Jessica Brockmole: Letters from Skye

Only moments earlier, as I crossed York Place in front of the cathedral, I bumped into a man, right there on the street. And, oh, Màthair, my heart leapt.

That same sandy hair, the same hunched shoulders, the same thumbnail creeping up to his mouth. Eyes the brown-green of the hills in wintertime. I would’ve sworn on my soul it was him.

But a bus rattled past, horn blaring, and he touched his hat before hurrying across the street. I stood frozen for a moment longer, wondering how I could be so mistaken. I was sure it was him. But the traffic, hurrying home before the blacked-out streets grew dark, swerved around me, and I knew I had to give up.

In the cathedral, finger tracing the name in the Bible, I swore it was the last time. And, Màthair, I meant it.

I sat until the church grew dark, until someone slipped into the seat next to me: my Margaret, with a new green hat perched on her head. She’s moved from home, and I miss her already. Last week, when her Paul had leave, they married. A quick ceremony, an even quicker honeymoon in the Borders, and now she’s mistress of her own house. That night, when she slipped next to me in the pew, she wore a secret smile.

“I just came to deliver something.” She set an envelope, crisp and square, on top of my Bible. “A special delivery.”

Envelopes. Always envelopes in my life. I started shaking before I even saw the name on the outside.

To Sue .

My hands trembled and I dropped it twice before I could get a finger under the flap. I tore the envelope nearly in half.

The letter was short, written on one side of a sheet in scrawled pencil, the handwriting as familiar as my own.

London, England

October 23, 1940

Dear Sue ,

Letters are where we started; letters are where we ended. Perhaps, with a letter, we can begin again? I have twenty-three years to tell you about and not enough paper .

I have never stopped loving you .

The words blurred.

Margaret took my hands. “Mother…” She nodded towards the back of the cathedral.

A Highland lass expects to see ghosts. You taught me that. And yet, when he stepped into the candlelight of the aisle, my breath caught in my teeth. Of all the things I expected, not that, not there, not then.

It was him. Those eyes, startled wide. The thumbnail already creeping into his mouth. Looking the way he did the day we met. My Davey. Oh, Màthair, he came. He came.

Eyes brown-green, like the hills in wintertime, fixed on mine. My looking-glass self. Suddenly I didn’t feel a day older.

I stood, the little Bible falling from my lap. The letter crinkled in my hand. I stepped towards him, with Margaret, the war, and the whole rest of the world forgotten.

“Hi, Sue.” He held out his hand. “Here I am.”

I fell into his arms. “There you are, Davey. There you are.”

My breath,

my light,

the one my heart flies toward .

For Jim .

Though the first draft of Letters from Skye was written in secret, late at night after the rest of the family had fallen asleep, it would not be where it is today without the support and encouragement of many.

My sincere thanks to all of the readers who helped my novel soar, especially Bryn Greenwood and Christine Roberts. To Elaine Golden, for the last, perfect line. To Sue Laybourn and Louise Brennan, for giving my characters the right words. To Richard Bourgeois, for reads, cheers, and sea monsters. To Kate Langton, for unflinching faith. I did it. To the Nanobeans, for their irreverence, encouragement, and cheese scones. Since leaving Edinburgh, I’ve tried to recreate that circle of writerly energy, of support and nonsense and fellowship. I wish I could.

To Danielle Lewerenz, for being my sounding board, my cheerleader, my friend. You helped build Davey into a hero to fall in love with. To Rebecca Burrell, for being there. I’m still not sure how I wrote books before you.

To my agent, Courtney Miller-Callihan, for signing me with such confidence and sending my manuscript out into the world with such conviction. To my editor, Jennifer E. Smith, for seeing in my words the same story I’ve always seen and for helping me to make it the novel it needed to be. Many thanks to the whole team at Random House/Ballantine, especially the tireless subsidiary rights department.

To my parents and my sister, Becky, for never doubting me. I hope that I’ve made you proud. To Ellen and Owen, for their patience and their forgiveness when I forget to do the laundry. I love you. To Jim, for Scotland and everything else.

It still amazes me that Elspeth and Davey are just as real to other people as they are to me. Thank you to everyone who helped to bring them to life.

JESSICA BROCKMOLE spent several years living in Scotland, where she knew too well the challenges in maintaining relationships from a distance. She plotted her first novel on a long drive from the Isle of Skye to Edinburgh. She now lives in Indiana with her husband and two children.

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Letters from Skye is a work of historical fiction. Apart from the well-known actual people, events, and locales that figure in the narrative, all names, characters, places, and incidents are the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to current events or locales, or to living persons, is entirely coincidental.

Copyright © 2013 by Jessica Brockmole

All rights reserved.

Published in the United States by Ballantine Books, an imprint of The Random House Publishing Group, a division of Random House, Inc., New York.

BALLANTINE and colophon are registered trademarks of Random House, Inc.

eISBN: 978-0-345-54261-8

www.ballantinebooks.com

Title-page photograph: © iStockphoto

Jacket design: Victoria Allen,

adapted from an original design by Emma Grey

Title lettering: Steven Bonner

Jacket illustration includes images © Jeff Cottenden (woman)

and © Getty/Flickr Collection (sky)

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