One Lavender Ribbon (2 page)

Allowing her to dream.

Lightning flashed outside, causing Adrienne to jump. The living room lit up in strobe light flashes, a giant camera snapping photographs of her holding a letter so intimate, she felt like an intruder in her own home. Adrienne pressed the faded page to her heart in an attempt to absorb all that it was. Her free hand reached to touch the rusted metal box that had likely been its home for more years than she’d been alive. Beyond the window, the storm continued its assault.

She drew the envelope closer in the lamplight. For the first time since she’d bought the rundown Victorian house, she was thankful for the quirky wiring. Without it, she’d have never found the letters.

But still, she added calling an electrician to her ever-growing list. She looked at the envelope more closely.

It had grayed over the long years, but the names and addresses were legible, the postmark unmistakable. Nineteen forty-four. That would have been World War II
.
When she read the address line, her breath caught. Her home, 722 Hidden Beach Road, and the names: To Grace Chandler from William Bryant.

The roar of the ocean momentarily grabbed her attention. She paused and listened to the angry sea as a barrage of palm fronds smacked the side of her house. Adrienne set the box down on the wooden coffee table and leaned back, melting into the couch.

How many times had she entered the attic and flipped the breaker, unaware of the delicate silver package hovering above in the rafters? If not for the spider and Adrienne’s ninja skills with the designated spider-broom, the box would still be up there, safely hidden from prying eyes, with an old-fashioned ink pen; a black-and-white photograph; and lastly, the stack of letters tied with a faded lavender ribbon.

Earlier in the night, Adrienne had almost given up on the on-again, off-again wiring and gone to bed, when the lights flickered, went off, and stayed off. But oil lamps made one brave, and the thought of waking at 3:00 a.m. to a house with its own set of imaginary ghosts and strange noises had forced her up the creaky attic stairs. Now she was glad she’d gone. Maybe she was finally getting used to the turn-of-the-century house. And being alone. She hadn’t thought about it until her first night in the creaky old Victorian, but she’d never
been
alone. Not ever. She’d gone from her folks’ house in Missouri to college with a roommate—four years of fun; and then to being married to Eric—almost six years of torture. But never alone. Until now.

Her neighbor Sammie had warned her about the violent Florida storms and recommended she purchase the lamp along with the candles and flashlights. Oh, she
did
have one friend: Sammie. But the two of them together could hardly be considered a party. There was also Ryan, the college guy who’d helped move in her belongings. They’d shared a few fun dinners and beach strolls, but Ryan wasn’t what she needed. Fun college boys might have appealed a few years back, but not now. Even if she did get some major remodeling done on the house, a party with her only two friends would be laced with more obstacles than the clearance section of the lumberyard. No party.

She reached for the oil lamp. The soft flame danced in flickering waves that grew taller as she turned the lever. Shadows snaked to the corners of her living room.
Her
living room. In the house she’d bought after a five-minute inspection. Really, when she thought about it, it was crazy. So she didn’t think about it. Messy divorces had a way of tweaking one’s common sense. Adrienne had spent the last few months tweaked.

But the house was growing on her. Sort of. It was becoming a home. That’s what she told herself. Well, one thing for sure: it looked a whole lot better now than it had when she’d flown down from Chicago and made an immediate offer—which had been accepted almost as fast.

Adrienne touched the edge of the ribbon. “Nice to meet you, Grace Chandler and William Bryant.”
Who were they, the faceless names in the letter? Grace had lived in this house. Sara must be her sister. Each had occupied one of these rooms.
She closed her eyes for a moment, listening for the past.
Did they live here long? Did William return from the war?
With the light brighter, she reached into the box and found the photograph. A handsome young man in a crisp Army uniform stood smiling, with a young girl at his side. Adrienne’s finger ran along the opposite side, which sported a jagged yellow edge. Someone had ripped that section off. She flipped the photo over. The date, 1942, adorned the back, but no names.

This
could
be William. What about the girl? She couldn’t be Grace. The girl in the pretty polka-dotted dress was just a child, years younger than the boy.

He was strikingly good-looking, with an eager grin that made Adrienne want to smile back. Eyes sharp and focused, he looked out at her from inside the picture. Poetry danced in those eyes, not unlike the poetry of the letter. Surely this must be William.

After extinguishing the oil lamp, Adrienne rose and carried the box to the kitchen table. The flashlight tucked beneath her arm fell across a local phone directory—the town was so small it still printed them—splattered with bits of sheetrock dust and spackle. Her fingers gently drummed the tabletop the way they always did when she was considering something ridiculous. William Bryant, WWII veteran, in the directory and still here after so many years? Not likely. Or Grace Chandler? No. It was an eternity ago, yet the words in the letter had come alive in her hands, the love seeming as fresh and new as it must have been when he wrote them.

She chewed her bottom lip. It was nearly raw from her chewing it during the day’s work of stripping the fireplace mantle. Since moving to Florida, she’d discovered a few things about herself. One, she was pitifully deficient when it came to renovating houses. And two, when she discovered she was pitifully deficient at something, she gnawed her lips to shreds. One glance at the envelope and her fingers were finding their way through the directory pages. B for Bryant.

Halfway down the page, William Bryant waited.

W
illiam Bryant—known to everyone as Pops—rubbed a hand over the fifty-year-old scar on his left leg. Humid mornings brought a stiffness he’d learned to live with but didn’t relish. He rose from the bed slowly, letting old bones and joints awaken as he moved to the window and peeled back the curtain. Lonely strands of light sought to illuminate the room, leaving hazy streaks across the space.

