The Letter

www.millsandboon.co.uk

To Mom, Dad and Rachel

For always listening

Contents

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 1

Cassie

Dearest Lydia, my darling,

This is my last hope, because I am desperate. Desperately in love with you and desperate to understand what happened. You won’t see me, won’t write. Why? I thought you loved me and I loved you and that would be enough. Instead you keep secrets, you keep things hidden even from the people who love you. But whatever mistakes you made and whatever mistakes I made, none of it matters. I don’t care. All that matters is that I love you. I love you so much my heart aches whenever I think of you. My arms miss holding you, and my lips miss the feel of your soft skin.

I wonder if you know the depth of my love for you. Perhaps I never told you what you needed to hear. So consider this my last stand. I love you, I always will, and I would do anything to make you happy. If you want a new life for yourself, I will try to understand, because your happiness means more to me than my own. What happens next is your choice. If you no longer want me, I need to hear it from you, otherwise I’ll keep hoping. I’ll keep looking for you, because without you I’m lost.

I will always be yours,

F.B.

Cassie fingered the pale yellow paper, softened by age to the consistency of tissue. No envelope, no date, no signature. Just those mysterious initials at the bottom, and a passion that still burst from the page—despite the years that had obviously passed since it was written.

Dearest Lydia…

The letter had been well hidden, tucked away between layers of cloth in a box marked Quilting Supplies. A box Cassie had walked by countless times in the twenty years she’d lived in her grandparents’ house. A box that, before now, she’d never touched.

Cassie had always found Lydia’s quilting slightly embarrassing. The fact that her grandmother’s main accomplishment in life involved sewing together mismatched fabric remnants symbolized the gap between her and Cassie, the distance between Cassie’s professional ambition and Lydia’s old-fashioned housewife ways. At seventy-three, Lydia was a full decade younger than the grandparents of Cassie’s friends. But Lydia had always struck Cassie as old before her time, a woman who’d married her high school sweetheart and settled down by the age of twenty-one. A woman who was content to help out with her husband’s landscaping business but never had a life of her own. Other than college and one year studying abroad, she’d never traveled or experienced the world. She lived quietly with her quilts in the same house she’d grown up in, making no mark.

I wonder if you even know the depth of my love for you.

Cassie hastily refolded the letter into thirds and tucked it between the layers of cloth inside the box. She noticed her hand shaking as she hurriedly smoothed the fabric over the paper. Cassie had grown up believing that her grandfather was the only man Lydia had ever loved, her first and only boyfriend. But Henry Armstrong’s initials weren’t F.B.

Then there was the handwriting—words strung together frantically, with barely a space between, as if the letter had been written in one furious burst of energy. Henry took his time writing, meticulously tracing the shape of each letter, lifting his pen off the paper after each word before starting the next. His handwriting was as careful and measured as his speech, a far cry from the messy scrawl on the mysterious letter.

But the words were the real tipoff. Henry Armstrong—while he certainly loved his wife—didn’t talk like this. Cassie had never heard Henry tell Lydia he loved her. He acknowledged Lydia’s birthday with generic drugstore birthday cards, signing his name beneath the poem inside. He had to be nagged to add even the shortest greeting to Lydia’s annual Christmas letters. Henry didn’t express himself with words; he showed his love through action, whether it was stroking the head of his lonely young granddaughter or nurturing a tender plant in his beloved greenhouse.

This letter had been written by someone in pain. Someone literally sick with love for Lydia.

The Armstrongs weren’t ones for exchanging family stories over the dinner table; the past was only revisited occasionally, filled as it was with echoes of tragedy and regret. Cassie learned at an early age what was off limits. Her grandparents would talk willingly enough about their first dates, or what life used to be like in Knox Junction before the interstate highway arrived. Once in a while, Lydia would reminisce about the early days of her marriage, and Cassie would get a brief, precious glimpse of her father as a baby or young boy. But questions about Cassie’s parents—who had died when she was five years old, before she’d time to form anything more than impressions of them—were met with awkward silence. The past, she learned, meant pain. And the last thing Cassie wanted was to cause her grandparents any more heartbreak. They’d had enough.

