53 Letters For My Lover (38 page)

August 6th, 2001

The cottage looks the
same, except parts of it have been upgraded. The old couch has been replaced with a sleek, but comfortable sofa. There’s a flat screen TV on the wall and new appliances in the kitchen. The counter is smooth, black granite, but the cabin retains its warm, cozy feel. The bathroom has been renovated too: a deep Victorian tub with gilded feet, separate shower stall, fancy faucets, fresh paint. Everything has changed except for the mirror.

BB♥SC. That’s what it said, in foggy letters, one sunny, stolen weekend.

The online ad featured a picture from above, a satellite image, but when Amy sent me more photos, I knew. I held my breath as I scrolled through the gallery. The wooden beams, the weathered paint, the stone tiles leading down to the lake.

Our
cottage.

I wanted to sit in the hammock again, to dip my feet in the water, to curl up in bed and wake up to the call of the loon. Everything about it called me back.

Come, come. ‘X’ marks the spot.

I called Amy the next day and booked it for the week that Hafez had the kids over.

I needed time to heal, to sleep in, to watch the moon. I felt like I had just come off a ragged rollercoaster—the shock of cancer, surgery, chemo. The divorce. The shock of losing Troy.

It’s been months since he left for New York, but it still hurts like a wound that just keeps leaking and leaking. He won’t return my calls. I logged into [email protected] for the first time, and found messages from him, every year on our birthday, since we set it up. Every year except this one. I think of my own silent tradition, of baking brownies for him on that day, even if they never got him.

‘I miss you,’ I typed and hit ‘send’.

No answer.

Each time I drive by his work, I die a little. Each time I think of that empty loft, I reach for his rosary. The silver cross is worn from years of sitting in the nook between his collarbones. Every wooden bead is like a memory of us, round and whole, but pierced through the middle. At night I count on the beads.

Come back to me.

Come back to me.

There are moments when I forget, like last week, when Hafez came over and we played board games with Natasha and Zain. They seem to be handling it well, although sometimes I catch them eavesdropping when I’m talking to my oncologist on the phone. They almost lost me; they almost lost Hafez. I think they’re just thankful to have both their parents, even if it’s not under the same roof.

“Hey, you want to join us? We ordered pizza and Nathan’s brought a movie.” Natasha poked her head in my room last night.

“Thanks, but I just want to get some writing done. Are you all packed for tomorrow?”

“Yep. So’s Zain. Dad’s taken the week off so he can take us camping. Nathan’s parents are letting him come too. This is turning out to be an awesome summer!”

“I’m glad,” I said.

“So what are you writing?”

“Just bits and pieces...of life.”

I want to finish what I started in that sunny corner of Troy’s bedroom; the letters I wrote for him, about him. Because I didn’t want him peeking into my life through the tiny windows of our time together. And even though he’s gone, he will always be my prince, my fairy tale, the happily-ever-after that eluded me. Maybe when I finish this, I’ll be at peace. And so I keep typing, on the silver laptop he gave me.

I get it out of the trunk, along with the rest of my luggage and let myself into the cottage. The air conditioning is on at full blast. I unzip my bag and remove the red shawl Troy got for me. It wraps around me like a hug from a cherished gift.

I walk out to the hammock and doze off to the sound of soft, swishing waves. There is some magic here, this little spot in this big, big world, that heals me. Perhaps it’s the memories we made, Troy and I, some seeds of happiness, still scattered in the air.

I stir as the sun starts to set, and head back in. For the first time in months, I’m famished. I get dinner started before checking in with Hafez and the kids.

It isn’t until I hang up that I see it—the photo on the mantle, above the fireplace

It can’t be.

I make my way over and pick up the frame.

It is.

I feel a fluttering inside me.

I’m a realtor. I can get to the bottom of this.

I turn on my laptop and start searching.

It doesn’t take too long to find it. I note the name on the transaction and I’m torn between giddiness and a sick sense of grief. I pick up the frame again, but it slips from my hand and crashes on the floor.

Crap. I broke it.

I start picking up the pieces and find something sticking out behind the photo. It’s another print, a faded image from years ago. I miss it the first time, but when I look again, there it is. Staring at me in the face. I sit down in stunned disbelief. All this time, all this time, the one thing that could have changed it all.

I might have started sobbing at the grand cosmic joke I was holding in my hands, but a surge of determination shot through me. I was going to make it happen. It
had
to happen. Because I had proof that it was meant to be. I start laughing at the inevitability of it.

Troy Heathgate, you don’t stand a snowball’s chance in hell.

August 7th, 2001

Midtown Manhattan is a
living, breathing organism that pulses to its own beat. The lights, traffic, architecture, surround me as I make way to the ‘x’ on my street map.

Heathgate Group is housed in an imposing building with soaring glass doors and a lobby that features striking artwork, reflected off polished floors.

I head to the restroom first, squaring my shoulders as I look in the mirror. Maybe I should have picked something more conservative, but the leather jacket from Ken and Judy’s makes me look tougher than I feel. And I’m hoping the slouchy vintage boots mask my wobbly knees. My hands are unsteady as I apply the lipstick. Crushed Roses. Red hot lips are my man’s weakness, and I need every advantage for this confrontation. I stand back and take a deep breath. Then I head for Troy Heathgate’s office.

“Do you have an appointment?”

His receptionists are stunning. Beyond stunning. I want him to fire them all.

“No, but I’ve come a long way. I’m sure he’ll see me.”

They refrain from laughing in my face. They’re beyond professional too.

“He’s in a meeting so it might be a while. Are you sure you don’t want to make an appointment for another day?”