A few personal items and pictures sat here and there, but not quite enough to make it feel like home. He tried to keep the room tidy enough to please his grandson Will, yet cozy enough to please himself, but when he’d tripped on a stack of books in the middle of the night, Will’s desire for a safe, streamlined area overruled Pops’s affection for creature comforts.

The notion of a stroll encouraged a second glance out his window. Morning dew cloaked the backyard with a glistening splash of moisture. No walk to the pier this morning, he decided, tossing a look at the gray sky. With the sun’s inability to break through the clouds and burn off the dew, everything remained slick. He wasn’t afraid of a little moist grass, but Will worried about him, so he would honor his grandson’s wishes.

He didn’t despair over Will’s desire to protect him. Will had sacrificed much of his valued personal space to make room for his only living grandfather. The boy had even forfeited half the library where Pops’s treasured books waited for him, meticulously positioned and ready.

He let the curtain fall back in front of the window, bathing the room in quiet darkness. Weather-imprisoned and joints throbbing, he allowed himself the indulgence of self-pity. But sometimes pity, though she had an edge that could cut, was a welcome companion. After all, it was hard for a man like him to admit age was overtaking agility. Time was conquering dexterity.

He had few regrets. At age eighty-one, not too bad. He’d married a good woman. They’d had a beautiful son. And now he had Will. The memories were first rate. So he’d wake up every morning, open his eyes, and see what was in store for him. At this age, what more could he ask for?

One day, he would simply close his eyes and not open them. That’s how he envisioned it. Now Will, on the other hand, had a recurring nightmare where Pops took out the boat late at night and drowned. Will was a worrier. Not too much Pops could do or say to change that. “It’s just a dream,” Pops assured him. He’d even gone into his grandson’s room when he heard him thrashing about. Soothed his forehead, like he’d done a thousand times while Will was growing up. Pops understood nightmares. A man didn’t survive the second World War and return without knowing the power of bad dreams. But that wouldn’t be the end of life for Pops. No. He’d go to sleep and awaken on a fair morning in Glory. Where there wasn’t any arthritis, and there wasn’t any dew to threaten the path to the pier. Pops smiled.

Weathered fingers reached to the table lamp and fumbled with the switch. He slid his Bible closer, his thumb finding its way down the tattered leather edge.

He read, starting from where he’d stopped the previous morning, pulling the words deep into his soul. He closed the book and felt a quickening, an earnest expectation of something new, something fresh on the horizon.

“I’m not afraid to die.” Determination set his jaw as his gaze moved to the window. “But I’m also not afraid to live.” William rose, slipped on his shoes, and went downstairs to get the boat key. He was headed for the pier.

By morning, the storm had passed, and the silver box waited. Adrienne slept late, and the aching in her muscles confirmed overwork. Sanding an entire fireplace mantle that had fifty-plus years of layers of paint would do that to a body. She could count off the decades as she sanded. The yellow of the sixties, avocado green of the seventies, and then white. Layers and layers of white. But she’d almost completed the project. Just a few finishing touches remained. The desire for completion had fueled her for the better part of the day. Morning had turned to midday, and midday to dusk as she sanded and scraped like a maniac, shoving loose strands of hair from her eyes, blotting the sweat from her brow, barely stopping to take a break. Now she was wishing she’d used a little wisdom. Every muscle screamed. She needed a massage.

But the new home was finally becoming a warm replacement for the cold marriage she’d endured. Poetic justice. Her divorce settlement had purchased the house and would pay for restoring it while she figured out what she was going to do with the
rest
of her life. For now, the house would be her sole profession and her most appreciated companion. Its beautiful antebellum back porch stretching the length of the house, framed stunning views of the Gulf of Mexico. Gentle waves brushed toward her each morning as she sipped good coffee and contemplated the day’s project. But her body bore the abuse the renovation entailed. Adrienne needed to learn to ignore it. Today, she intended to ignore everything about the house. Not that she could pick up a hammer if she wanted to. She couldn’t—her muscle groups were all on strike. It wouldn’t matter anyway. Her attention had drifted elsewhere. She hurried downstairs, made coffee, and settled into a comfy chair to read. She placed the photograph beside her and dove into the letters.

August 1944

Dear Gracie,

I may be brief with this letter, but I promised to share with you all that I experience. War makes a man different. I’ve no other way to explain but that. Though this is a gray and dying world around me, there are tiny glimpses of vibrancy on the muted canvas. I live for those splashes of color and light. But I met death today. He stalks us even when we rest, giving no mercy. He knows no bounds. We sat in camp, some talking, others playing cards, awaiting word on our next mission. Runner—we call him that because his father makes moonshine in the South Carolina mountains—was relaxed at a table one moment, then collapsed the next. We’ve been trained in combat death, but not the kind that sneaks silently into the hallowed place of one’s daily order of life. This death touches me deeply because we had stayed up late into the night, talking about the ocean and fishing and life. His plans for return. And mine. I told him of you and Sara and deep-sea fishing on the Gulf. We joked that we would compare fish stories—him on the Atlantic and me on the Gulf. He’d decided to stop running moonshine. I told him that was good. And today he is gone. We’ve lost many. And more arrive to take their place, but that is the nature of war. And war is the nature of death. But death is not the nature of life. And yet, I am beginning to see that it is. Death is not an anomaly. Life—life is the anomaly. And what a glorious gift it is.