, I asked that he never try to contact me. And although I can only guess at how much it must have hurt him to grant my wish, he complied, just the same.

In closing, I would make two more requests of you, one of which is conditional upon the other, but neither of which you are obligated to carry out. The first one is I hope you can find it in your heart to forgive me. I know that doing so will be difficult, and that is why I wanted you to read the journal and to see the photographs, rather than simply read another letter from me that told the same story. I hope that you were able to live my story through my words, to feel what I was going through, and to understand that—wrong as it might have been—I did in fact love them both. I realize that I have in some ways left you in limbo, and for that I am truly sorry.