The only safe memories, the only ones Cassie could ask about and get a smile, were the stories of Lydia and Henry’s courtship and marriage. By now, it had taken on the aura of a fairy tale in Cassie’s mind. They’d first met as children, when Lydia’s family moved to town, had their first date at a high school dance and married right after college. Henry, the quiet, steadfast farmer’s son, and Lydia, the artistic doctor’s daughter, might have been an unexpected match; Lydia had hinted that her parents didn’t approve of Henry at first. But love had triumphed in the end, and Lydia and Henry had eloped in France, where Lydia was taking college art courses. Paul, Cassie’s father, was born while they were traveling in Europe, and the young family returned home soon after.

Their brief European adventure over, they settled into their average, all-American lives. For the next fifty years, they had built a thriving business together, established a network of close friends with whom they organized bridge nights and potluck dinners, raised a son and later, a granddaughter. Now, in their seventies, they were local fixtures in town, a much-lauded example of a happy and long-lasting marriage.

Henry and Lydia’s story had made a powerful impact on the young Cassie, who grew up believing in the power of first love. But as she made her way unhappily through high school—where being smart disqualified her from popularity, and her frizzy hair and acne-prone skin only reinforced her brainy image—Cassie began to wonder whether her grandparents’ story was a fairy tale after all, the kind of thing that rarely ever happens in real life.

It wasn’t until college that she met her savior: Cooper Lynch, someone just as socially awkward and grade-obsessed as she was. Cooper’s home life couldn’t have been more different than hers—the middle child of three boys and two girls, he’d been raised in a large, raucous family—but like Cassie, he approached life as an outsider. The only way to stand out from his siblings, he’d decided at an early age, was to be smarter than them, and he’d concentrated on school to the exclusion of almost everything else. Cooper and Cassie had started out as “study buddies,” cramming for finals together late at night in the university library. They’d applied to law schools together and somehow both decided that the University of Chicago was their first choice. And when law school began and they were busier than ever, it seemed natural to find comfort in each other. Cooper understood Cassie’s drive, and he didn’t embarrass her with public displays of affection.

Together, they’d blossomed into a confident, focused couple. Cassie transformed herself from an awkward bookworm into a polished woman, her unruly hair smoothed into sleek ponytails and chignons, and Cooper’s shy silences gradually faded as he became an ever more powerful force during law-class debates. Entering a world where intelligence wasn’t a liability, they had emerged as winners. Ten years after they first met, they decided to take the next logical step: marriage.

It was a wonder they found time to get engaged at all. The subject had first been broached in the most unromantic way possible—which was par for the course in their relationship. It happened as Cassie was in the final stages of buying a condo in the heart of downtown Chicago, on the top floor of a modern high-rise.

“What do you think?” she asked Cooper during her final walkthrough.

He paused in front of the floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the Chicago skyline and Lake Michigan “I could get lost in this view.”

As Cassie watched him, standing in the place she pictured herself living for years to come, she realized Cooper was one of the few constants in her life. Friends who didn’t understand her nonstop work schedule had drifted away. Her social life outside the office was nonexistent. Cooper was the only person who understood her ambition. Not only did he understand it, he encouraged it. It was the perfect partnership; they each pushed each other to be the best.

“So, you like it?” Cassie asked.

Cooper looked at her, then back out the window with a perplexed expression “The view?”

“The apartment,” she said.

“Oh, yeah.”

“Could you see yourself living here?” she asked.

“With you?” His eyes widened with surprise, then pleasure.

“Yeah. Move in, get married, the whole deal.” She’d thrown it out so casually, without thinking. Emotionally, she felt as if they were already married. All that was missing was some paperwork.

Cooper smiled, that gradual widening of his mouth and quick blinking she’d found so endearing when they first met. That cautious smile was the only hint of the shy boy hidden beneath the high-powered-lawyer facade.

