Tell me that you have not thought of me, since that day we met? And tell me you did not wonder what it would be like in my arms? As for me, I have imagined the feel of you so many times since I first laid eyes on you.
That night three years ago, when I saw you from across the restaurant, I was struck with the feeling that I had never seen a woman so alive. Your eyes were so bright and your smile so wide. One word appeared in my head: vivacious.
When we bumped into each other by the bathroom, I could not take my eyes off you. You held my hand just a bit too long as we introduced ourselves, and you touched my chest briefly. I saw you had a ring on your finger, that another man had claimed you.
And I know that you remember what I said. I said to you, “May we meet in another life.”
And then I kissed your hand. And I left.
I drove back to Los Angeles, to my life and my practice here. And I thought of you. I thought of you so often. You seemed like a dream, an aberration.
But you are real. So very real.
And you can’t possibly try to tell me it is a coincidence that the next time I was in San Diego I saw you again.
There, in the lobby of my hotel, I heard this laugh, this vibrant and beautiful laugh, and I looked up and there you were. My woman from another life.
It had to have been fate.
That is why I surrendered to you. And I suspect it is why you surrendered to me.
We are meant to be in the same place at the same time. And I believe that you know that, and that is why you wrote to me.
We should plan to do it again. Soon.
Tell me, does your husband make you feel the way I can? Does he touch you the way I do? Does he make you scream so loud the people in the next room complain? Because I do. I know how to do that to you.
Write to me. Tell me you’ll meet me.
Love,
Ken
September 23, 1976
Los Angeles, California
My Sweet Janet,
We ignite something in each other. I must see you again. Tell me you’ll see me. I will find a way to come to you.
My world is black and white, and you are Technicolor.
Love,
Your Ken
October 4, 1976
Los Angeles, California My Sweet Janet, I am sorry for calling. When I heard your voice, I realized that I should not have called you at your home until I had asked you first. I have to admit I feel like a teenager again. And I’m behaving foolishly just as I did back then.
I simply haven’t felt this way in so long that I’m overcome by it.
And so, my sweet Janet, I am so happy to hear that you feel the same way.
I’ve booked a room at our hotel for next week. Thursday, the fourteenth.
I am so happy we will have this night. The knowledge that you will soon be in my arms again is enough to carry me through.
Love,
Ken
November 12, 1976
Los Angeles, California My Sweet Janet, I need you. Seeing you once a week has quickly become not enough.
I need your smile, and I need to look up and see the brightness of your eyes. I need your tender and womanly body by my side.
I miss you with all my heart. And when I think I cannot bear it anymore, I think of how it feels to lift you into bed and know that you exist only for me. That I exist only for you.
I have never loved before. If this is what love is.
I will see you Thursday morning at ten. I cannot wait to hold you in my arms.
Love,
Your Ken
April 21, 1977
Encino, California
David,
Does the weather ever really change down there? I can’t imagine it does. Nothing ever changes around here. There are no seasons.
When I lived in Boston, April was my favorite month. In the fall, I used to watch as the leaves went from green to yellow to orange and red. And then I always hated December—that was when they fell off, and it seemed like they would never come back. But then April came around, and the sun came out and the leaves started sprouting and life began again. It seemed like the most exquisite thing in the world.
Because the leaves don’t really fall off around here, April isn’t nearly as exciting. I’ve always been struck by the idea that you can’t be all that happy something has returned if it doesn’t go away in the first place.
But what if the thing goes away and never comes back? Is it corny to say my heart feels like an eternal December with no April in sight? Of course it is. Anyone who compares their heart to anything weather related is a square.
I am writing to formally thank you for sending the letters. But more than that, I am writing to say thank you for calling me. After I read them, I sat in the living room by our record player and put on Carly Simon and sobbed. Then I moved on to Daisy Jones and Carole King. All so easy to cry to, if you’re in the mood. Then I put on Blue. A true classic for the ages. Do you listen to Joni Mitchell at all? Ken gets annoyed when I listen to her. He says she makes me “schmaltzy.” I suppose she does get me feeling a little sentimental.
Lately, though, I think I’ve skipped over sentimental and gone straight to maudlin.
“I have never loved before. If this is what love is.”
I cannot believe he wrote that to her. Days later, I still hear it reverberating in my head over and over and over.
I have never felt so alone.
Alone in the world and alone in my marriage. Alone in love, really. With a man who claims he never loved me.
Should I even be surprised? He barely looks at me anymore. Neither of us even attempted to bring up trying for a baby this month. I doubt he even bothered to notice a month had gone by without his touching me.
Sometimes, I swear, I’m invisible. And yet, frankly, David, I often find it to be a relief. I can’t stand the idea of him truly looking at me right now. There is so much I do not want him to see.
The phone call from you did wonders to break the spell. I was sitting at the kitchen table still crying when the phone rang, and I swear I knew there was something special about the call before I even picked it up. (But I’m sure that’s just me being schmaltzy.)
But allow me one more schmaltzy thing to say: I felt better the moment I knew it was you.
Thank you for telling me that everything will be OK. I don’t think either of us is sure about that right now, but it feels nice to hear someone say it.
You did a wonderful job of cheering me up. I was laughing through my tears, and that is quite a gift. So, truly, David, thank you.
Sometimes, when I am lying in bed next to Ken and I can’t sleep, I feel so hopelessly pathetic. So unloved, so unremarkable. I feel like the girl at the party nobody wants to dance with.
There I am, hoping someone might choose me, while the rest of the world goes on dancing.
But lately I find that in those moments, I think of you.
I am not alone at the party. You are at this miserable party with me. And it brings a smile to my face to be standing next to you.
All my best,
Carrie
April 26, 1977
Carlsbad, California Carrie,
I’m glad to know I may have made things a tiny bit easier for you. God knows you have made all this easier for me.
In fact, I should admit that I called you the other day to check in on you, but I also called you because I needed to hear a warm voice. I needed to call someone I thought would want to hear from me. Talking to you on the phone these few times this week has been the highlight of my days. You are the very definition of a breath of fresh air.
Carrie Allsop, you are never the woman no one will ask to dance.
I will be here dancing with you for as long as we want to get groovy.
All right, that was truly lame. I’ll quit writing now before this really goes off the rails.
Thinking of you— Yours,
David
P.S. I realized who it is you look like. It’s Carly Simon. I told you I would place it, and I finally have. It hit me square on the head as I was going to bed last night.
It’s your smile and your eyes. Just like Carly Simon.
April 29, 1977
Encino, California
David,
Would you have any interest in meeting for lunch again? I could use a charming dining companion.
All my best,
Carrie
May 4, 1977
Carlsbad, California
Carrie,
I can get away on Monday the ninth, assuming that works for you. Let’s do the same place, same time.
Yours,
David