Yearning (33 page)

When the work of the day was done – the dishes draining on the sink, the kids’ clothes in the laundry, the toys tidied away – she brewed a pot of tea and sat down at the kitchen table with the heavy cream missive in her hand. The weightless voice of Joni Mitchell filtered in from the lounge. Steam curled from the teapot spout. She listened to the satisfying gurgle and splash as she poured it into her favourite mug – a relic from her childhood with a faded cartoon of Snow White on its side.

She eyed the envelope suspiciously as she sipped her tea. It was thick with potential, and yet her better judgement told her it was unlikely to contain anything she wanted to hear. Solomon had always avoided sharing his true feelings – if he had any. It was probably a pathetic rant about how sorry he was. She screwed up her face. No. Solomon said sorry the night he left. It was more likely to be a justification of why he left, a guilty philosophical ramble explaining the necessity of leaving. High ideals. That was Solomon. A free spirit advocating unconditional love and individual responsibility. She shook her head. A deluded hippy unconcerned for other people’s feelings, more like it.

She flipped the envelope over and over in her hands, almost too afraid to open it. As she contemplated it she realised no matter what was inside, it didn’t matter anymore. She knew what she wanted. Her letter saying so was already on its way to him. She couldn’t call it back now – no matter what was within this envelope, no matter what Solomon had to say.

Writing to him had been a cathartic experience – a
hard, tearful, fist-shaking thing to do – but she’d done it. It had taken her several days to craft, but when it was finally finished she took in the first uncluttered breath she’d breathed in years. Her head was swimming with lightness and freedom as she reread it, making sure she’d gotten everything down, that it was all out of her. Then she’d stuffed it into the envelope, addressed it and posted it quickly, before she changed her mind.

She sighed. Better get it over with. She tore the envelope open. Three sheets of thick paper fell to the table. Solomon’s characteristic curls and flourishes covered the pages. Memory stirred within her, a flash of a much younger Solomon sitting seriously at his desk writing, as she watched him through binoculars from her bedroom window. How far away that version of Solomon, and that young girl, seemed now.

She smoothed out the letter in front of her and began to read.

‘Babe . . . ’

She grumbled. Why did always call her that? She had a name. She wasn’t sixteen anymore.

This is not an easy letter to write. I’ve spent a lot of time trying to figure out how to begin, but every beginning misses the heart of what I want to say to you. The truth is, what I want to say, what I need to say, has been buried within me so long I’m not sure I can find words for it anymore.

It was then she knew. She kept reading, but she didn’t need to. She’d already guessed where the letter was going.
Solomon had discovered he could love, did love, needed love, even wanted love. He’d realised that it might even be worth suffering the challenges of long-term commitment to have love. As she read, she thought about her letter, snuggled into a postal bag on some truck, already on its way to him. She laughed softly to herself and shook her head. To think that Solomon had always thought it was he who was teaching her, when all along it had been the other way around.

*

A few days later, Solomon collected his mail from his post box and found a pink, scented envelope. Her trademark. He was surprised to feel his heart skip a beat and he smiled, pleased she’d responded so quickly. He’d expected that, though. She’d waited a long time for him.

Clutching the letter he walked to his favourite café. He relished what he expected to find when he opened it. He was hoping for a little taste of the past, a handful of her deliciously erotic words to stir him. He sat down, ordered a latte and eagerly tore open the envelope, not wanting to wait until his coffee arrived.

Dear Solomon,

Thanks for your postcard. I didn’t expect to hear from you again, but I was glad to, because there are some things I need to say to you, and knowing where you are has made it possible for me to say them.

In the time since you left I’ve separated from Max and given birth to my gorgeous baby girl, Poppy. The separation has been difficult, but worthwhile. Max and I need
some breathing space while we sort ourselves out.