“Sure,” he said “The whole deal.”

And that was it. A quick hug and kiss, but no declaration of eternal love. For a moment, Cassie wondered if such a monumental decision should have been marked with something more. But Cooper wasn’t one for grand romantic gestures. Raised in a family that valued lighthearted teasing over deep emotional discussions, Cooper had never been comfortable talking about his feelings. Within a week, he’d moved in with her, although she refused to acknowledge the new living arrangement to her grandparents “They’re really old-fashioned,” she cautioned Cooper.

So Cooper had made it official a few weeks later, whisking Cassie off to an expensive Italian restaurant and arranging to have a diamond ring perched atop her chocolate torte. Lydia’s relief over Cassie’s engagement was amusingly obvious and Cassie wondered if she’d figured out that she and Cooper were already living in sin. To Lydia, Cassie’s impending marriage became a grand creative project, filled with opportunities for sewing and baking and girl talk. Lydia had once had vague artistic aspirations; now, all her pent-up creativity was channeled into household projects. Cassie was worried she’d offer to make the wedding dress herself.

Henry seemed to approve of Cooper, but the approaching wedding didn’t dent his Midwestern reserve. Whenever the talk turned to reception venues and flowers, he would escape to his greenhouse in the backyard. He’d built it when he first started his landscaping business; now that he was mostly retired, the space had become his personal retreat. Cassie loved to watch him stroke tender new shoots as they first erupted from the dirt in tiny pots. It was the same way he used to stroke her hair when she was little, on the evenings she would lie in bed crying, missing her mother. His tall, big-boned body would twist awkwardly to sit on her bed as his hands carefully brushed the tears from her cheeks. She knew, even through the pain and grief, that she was loved. That she was safe.

This gratitude was what kept Cassie coming back to her grandparents’ house every Sunday for lunch, despite the long drive from downtown Chicago. Normally, Cassie would have had no reason to visit the basement during the few hours she spent there. But that Sunday was the day Lydia announced she’d be making Cassie a quilt as a wedding present.

“The traditional style would be the Wedding Band,” Lydia had explained as she cleared the lunch dishes off the table “A pattern of overlapping circles, to symbolize a continuing union.”

“Um, I guess,” Cassie said. She couldn’t tell her grandmother that a bright, homemade quilt would never fit with the modern, minimalist furniture she and Cooper preferred. It would be the sort of thing that sat in a closet, whipped out only when Lydia came to visit.

“Do you have your colors picked out yet?” Lydia asked.

“Colors?”

“You know, your linens and towels. I want to make sure the quilt matches.”

“Grammy, we don’t even know where we’re going to register.” Or where they were going to get married. Or when. Or anything else that newly engaged couples usually talked about.

“Too busy with work again?”

Cassie nodded “Cooper and I only had time for one dinner together this week,” she said. “The planning is going to take a while.”

Lydia shook her head and gave Cassie a pitying look. She didn’t understand the life of a corporate attorney. Didn’t know that you could complain about the hours, and whine about never seeing your boyfriend, but still love your job so much that the adrenaline got you through all the late nights and canceled vacations.

“Well, you won’t get out of picking fabric,” Lydia said. “I’d hate to put together something you don’t like. Why don’t you take a quick look downstairs while I finish with the dishes?”

The basement was Lydia’s workroom, the place she designed quilts with the methodical intensity of a military maneuver. A large table in the center of the room was usually strewn with scraps, and rolls of material were lined up along the walls, sorted by color. Lydia did her sewing throughout the house—while watching TV or on the back porch on warm summer mornings—but the basement was her mission control.

“Stop by the greenhouse when you’re done,” Henry told Cassie. “I’ll show you those new pansies I was talking about.”

So Cassie reluctantly headed downstairs by herself. She quickly scanned the colors along the wall, all of them bright and eye-catching and utterly wrong for her sleek apartment. Cassie and Cooper wanted their home to be a tranquil retreat from work and stress; there were no colors anywhere, merely shades of white and cream and gray. Lydia’s cheery bandana-red cottons and bold royal blues would have no place there.

