This is a romantic tale exploring the developing affections of two young women brought together by a past connection they share. Not a story driven by dramatic conflict, but more dependent on the peeling away of layers and the unfolding of events. There's definitely sex, but it happens later in the story.
*****
Seattle, Washington, 2000
When 'Grandma Audrey' passed away from cancer at age 75, I was deeply saddened. She had been such a positive light in my life and a true inspiration for me. And now she was gone. Audrey Ellison was a strong-willed person who stood up for women's rights, and for those less fortunate. And on a more personal level, it was her love of literature and her work as a high school English teacher that eventually led me, Adina Gray, to pursue a career in journalism.
Now, at twenty-seven, I'd been at it long enough to have established a reputation as a writer of some worth, and as someone who manages to meet her deadlines. But I never went in for any of that investigative journalism or city desk stuff. I was more drawn to stories with a personal slant, or 'features' as they're often called in the biz. At the time of this story, I was mostly working freelance for a travel magazine, which had its perks. My last assignment had me reviewing Costa Rican travel lodges!
Grandpa died well before Grandma, leaving her to spend her last years on her own, in the very house she had lived in with her husband for nearly forty years. When Grandma became sick, she fought my parents 'tooth and nail' to not relocate her to a care facility. And so, instead of risking an all-out civil war, my parents wisely enlisted a nurse to come to Grandma Audrey's home and provide her with as much care and support as Grandma, and the nurse, could possibly stand.
"I'm ready to head out," my mom called out to me. "Are you going to be alright?"
"Yeah, I'll be fine, Mom. Thanks!" Mom and I had been cleaning out Grandma's place for the past week, and it was starting to feel fresh and alive in there again. Curtains were open and the windows washed. And quite a bit of stuff donated to Salvation Army. Of course, it wasn't too bad a job, for Grandma wasn't a hoarder, or messy, even when she was ill. And since I was moving into the house, I could take it at my own pace, and gradually settle in.
That's right, I was moving in. Keep it in the family, I say. And I sure as heck couldn't beat the price.
But I really did love the house. It was a cute marine blue bungalow chock full of so many wonderful childhood memories. The Christmases in that house were an especially grand time for me. Granted, the house was a bit dog-eared in places and rather old fashioned in many respects, but it also had its charm. And the kitchen and main bathroom had been remodeled about ten years ago, so they were now much nicer. Lighting had been modernized as well.
But the main reason I was moving in was because about a year prior, my husband and I had finally called it quits. I give the two of us some credit. We did keep it going for five years. But eventually it fell apart and I was forced to slink back home with no children to show for it, and with my tail between my legs. Speaking of 'tail', that was one of my reasons for ending it. Jeffrey just couldn't keep his pants zipped.
My first night alone in the house wasn't the best night of sleep I'd ever had. It was strange being in Grandma's bed that night, on the very mattress she'd spent her last days on. Even with fresh sheets, I kept waking up throughout the night, sure that her ghost was pattering about the house in those blue fuzzy slippers. Every cursed creak and groan had me sitting up and staring into the dark.
"Okay," I muttered. "Maybe I should hire an exorcist..."
Well, I never did hire an exorcist. But I did buy myself a new mattress! Not that I believe in ghosts or goblins, but one can never be too sure. In preparation for its arrival, I stripped the bedding and yanked Grandma's mattress off the slats and onto the floor. 'A good time to dust under the bed,' I thought.
And that's when I found the letters. Inside a shoebox.
I raised up the slatting and retrieved the dusty box from beneath the bed. Scrawled on the top in bold black marker were the initials, 'L. D.'. I sat in a nearby chair and opened the box. There inside, were a packet of letters all neatly bound together with thick yellow string tied off in a bow.
When I say 'letters', I should mention that they were still tucked inside their original envelopes. This was very good, for it offered more clues as to their origin. Without undoing the string, I attempted to discern who the sender was, but it was difficult to tell much without unbinding the packet. I gleaned from the top one that it was addressed to my Grandma, though the address wasn't one I recognized.
Audrey Callaghan, 35th Ave. NE., Seattle, Washington.
Grandma's maiden name was Callaghan, and the address was probably from when she was a young girl going to school in Seattle. If there was a return address, it would be on the back, I surmised. And so, with nervous anticipation, I undid the tie.
I felt a bit uncomfortable, knowing that I was about to violate my grandmother's privacy, and yet, she could hardly mind now. Besides, there was no possible way I'd pass on a chance to examine the contents of these letters. And much better that I found them than some stranger. Or worse, they were tossed out, and an important part of our family history was forever lost.
The Letters
Having removed the string, I began shuffling through the first few envelopes. They were slit across the top, indicating that they'd been opened and read. As I looked through the stack, what soon became clear is that they were all written by the same person; Lucy Dwyer. Thus, the initials on the box. 'L.D.' As I suspected, her return address was on the back of the first envelope.
Lucy Dwyer, The Vintage Inn, Seattle, WA.
I made a note to look into that. I checked the stamped postal dates, and they were all mailed sometime during the mid- to late 1940's, when my Grandma would have been of college age. I knew from conversations with her that she had attended the University of Washington.
"The Vintage Inn could very well be the name of a women's boarding school," I deduced, my journalism skills slowly kicking in. "Lucy and Audrey were maybe schoolmates." How fascinating! A glimpse into post-war college life.
The first set of envelopes were in various pastel colors with flowery borders, which would be typical for a young woman of that time to use for sending letters. And what beautiful, flowing handwriting! Of course, a woman was trained to do these things back then. You know, sew, cook, drink from a cup, and walk with a book on her head.
I can't remember the last time I wrote anything to anyone. I do have some colleagues who swear that their work improves when they write by hand, but I'm not one of those people. Now it's email, text, cut, paste, upload, download...add an emoji...
I noticed that the last three envelopes were larger in size and off-white. And based on the date stamp, they were from a much later period. They were addressed to Audrey Ellison, at this address, which is where she moved with her husband Conrad Ellison in the 60's. These too were from Lucy, only now she was Lucy Dwyer-Bledsoe, and living in San Francisco, California.
"Hmmm..." All these years later, and they continued to correspond. Who was this friend who meant so much to my Grandma that she kept her letters for all this time? I couldn't remember her ever mentioning such a person. Perhaps Mom knew something of her?
My hands were sweating so much that I went and got a towel to dry them off. The last thing I wanted was to soil these precious artifacts. I also decided to move out to the living room, turn on a table lamp, and settle in with a cup of tea for what I presumed would be a captivating read.
"Where to start?" I wondered out loud, as I shuffled through the stack. There clearly was a story here, and it seemed best if it unfolded chronologically. I sorted the letters as best I could by their date stamps and opened the first letter.
Seattle, 1945