Max disappeared for a while after he found out about us. When he resurfaced he was a changed man. All the fury has gone out of him. He tells me he’s genuinely sorry for what has gone on between us in the past and is doing everything he can to make up for it. He still wants to get back together, wants to stay married to me, to be a father to our children. He keeps arguing that in the long run, staying together will best for all of us. But I’m not so sure our marriage is salvageable from the vast mess we’ve made of it. I’m not even sure I want to be married anymore. To anyone.

Being married has always been difficult for me because of you. I’m always trying to forget you, to erase you from my memory, to stop comparing Max to you. At first I thought marriage and motherhood might rid me of you, but you have remained stuck in my head, in spite of my best efforts to exorcise you. Our early affair, Solomon, has blackened and burned me and the scars have never disappeared.

I was so young at the time, Solomon, too young to be in love with a man like you. Too young to comprehend what it would mean to let you in the way I did. It was more than our lovemaking that affected me. It was the way you were with me, the way you treated me. You made me feel like I was worth something, you made me feel real and special. With you I was no longer a silly kid, I was a woman with my own needs and ambitions.

I have to thank you for dragging me out of my small-town perspective and giving me faith and hope that my life could be something more. You made me see beyond the
narrow expectations of my parents. You taught me to seek out a destiny, to look for opportunity in coincidence. You found me when I didn’t even know I was lost. You found me among the dull humdrum of my life and connected me to my potential, to my Self. You gave me hope and, for a brief moment, I actually believed in myself.

I’ve never felt as alive as I did when I was with you. When we made love I was filled with light, sparks in my fingertips, the sun in my eyes. You made a goddess of me, before I even understood what divinity was. You opened the doors to pleasure and taught me ecstasy and intimacy. You lifted me up. You shaped and moulded me. You took everything I had to offer and swallowed it all till I had almost nothing left to give.

I loved you because I felt loved by you. I was your cherished secret. I felt special because you chose me. You were my everything – my guru, my mentor, my lover. No wonder I made a god of you, Solomon. I made you a jewelled and gracious king of men; magnificent, wise, and compassionate. Yet beneath this brilliant creature I made of you lay a human heart, as frail and unreliable as my own.

You believe in unconditional love, personal responsibility and sexual freedom, yet you trip over those values on your way to living them out. You say you respect your lovers by not lying to them about what you want, yet you deny the very thing that draws you to them in the first place. The hope for something more.

Like all of us, Solomon, you have made many mistakes, but you don’t bother to seek forgiveness or redemption for them. You walk away from them guilt- and obligation-free,
thanks to your ‘no strings attached’ mantra. This is the real person who lives inside that terracotta and gold god I have made of you. You kid yourself. You stifle all the unspoken and unrealised hopes of your buried and empty heart. You refuse to give the gift of love to yourself, Solomon, and you are lesser for it.

I realise now that you had no idea of the effect you had on me. You were blind to me. You only saw what you wanted from me – innocence and openness, a virgin to play with – and nothing more.

I, on the other hand, have spent my whole life looking for what we had together, something that would touch me, a love that would fill me to brimming and set me dancing with angels. When you came to me that last awful night after Max discovered us, I thought it would be our moment of truth. And it was. If there was ever a chance for us that was it and you let it slide by without a hint of protest or courage. It was then I understood the truth of us, of you. I had no idea how lonely I was, believing in us as I did. You never joined me there. You kept yourself distant, protected, contained.

I’ve wasted too many years longing for you. I’ve squandered hours thinking about you, wondering where you are and praying for divine intervention to bring us together. I fantasised endlessly that you would one day come for me and, like a fairytale prince, declare your love and rescue me from my half-lived life.

Stupid isn’t it?

How naive I’ve been. My longing for you is nothing but childish yearnings for a Prince Charming. Blindly I’ve tried to make you fit into that shape without realising who
you really are. The mournful truth is that you are a shell harbouring an untouched heart that has never bothered to love. You are too lazy, or fearful, or arrogant to allow yourself to love, Solomon. It makes me feel sorry for you. In spite of all your bright passion for life – all the beauty you have to offer – you remain unmoved. In reaching for pearls, all you have caught in your hand is pigswill.