Cassie knew Lydia stored smaller fabric scraps in a series of boxes along the floor. She could see stripes of color through the translucent plastic. Maybe a pale green or understated taupe was tucked away in there. She took the top off a box and began riffling through neatly folded piles of cloth. And that was when she found the letter.

I will always be yours.

F.B.

F.B. Her only clue to the writer’s identity. She scanned her memory for the names of her grandparents’ friends, but couldn’t come up with anyone who had those initials. Besides, it was unlikely that the person who wrote this letter would still be a friendly acquaintance. This person had been desperately in love with Lydia. Given that she’d been married to Henry for fifty years, the mystery man must have long since been disappointed. But for some reason, Lydia had kept the letter.

Some people, Cassie had always believed, don’t have the capacity for soul-baring, earth-scorching romance. In that way, she felt a certain bond with her grandmother—they were both women who valued comfort over passion. Not the type of women to get swept off their feet by whispered words and grand gestures.

Now Cassie wondered if that was true. Because it seemed that Lydia had once had something more. Why had she run from it? Had something terrible happened to send her back to Henry and the safety he offered? Or had this letter been sent after Lydia was already married?

“Did you find it?”

Cassie jumped at the sound of Lydia’s voice. Find it? How did she know?

Lydia stepped off the bottom of the stairs and walked over to Cassie “So, what do you think?”

The cloth. Lydia was talking about her quilt, not the letter. Cassie realized her hands were still pressed against the top of the plastic storage container.

“Um…” Cassie stammered.

Lydia’s eyes narrowed when she saw where Cassie was standing.

“What are you doing?” she asked quickly.

“Uh, well, I thought there might be some more fabric samples inside.” Cassie stared at Lydia, waiting for her grandmother to ask the question.

Lydia briskly pushed the box to the side of the table, her eyes focused downward. “There’s nothing in there to interest you.”

This was it. Her opening. All Cassie had to do was ask, but she knew it was pointless. If she couldn’t get a straight answer about her own parents’ death, how could she expect Lydia to confess a long-ago love affair?

Lydia walked over to the bolts of cloth leaning against the wall and pulled out a pale pink floral. It was classic Lydia behavior—move right on through an awkward moment and refuse to acknowledge it ever happened. The brief opportunity to ask about the letter had passed.

“This is nice, don’t you think?” Lydia murmured.

Maybe for a six-year-old girl’s room, thought Cassie. “Whatever you think works best,” she said. “I really don’t care.”

She saw the hurt flit across Lydia’s face, saw her shoulders slump inside her hand-knit sweater. Cassie was used to being direct, both in the office and in court. She didn’t have time for subtlety. But she sometimes forgot that Lydia was her grandmother, not a plaintiff.

“I mean, the pink is fine,” Cassie said “Just keep it light and soothing—nothing too bright.”

Lydia nodded and fingered the fabric “Understated.”

“Yeah.”

“I can do understated, believe it or not.” Lydia smiled, and Cassie started to laugh. Understated was not exactly Lydia’s specialty. The quilts that adorned the beds and walls of her house were riotous mixtures of clashing colors and swirling patterns. Some paintings Lydia had done years ago hung in the front hallway, landscapes filled with bright red trees and vibrant purple grass. Lydia’s life might have been drab, but her artwork certainly wasn’t.

As Lydia pulled out the pink fabric and spread it out on her worktable, Cassie’s eyes wandered back to the box that had been pushed aside. The letter itself might be hidden, but its contents had been released. The words still floated through her mind, imprinted on her memory.

Without you I’m lost.

Cassie knew the letter would haunt her until she found out the truth. Lydia—out of loyalty to Henry—would never tell her. But someone else might. Her aunt Nell, Lydia’s sister, had grown up with Lydia and Henry. Nell had witnessed their early years together. Maybe she’d know what had happened to the man who had loved Lydia so deeply.

