The fact that I couldn’t speak turned out not to be a problem when the architect arrived. He spent an hour ignoring me and speaking only to my father. Dad tried to include me in the discussion, he’d look at me for an answer when a question was raised but the architect, Andrew The Asshole I called him, was only interested in what Dad had to say. That was until he found out I’d be paying his fees.
However, at the end of an hour consultation, he had a brief idea of what I wanted and seemed to think the council wouldn’t object. There had been a lot of agricultural property converted to domestic dwellings in the area. A precedent had been set.
We were told that he’d have a provisional plan for us within a couple of weeks. His time frame suggested he wasn’t overly busy, and I guessed his attitude might have had something to do with that.
I sat with Dad in his office and watched in astonishment as he worked his way through the local council website on his laptop. My dad, to me, was the last person I thought of a silver surfer.
“I know how to use a computer, I took some classes,” he said, as if reading my thoughts.
His fingers paused over the keyboard; he quickly turned his head towards me.
“You chuckled!”
I stared back, frowning.
“You chuckled, Dani. You made a sound.”
I shook my head and shrugged my shoulders. I heard every word I wanted to say, every sound I wanted to produce, in my head, but I hadn’t been able to force those words out.
Are you sure? I wrote.
“Yes, try again, baby.”
I opened my mouth. Nothing.
“You made a sound, when you didn’t realise. Maybe you shouldn’t try. But that’s a good thing, isn’t it?”
I was unsure. I mean, of course it was a good thing, or was it? Slowly I found myself nodding. Of course it was a good thing.
Was it a proper laugh?
“No, but it was a sound, as if you wanted to laugh.”
Dad’s smile grew wider and wider and I found myself smiling along with him. He reached out and ruffled my hair.
“You’ll get there, baby. In time, you’ll get there.”
Chapter Six
Dani,
Today has been a busy day, thank you for asking. Busy days are often the best because we don't think too much! A fisherman took me out in his boat, to the spot I let go of Anna’s ashes; it felt good. Although, I wouldn’t say I was ready to completely let go of her then. We don’t ever forget them but, like it has been for you, writing our letters has been a comfort, and I now feel I can start to live life again.
I moved out of our house shortly after she died. I rented for a while, but this weekend I’m going to move back in. The place needs a cleanup, of course, maybe a fresh coat of paint, but it will give me a project to concentrate on. I suspect I’ll shed some tears, but they’ll be accompanied with a smile and maybe laughter for all the memories we shared.
I’m glad you’re going to meet your nephew; life has to carry on. I hope when you hold him, you’ll be reminded of Hannah but you’ll also smile at the wonder of a new life. All those ‘firsts’ will be tinged with sadness, but it gets easier.
As for Christmas? Do what you want on that day, remember them, cry for them. Your family will understand.
Lincoln
I’d picked up that letter late in the afternoon. For a while, I’d tried to time when I thought he’d post it through the door. There was a part of me that wanted to know the man behind the words, there was another part that didn’t. What we had was a wonderful thing; we were able to confess, to bare our souls, without physically meeting. I was getting to know Lincoln through his letters and he was getting to know me. If we met, would either of us be disillusioned? I continued to wonder about his age, what he looked like, and where he lived. It was obviously close enough for him to leave a letter through the front door; I’d lived there for many years as a child, and didn’t know of a Lincoln.
Maybe Lincoln wasn’t his name. I couldn’t imagine a reason why he’d use a false name, unless he wanted to stay anonymous. I wasn’t entirely sure how I felt about that, however, asking him whether that was his real name or not wasn’t something I was prepared to do. For now, the letters were a comfort to us both, no matter what name was written on the bottom.
The weather forecast for the next few days was rain and winds. I loved being by the sea in the winter, more so than in the summer. I loved to see Mother Nature at her angriest, the waves crashing against the shore, the rocks, and the cliffs. We’d get tourists all throughout the year, less in the winter, of course. I loved to walk the beach wrapped up against the elements and return home cold but refreshed.
I left Dad a note to say I’d taken a walk.
The good thing about walking the beach in the weather we were experiencing, was that it was empty. When I’d gotten to the end I looked up the cliff. I could see the spire of the church and knew the cemetery was just a little way back from it. I took the walk up the cliff path and then along.
The cemetery was an addition to the overflowing one at the church. I pushed through rusty iron gates centred in a low stone wall. While I crouched down by Trey and Hannah’s grave, I heard the squeak of the gate opening again. I peered around the headstone to see an elderly gentleman using a cane and wrapped up against the wind with a cream mac and matching scarf walk through. He headed in the opposite direction.
The wind was blowing my way and carried his gentle sobs with them. I didn’t go to him, it would have been intrusive, and I sure wouldn’t want anyone interrupting my grief. I heard him tell whoever lay beneath his feet about his week. I also heard him say goodbye, apologising for not being able to visit as often, since he was moving away. I watched as he raised a hand and wiped away a tear before he shuffled back the way he’d came.
When my knees ached, I kissed my fingertips and placed them over both Trey and Hannah’s name. Before I left, I wandered over to the grave the gentleman had stood by.
Anna Nicolson-Carter
I turned, looking for the elderly man. Was that Lincoln? He’d told me his wife was called Anna. I suspected he’d be an elderly man. The birth date would suggest that Anna had died at age sixty-five, still relatively young. Although I hadn’t really seen his face, the gentleman, by the way he walked, seemed to be a lot older. Lincoln had told me he planned to move back into his old home. He hadn’t said where that was, though. I had no doubt we’d continue to write but the thought of him moving away saddened me. Maybe I should let him know I’d take care of Anna if he couldn’t.
That thought brought me up short. Not that I had any intention of leaving the village, or Cornwall, but how do people, who have no choice, cope with leaving their loved ones behind?
Do you know Lincoln Nicolson-Carter? I wrote and pushed the note towards Dad.
He slowly shook his head, his brow furrowed as he tried to place the name.
“No, it doesn’t ring a bell, why?”
I think that’s the person that’s writing to me.
Although Dad knew of the letters, we’d never discussed them. I decided to tell him.
I left a letter to Trey in a bottle on the beach; it seemed a good thing to do at the time. Then, the following day, I got a reply! We’ve been writing back and forth since.
Dad read, and then raised his eyebrows. “Wow, that’s amazing. And you don’t know who he is?”
I shook my head.
“I guess we could find out through the church’s records, if you wanted to, of course.”
Did I? I thought for a moment, and then shook my head. No, I didn’t want to know. I was curious, but what we had was a lovely friendship that had developed simply through words on a piece of paper.