Heather Burch - One Lavender Ribbon

One day, he would simply close his eyes and not open them. That’s how he envisioned it. Now Will, on the other hand, had a recurring nightmare where Pops took out the boat late at night and drowned. Will was a worrier. Not too much Pops could do or say to change that. “It’s just a dream,” Pops assured him. He’d even gone into his grandson’s room when he heard him thrashing about. Soothed his forehead, like he’d done a thousand times while Will was growing up. Pops understood nightmares. A man didn’t survive the second World War and return without knowing the power of bad dreams. But that wouldn’t be the end of life for Pops. No. He’d go to sleep and awaken on a fair morning in Glory. Where there wasn’t any arthritis, and there wasn’t any dew to threaten the path to the pier. Pops smiled.

Weathered fingers reached to the table lamp and fumbled with the switch. He slid his Bible closer, his thumb finding its way down the tattered leather edge.

He read, starting from where he’d stopped the previous morning, pulling the words deep into his soul. He closed the book and felt a quickening, an earnest expectation of something new, something fresh on the horizon.

“I’m not afraid to die.” Determination set his jaw as his gaze moved to the window. “But I’m also not afraid to live.” William rose, slipped on his shoes, and went downstairs to get the boat key. He was headed for the pier.

By morning, the storm had passed, and the silver box waited. Adrienne slept late, and the aching in her muscles confirmed overwork. Sanding an entire fireplace mantle that had fifty-plus years of layers of paint would do that to a body. She could count off the decades as she sanded. The yellow of the sixties, avocado green of the seventies, and then white. Layers and layers of white. But she’d almost completed the project. Just a few finishing touches remained. The desire for completion had fueled her for the better part of the day. Morning had turned to midday, and midday to dusk as she sanded and scraped like a maniac, shoving loose strands of hair from her eyes, blotting the sweat from her brow, barely stopping to take a break. Now she was wishing she’d used a little wisdom. Every muscle screamed. She needed a massage.

But the new home was finally becoming a warm replacement for the cold marriage she’d endured. Poetic justice. Her divorce settlement had purchased the house and would pay for restoring it while she figured out what she was going to do with the rest of her life. For now, the house would be her sole profession and her most appreciated companion. Its beautiful antebellum back porch stretching the length of the house, framed stunning views of the Gulf of Mexico. Gentle waves brushed toward her each morning as she sipped good coffee and contemplated the day’s project. But her body bore the abuse the renovation entailed. Adrienne needed to learn to ignore it. Today, she intended to ignore everything about the house. Not that she could pick up a hammer if she wanted to. She couldn’t—her muscle groups were all on strike. It wouldn’t matter anyway. Her attention had drifted elsewhere. She hurried downstairs, made coffee, and settled into a comfy chair to read. She placed the photograph beside her and dove into the letters.

August 1944

Dear Gracie,

I may be brief with this letter, but I promised to share with you all that I experience. War makes a man different. I’ve no other way to explain but that. Though this is a gray and dying world around me, there are tiny glimpses of vibrancy on the muted canvas. I live for those splashes of color and light. But I met death today. He stalks us even when we rest, giving no mercy. He knows no bounds. We sat in camp, some talking, others playing cards, awaiting word on our next mission. Runner—we call him that because his father makes moonshine in the South Carolina mountains—was relaxed at a table one moment, then collapsed the next. We’ve been trained in combat death, but not the kind that sneaks silently into the hallowed place of one’s daily order of life. This death touches me deeply because we had stayed up late into the night, talking about the ocean and fishing and life. His plans for return. And mine. I told him of you and Sara and deep-sea fishing on the Gulf. We joked that we would compare fish stories—him on the Atlantic and me on the Gulf. He’d decided to stop running moonshine. I told him that was good. And today he is gone. We’ve lost many. And more arrive to take their place, but that is the nature of war. And war is the nature of death. But death is not the nature of life. And yet, I am beginning to see that it is. Death is not an anomaly. Life—life is the anomaly. And what a glorious gift it is.

I won’t shelter you from what I see. You are strong, Grace. If I don’t share with you, I feel there will be a part of me that closes off. I must not let that happen. I won’t close any part of myself from you. I love you. Forgive me for loving you so much.

William

By the time she’d finished another letter, Adrienne formed a plan. She grabbed a quick shower and headed out the door, the address scrawled on a scrap of paper and the photograph tucked into her jacket pocket.

She forced her thoughts from the scenarios fluttering through her mind and concentrated on the drive, still loving the fact that she frequently passed things like signs pointing the way to the Gulf beaches and tiny little saltwater tackle shops that looked like a strong wind could drop them. Looking at palm tree–lined roads passed the time.

Less than twenty minutes and she was there. Adrienne chewed the inside of her cheek because her bottom lip couldn’t take any more abuse, and regarded the house. Her initial excitement waned. All morning—before the short drive from her home in Bonita Springs to Naples—this had seemed like a good idea. Now, apprehension crawled over her skin like fire ants. This was silly. She pressed her palm to her forehead and scanned the pretty dwelling at 41123 Canal Boulevard. She checked the address against the ornate numbers over the front door. What on Earth would she say? Hi, I’m a pathetic divorcée who has to live vicariously through letters about people I’ve never met. Adrienne put a hand to her stomach. Divorcée. She still hadn’t completely reconciled with that. The divorce, yes. Eric—brilliant cardiologist and adulterer—made it easy to walk away, but being a divorced woman at age twenty-eight, that was still difficult to swallow. It’s not like she was old. She’d married right out of college and now she was divorced . Which made her feel like a failure. Her fingers threaded through her hair in an attempt to erase her frustrations, but things like disillusionment and divorce didn’t go away easily.

Adrienne threw out a breath and slid from the car, giving the door a good slam to trap the aggravation inside the hot vehicle. Off to the side of the house lay an impressive garden like one might see on the cover of one of those DIY magazines she’d started collecting when she purchased the house. But she didn’t have time to examine it now.

Before she could change her mind, she headed to the front porch, her back arrow straight. The crisp white two-story sported pots of flowers arranged on a long front patio. A wooden swing anchored one corner, and the luscious scent of all the brightly colored flowers filled her nose. The wicker patio table and chairs waited for someone to sit, offering colored cushions to sink into. The home was about the size of her towering Victorian monster, but newer and in that beautiful Tuscan style of terra cotta rooftops and stucco walls. Without so much as a pause to catch her breath, she knocked.

When the door swung open, the blood drained from her face. Deep-green eyes greeted her. Beautiful eyes, she noted, for an instant forgetting why she’d come. He was handsome. But sadly, about fifty years too young to be whom she sought.