Laura Miller - By Way of Accident

“Oh, honey.” The old woman draws a quick breath and squeezes my forearm. “There’s no such thing as an accident.” Then she pauses and looks deep into my eyes. Her eyes are a glazy brown — like a jar of molasses held to the sun. “It’s called fate, my dear.”

I manage to tear my stare away from the old woman for a second to glance at Brooke. Brooke just shrugs her shoulders and smiles. “Well,” I say to the old woman, “it would seem as if it were an accident because just about a year ago, I received this…”

“Letter,” the woman interjects.

I stare at her for a second, then at Brooke, who isn’t even trying to hide the fact that she’s about as lost as I am right now.

“How did you guess?” Brooke asks, stepping in.

The woman lowers her head and laughs softly to herself before she addresses us again. “Do you have a moment?” she asks.

Brooke and I look at each other and then nod simultaneously.

“Of course,” I say.

The old woman lets go of my arm and turns and hobbles slowly back over to her rocking chair behind the small register. Then she sits down. Brooke and I follow her and sit side by side on an old, wooden bench that has a sign on it that reads: Not for sale .

“You’re Brooke? And you’re River?” the woman asks, once we’re seated. She focuses her attention first on Brooke and then on me.

We both slowly nod as she goes back to her rocking.

“You see, I was sitting in this very chair the same day a young gentleman brought in this beautiful piece of furniture,” she says. “It was a hall tree made of this beautiful walnut with the original mirror and a nice chair built into it.”

I nod. “My grandfather had one of those. But I don’t think it was one of the things we kept after he passed.”

The woman seems to be thinking as she continues. “Well, the gentleman brought it in and told me a little bit about it. It had been his mother’s for a little while. I looked at it, and he set it right back there in that booth, and then he left.” She points over to a far corner. I look, but I don’t see the hall tree. “And later that day, that hall tree was still just sitting there in that corner, and I was in this rocking chair,” she goes on. “And for the life of me, I couldn’t figure out why, but something kept nagging me to go back there and look at that old piece of furniture again.”

Brooke and I glance at each other. Her face looks about as clueless as I feel.

The woman laughs a little. “And you know? Eventually I got up, and I made my way over to it, and I gave it a good once-over. I looked at its chair; I felt the back of it; I combed its sides. Nothing. So, I turned to go back to my rocking chair, and I stopped. I stopped because I didn’t check one thing.” She holds up a creased finger. “I didn’t check to see if it had a compartment under the seat because that’s how they made them back in those days. Those old hall trees always had a place where you could store things. You just had to lift up the seat.”

Brooke and I instinctively nod as the woman continues.

“So, I made my way back over to it, lifted the seat, and sure enough, the seat lifted. And you know what I found in that compartment?”

I look at Brooke, and she looks at me. Then we both turn our attentions back to the old woman, awaiting her next words. But the old woman just smiles and closes her eyes instead. And after a moment of her silence, my gaze slowly wonders back over to Brooke. She looks concerned for the old woman all of a sudden. And it’s not until almost a minute passes that the woman opens her eyes again. And for the first time, I can see tears threatening to overflow her eyelids. I gently place my hand on her arm.

“Are you okay?” I ask.

“Oh, yes, dear,” she rattles off with a wave of her hand. “It’s just an old woman marveling at life, that’s all. Don’t mind me.”

I nod and turn to Brooke. She just looks at me with a set of wide eyes. Meanwhile, a tear slips down the old woman’s cheek, and Brooke sits up.

“Ma’am, are you sure you’re okay?” she asks.

The woman slowly bobs her head, and Brooke hesitantly sits back again.

“What did you find in the compartment?” I ask, eager to hear the rest of her story.

There’s a slight pause, while the gray-haired woman just smiles. “I found three letters: Two from a Brooke. One from a River.”

“Ma’am, you never told us your name,” I say, as we’re leaving the antique shop. We spent about an hour listening to how the old woman found the letters and decided to take them to the post office. The whole time she’s talking, Brooke is biting her lips. I think she feels the same way I do. I think she’s just now realizing how lucky we were to find each other again.

“Moirae.” The old woman smiles.

I bob my head once and turn to leave when her voice stops me.

“It means fate,” she says.

A soft gasp comes from Brooke. And her hand is already on her heart when I glance over at her to make sure she’s okay.

“Fate?” I ask, turning back toward the old woman.

“Yes,” she confirms. “Fate.”

I smile wide and then nod wordlessly. And right as Brooke and I turn again, I notice the woman gently take Brooke’s hand.

“Here, dear, I believe this is yours.”

My gaze falls to their hands. I can’t see exactly what it is the woman is handing Brooke. It looks as if it’s an envelope of some sorts. But I do see Brooke’s eyes grow wide as she takes it into her hands. Then all of a sudden, those same eyes brighten and then start to fill with tears. I wonder what was on the envelope that made her cry.

“Thank you,” Brooke whispers to the old woman. “Thank you.”

The old woman — Moirae — just smiles and nods once. Then Brooke and I make our way out of the little shop and down the concrete path back to my truck. I’m curious about what the old woman gave her, but I don’t want to make her cry again. She’s smiling now, even as she pats at the tears still left in her eyes. I watch her take the envelope and fold it in half. But before it closes in on itself, I notice my old address in Brooke’s handwriting scribbled on its front.

“It looks as if fate stepped in and brought us back together.” She laughs, still patting her eyes.

A broad smile shoots across my face again as I forget about the envelope that’s now shoved into her back pocket. “Yeah,” I agree. “I think you’re right.”

“What do you think happened to the letters?” she asks. “How do you think they ended up in that hall tree?”

I swallow and push out a breath. “You know, that very well could have been my grandpa’s old hall tree. That thing was so heavy, and neither of my parents really cared much for it. I really do believe it was sold with the house.”

“Do you think maybe the guy who bought the house and the land got the letters in the mail and brought them into the house?” she asks. “And maybe he even meant to send them back out but just never got around to it? And somehow those letters got lost in that old hall tree?”

“Maybe,” I confirm.

She stops for a second and stares off into the distance. “I wonder where that old hall tree ended up.”

I shrug my shoulders. “No tellin’.”

She hums a sigh and then keeps walking. And when we get to the truck, I open her door for her. She leans in first and tosses her sunglasses onto the dashboard. And as she leans, I notice the folded envelope sticking out of her jeans. The third letter. The old woman did say she found three letters, didn’t she? I look closer at the envelope. On its seal are Brooke’s infamous red lips. I smile and then catch something written underneath the stained lips. It’s two words in Brooke’s teenage handwriting: Good-bye, River.