Finally, after all this sorry business between us, I understand that I’ve mistaken us for something divine. I thought we were blessed. We are not. I am not an angel and you are not a god. I thought you could make me complete. It’s taken me half my life to understand that I’m already complete. I don’t need a man in my life to make my life worth living. My life is worth living because it’s mine, because I count, because I can be myself without constantly needing someone else to prop me up and rescue me.

No more, my sweet Solomon. This is the end. Your memory has torn at me my whole adult life and it’s time for me to say no to this. I’m handing this Holy Grail, brimming with my love for you, back to God, returning it to its rightful place. I see now that it has no place in my life because it isn’t real. It’s a fantasy, a graceful and beautiful fantasy not meant for real life.

I forgive you for taking advantage of my naivety and thoughtlessly stealing my heart and strength for so many years. I also forgive myself for being so deluded about you.

So it seems appropriate that as our relationship started with my letters, so it should end with one.

Know that I will remember you always, hopefully with more fondness than regret, and on windy nights when
the yearning stirs within me, I’ll look to the stars, to the heavenly resting place of the true gods, and remember with gratitude the glorious spirit that manifested itself through you and me. I’ll whisper your name, just once – Solomon – and bid you farewell.

Your kindred spirit,

Eve

There are whole solar systems of people to thank and not enough words to express my gratitude.

To my little family – Rocky and my amazing little girl – your faith, well-timed hugs and tolerance of my repreated absences from your lives have made achieving my dream possible and are a greater gift than I could ever dare ask for. I love you both much more than I am able to say.

To my extraordinary step-son and step-daughter (and their partners) for loving your little sister so vividly and helping out when there’s no one else. I’m proud of the people you’ve become.

Gratitude and kudos to my exceptionally talented agent Sheila Drummond for being the first to have faith in me and my work. I couldn’t have asked for a better advocate or a better advisor on what to do next.

To the Simon and Schuster family (and they are a family) for adopting me, especially the incomparable Larissa Edwards and Anabel Pandiella for loving
The Yearning
as passionately as I do. And to Roberta (Bert) Ivers, your insightful, clear and sharp-eyed editing sculpted the manuscript into adulthood.

I’ve been fortunate to have connected with a remarkably talented group of authors through Writers’ Victoria and Andrea Goldsmith’s Advanced Year of the Novel course. Little Lonsdale Group is awash with incredible creative diversity. We have walked the rocky road of writing (and life) together, commiserating every failure, cheering and toasting each success. I expect to be attending launches of everyone’s books sometime in the future. My special thanks to Margareta Osborn, my ever-patient and honest critique partner and the most generous friend I’ve ever known.

Heartfelt gratitude to the small group of friends, colleagues and acquaintances who took the time to read my (painful) early drafts and give me honest and helpful feedback – Dina T, Melinda M, Kerrily, Deanne, Colleen, Shane S, my very good mate Pete L, and later Kathryn Ledson and Margareta, whose advice got me over the line at Romance Writers of Australia Conference 2011. Apologies if I’ve forgotten anyone, it was a long time ago.

What is a writer without a great teacher? Thank you to Andrea Goldsmith, Annette Trevitt, Sally Muirden and Tiana Templeton, who gave me all the tools I needed to succeed. A special mention to the wonderful writing community: The Wheeler Centre, Writers Victoria, Romance Writers of Australia and the Australian Society of Authors for championing our cause and giving us strength through opportunity, learning and advocacy.

Where would I be without my biggest first fans? Petah, Emma, Leah, Dina T, Alissa, my Yummy Mummy’s group, work colleagues and many more than I have room to mention by name. You are my promotion angels – thank you.

To my extended family – Mum, brothers, aunts, uncles and dozens of cousins – don’t think I haven’t heard you cheering me on from the sidelines. Thanks for the encouragement and the instant fan club!