“I’ll wait. As long as it takes.” I take a seat on a gracefully upholstered leather chaise, trying to get a grip on my thundering heart.

The reception area is buzzing like a hive. So many people. So many offices. The incessant ring of telephone calls, hushed conversations, not so hushed conversations, endless sheafs of paper collecting at the photocopying station. Every minute that passes cranks up my nerves, until I’m coiled so tight, I spring off the chair and head for the coffee machine. I’m half way there when I see him, through the glass panels of the board room.

He’s let his hair grow, as if he can’t be bothered with such mundane tasks as getting it cut. Sexy stubble outlines his jaw as he absently taps a sleek, silver pen against the solid wood conference table. He looks like a bad boy who’s behaving just so he can make it to recess, a bad boy who completely relishes getting out of that tailor-made suit. The thought turns my insides into mush.

I’m here to claim this sexy, passionate beast of a man.

I don’t know if I can do it.

You can.

You must.

The meeting ends as I stand there, leering. I make a dash for my chair as the door opens, and then I wait. And wait.

The room empties, but Troy doesn’t come out. One of the girls goes in to see him.

I twist the rosary around my wrist, waiting, waiting, waiting.

“He’ll see you now.” She finally comes out, and leaves the door ajar.

I put one foot in front of the other and step inside the room.

The vast length of the conference table separates us. Troy remains seated at the other end, his hands clasped before him. Damn. He always looks better than I can ever picture in my head.

“What can I do for you? Shayda...Kazemi.” He reads my name from the note his assistant left him.

“I was hoping we could talk.” Suddenly, I’m acutely aware of my cropped hair, that’s slowing growing out after the chemo.

“So talk.” He gestures to the seat near the door, the one furthest from him.

“I’d rather stand.” I need the advantage of height, even though my legs feel like toothpicks, about to snap under his piercing glare.

“Suit yourself.”

“You didn’t tell me you bought the cottage.”

“I wasn’t aware I needed to keep you apprised of my investments.”

“I rented it for the week.”

“Yes, my property manager forwarded the info.”

“Amy? Amy is your property manager?”

“Shayda.” He taps the pen impatiently. “Why are you here?”

It’s now or never, Shayda. Now or never.

“Because I love you. Because I miss you. Because I was empty before you and I’m empty after you. Because the only time I’ve felt truly alive is the time I’ve spent with you.”
I’ll rip my guts out, spill my soul all over this table. Anything, anything to get through to you.

Steely-eyed silence.

“I do recall asking you to marry me,” he says. “But then you had a change of heart.”

“It’s always been you, Troy. Always.”

“Let me get this straight.” He leans forward. “You think you can march in here with your hot lips, in that sexy outfit, and expect me to just roll over? Because you’re bored and lonely now? Because you’ve decided you’d like to have me around, after all?”

“Don’t do this, Troy. Not when we’re finally here, at this perfect intersection; when we’re finally free to be together.”

“What makes you think I’m still free?”

“I don’t care!” The intensity of my admission catches me off guard. But it’s true—I really don’t care. “
Make
yourself free. You’re mine, Troy. You taught me to fight for what I want. You showed me that I matter; what I want matters. So here I am. And I get that you’re hurting—I get that you want me to hurt too. I’m sorry, Troy. I’m so, so sorry for shutting you out. Time and time again. But I
know
you. Every cell, every edge, every fibre of your being. You miss me just as much as I miss you.”

His expression doesn’t change. He’s completely bulletproof.

“Do you know what this is?” I place the picture I found at the cottage in front of him.

He throws it a brief glance. “It’s a photo of me, from years ago,” he says. “I’m rollerskating with my neighbour, Carol, on the boardwalk by my parents’ place.”

“It was tucked away behind your parents’ photo. The one from your loft. You remember, you had it on the shelf in your living room?”

“You came all the way here to show me this?”

“Look again, Troy.”

He gives it another scan, but this time he pauses. “Is that...is that
you
?”

Bingo. Upper right hand corner, behind the roller-skating duo, sitting on the grass with my knees to my chest, looking at their backs. My face is blurry, but there’s no mistaking it.

“It was you, Troy. The day I went looking for a sign. I saw
you
. I wanted to be the girl holding your hand, I wanted us to be that couple. We were like two stars converging around the same axis, but with paths that missed each other by a fraction of infinity. And so we passed each other by. Don’t let that happen again, Troy.”

He focuses his magnetic blues on me. Then he pushes the photo away with lethal calmness. “I told you, Shayda. I’m not free.”

“Kiss me, Troy.” I splay my hands on the table and lean in. “If there really is no room for me in your heart, I’ll know. I’ll walk out of here and you’ll never see me again.”

My pulse skyrockets as his face comes closer, but his lips never get to mine.

“I don’t have to prove anything to you,” he says.

I feel his hot breath on my cheek. Then he gets up and holds the door open.

My heart sinks.

Gabriella. Ella.

I should have known.

Oh, fate. What a wicked, wicked game you play.

I walk past him, crossing the threshold back to my world, with a crushing sense of defeat. I feel like I’ve just lost the biggest presentation of my life.

Repeat after me.

I will not break down in front of all these people.

I will not.

Will not.

Break down.

Incredibly, my legs hold up. They carry me through all the noise and chatter outside the board room. All I want to do is find a quiet corner so I can fall apart.

“Wait.” I hear Troy calling over the commotion. “I believe you have something of mine.”

I turn around and find him standing by the reception.

“Sorry?”

“You have something that belongs to me.”

I feel the heaviness of his rosary around my wrist.