Chapter 2

Lydia

Lydia Prescott couldn’t remember the first time she met Henry Armstrong. He seemed to have always been there, in the background, waiting for her to notice him. All her life she would wonder how a connection so strong could have started so unremarkably, how their first encounter could have passed without a foreshadowing of the bond that was to come.

Then again, Lydia had blocked out many things during those first months in Knox Junction. The move had passed in a blur. Packing up the house in a flurry of boxes. Mother’s tears as she whispered rebukes to Father about disgracing the family. Father telling Lydia she couldn’t go back to school to say goodbye. Filing behind her parents through cavernous Union Station in Chicago on the way to the train south. Something had gone wrong with Father’s job, something shameful, and now they were starting over. Lydia was eleven, old enough to know not to ask questions. Faced with a family teetering on the edge of disaster, she was determined to help her parents maintain a pretense of happiness. Lydia’s younger sister, Nell, then only eight, didn’t yet possess the mental sensors to pick up their parents’ simmering tension.

“What’s our new house like?” Nell asked, after Mother had settled them in their private train compartment. Lydia took this as a good sign; surely the money couldn’t all be gone if they were still able to travel like this.

“I don’t know,” Mother said in the clipped tone that had become her normal speech pattern “I haven’t seen it.”

“It’s very nice,” said Father “It looks like a farmhouse. Lots of room to play outside.”

“Is there a beach?” Nell asked.

“No,” Mother said.

“It’s in the middle of cornfields,” Lydia explained. “Nowhere near Lake Michigan.”

Nell’s eyes began to water. “But I like the beach,” she whined.

Their old house—the place Lydia still thought of as home, although she knew it would have to be sold—had been only two blocks from the beach. Lydia and Nell had spent the summer digging with shovels, searching for buried treasure. They’d walked the tree-lined streets of Winnetka, the tranquil Chicago suburb that felt like a small town, albeit one where all the residents could afford sprawling brick or wood-frame homes with wraparound porches and separate entrances for the staff in back. Winnetka was where couples moved when they wanted to raise their families somewhere safe and idyllic. Not a place where families suddenly left in disgrace. Lydia’s friends had told her they’d write, but she knew they wouldn’t. Nell was having a harder time realizing that their life there was over.

“Does the house have an attic?” A favorite winter activity had been to rummage through Mother’s old trunks of clothes, playing dress-up.

“I don’t know,” said Mother, staring out the window.

“I don’t think so,” Father said. “But there’s a pretty room I think you’ll like. With pink flowered wallpaper.”

“I don’t want pink!” Nell began to wail “I want blue!”

Lydia reached around her sister’s shoulders and squeezed tight. “I’ll take the pink room if you want,” she said. She watched her parents for their reaction. True to form, Mother hardly paid attention and Father gave her an approving smile.

Still, brave as Lydia tried to be, she couldn’t hide her disappointment when the train pulled into Knox Junction, her new hometown. It was a creation of the railroads, a small gathering of buildings that sprang up at the intersection of the lines running north to Chicago and west to Des Moines. It had begun with a hotel, expanded to a few shops and houses, but never developed into anything more than a minor transportation center in the midst of farmland. Knox Junction might call itself a town, but there was only one paved road, and tractors outnumbered cars.

Lydia watched Mother’s face crumple with disappointment as they slowed down at the station. She forced the muscles around her mouth to prop up her lips in an approximation of a smile.

“We’re home, aren’t we, Father?” Lydia said.

Father rubbed his hand over the top of her head. If hiding her fear and anger would keep her family together, if pretending happiness could somehow erase the shame hovering over them like a fog, Lydia was determined to put up a brave front.

“Yes,” said Father. “Home.”

The house, while smaller than the one they’d had in Winnetka, wasn’t nearly as bad as Lydia had feared. For Knox Junction, it was positively palatial: four bedrooms, a deep porch lined with white columns, an enormous kitchen with walk-in pantry. Even Mother nodded approvingly. Living in such a home seemed to bode well. Surely the family of the town’s new doctor, living in one of the finest houses in town, would be greeted with excitement and respect?