Tell Me When It Hurts (25 page)

Connor

After folding the letter in thirds, Connor tucked it in a white envelope and wrote Archer’s name on the front in his bold, blocky print, all in capital letters. He licked the envelope flap, closed it, and left it on the kitchen counter for her to find when she returned.

* * *

Archer found the note on the kitchen counter when she arrived home from shopping. She read it twice, tucked it into her jeans pocket, pulled it out, and read it again. Then she put it down and went over to light the fire. Once it was going, she pulled her chair close and, sitting with her legs tucked under her, read it yet a fourth time.

After the fourth reading, Archer let the letter fall into her lap. She leaned her head back against the chair and shut her eyes tight to hold back the tears. She loved Connor; that wasn’t the issue at all. If she went to Wyoming, she would be moving on, forsaking Annie. This was her penance. Bottom line: she knew she didn’t deserve to be happy. Her suffering was limitless; she’d earned it, and there would be no reprieve. The memories of her life with Annie and Adam were her torment. She couldn’t give to Connor what was left of her ability to love, lessening what was there for Annie. She couldn’t give him the allegiance she gave the Group. She was going to lose him, she knew. This was her karma, her fate, her legacy—more losses on the growing heap. But this she knew. She could do this until her time was up.

After carefully writing her answer, she jogged up to the Cloisters and left it there on the big rock, in a white envelope secured by a stone. Connor would see it. It was where they always sat and viewed the glory of the mountain during their jogging break.

She walked home quietly, taking her time, wending her way through the leafless trees. When she got back, she sat in her chair by the fire and wept. This time her tears were for herself and for what might have been.

* * *

Connor walked up to the Cloisters with a light step. He had a bottle of champagne under one arm, and a small bunch of flowers he had carefully selected at Stop and Shop that morning. They had wilted a bit in the crisp air but were still pretty and merry. Alice pranced by his side, not sure why the day was special, but appearing to know that it was. It was a beautiful February afternoon, sunny, about fifty-five degrees. The days were getting longer, and the sun felt cheering and somehow auspicious.

Maybe they would get a redo, Connor thought. Maybe everyone deserved a redo. He paced along the ledge, anxious for Archer to arrive. She loved him. She would come; he knew it.

At three, Connor began to pace in a wide circle, hands in his jacket pockets. She would be coming now. Soon Hadley would come bounding through the clearing a few steps ahead of her. He would hear them soon. She would smile and throw her arms around his neck. He stood impatiently at the edge of the cliff. He could see almost to Mt. Tom from here.

At 3:15, Connor began to worry for the first time. Maybe she wouldn’t come. Maybe she hadn’t seen his note on the kitchen counter. He turned away from the logging path to sit on their rock, and then he saw it, small and very white: an envelope. In her direct, angular script, she had written his name on it. It lay under a stone.

Connor moved the stone, picked up the envelope, and sat down on the granite boulder. Slipping his thumb under the glued flap, he opened the envelope and pulled out the short note, feeling a landslide in the pit of his stomach. He read:

Connor finished reading and had to will himself to breathe. The once jaunty bouquet bent sadly between his fingers, then slipped from his hand and tumbled to the ground. The green champagne bottle sat untouched, still chilling in the snow, the glasses upright and still tipped toward each other. A celebration stillborn.

Connor leaned against a tree for support. His body crumpled forward, and he slumped to his knees, lacking the strength to remain upright. An owl in a tall pine stared down at him, then flew away as if alarmed by the sight. The squirrels playing nearby scurried away. For the first time in thirty years, since the death of the mare named Sabrina, Connor McCall cried. It was a muffled requiem, a quiet dirge of despair.

* * *

That night it snowed. The next morning, Connor packed up his camp, and at four a.m., he walked to Archer’s house to retrieve Millie, hoping Hadley wouldn’t bark. He couldn’t face Archer and her rejection of their chance at happiness together.

Hadley didn’t bark, and Millie came along easily. Connor tacked her up by the remaining moonlight; she seemed hesitant but accepting. The several inches of snow formed good footing for their walk down the mountain to the trailer, to begin the long trip home. Alice followed closely behind, a solemn shadow.

* * *

Archer awoke early that morning. She had slept poorly. When she saw that it was five thirty, she got up and quickly put on the coffee. She had made a mistake—she felt it. She wasn’t helping Annie; she was just beating herself up pointlessly. Pulling on her jeans, a sweatshirt, and insulated Wellington boots, she grabbed the lantern.

“
Hadley, come on,” she called. They ran down the logging path. Archer anticipated Connor’s delight. He might laugh and say, “I knew you’d change your mind. A woman’s prerogative. I waited for you to come.” He might. It could be a Hollywood ending.

The sun was just starting to come up. She needed the lantern for only a few minutes, and then it was light enough to see. She jogged steadily, with each steamy breath vowing,
I’ll explain, make it right.

She turned the bend, and the campsite came into view. She stopped dead in her tracks. The tent and equipment were gone. All that was left was a barren patch where the tent had been, and the outlines of tent pegs.

Archer drooped. It couldn’t be. But it was. It just wasn’t meant to be—that’s what it meant. She looked down the path that led to the road, but saw only Millie’s hoofprints in the snow . . . leaving. This was the Berkshires, not Hollywood. No happy ending to this little drama.

“
Godspeed, Connor,” she whispered, turning away. “Have a good life.”

CHAPTER 27

Despite Archer’s personal gloom, March blew in, blooming, blustering, and lovely. The weather was warmer than normal, and trees were already budding, nature’s contrast with her mood feeling somehow almost mocking. Archer went to her job on her committed days, and the work was a saving grace.

I lived before him,
she thought,
and I’ll live after him
. She continued to go to the movies on Wednesdays, but the enjoyment was spare. The first week, when she approached the ticket booth, the cashier asked, “Oh, just one today?”

From now through eternity, just one,
Archer thought, but aloud she said, “Yes, just one, thank you.”

Several days after Connor left, Archer resumed her morning runs. For a few weeks she consciously avoided the route by his campsite, but it was the best and prettiest trail, so she began to use it again. The first day she ran by, she was stunned to see the daffodils he had planted greeting her in their bright yellow finery.

“
Well, I’ll be damned,” was all Archer could say as she stopped to take it in. “Connor’s garden.”

She wanted to call him and tell him, but he wouldn’t want to hear from her. When something isn’t working, it’s “on to the next play,” he used to say. She was something that wasn’t working.

* * *

That afternoon, Archer went into town to pick up her mail from her post office box. For weeks now, she had hoped for a letter from Connor. She doubted he would call, but he might send a note at least, maybe renew his invitation to join him.

But after a month of disappointments, she discarded that dream as well. Love did not conquer all, and fate would not make it all come out happy. Fate also could make things come out ugly and mean. She, of all people, should know that by now. At most, shards of happiness were what she must gather and cherish—mere shards to pick over in her dotage.

Archer waved to the postmaster, slid the little key into the slot, and pulled the door open. Inside, she saw a big manila envelope. Pulling it out, she saw Connor’s name and address neatly handwritten in the upper left corner. Archer’s address was written in the same neat block print, and along one side was written, “
Do not fold—Photographs.
”

After slamming her mailbox shut, Archer sprinted for her car. Hadley greeted her with a snuffle. Archer pulled the door open, got in, and grabbed her reading glasses from an inner compartment of her pocketbook; her hands shook as she put them on. Her mouth was dry. She swallowed hard, slit the sealed flap, and lifted the edge of the envelope.

Please, please let there be a letter,
she entreated silently, eyes closed, slipping her hand into the envelope. There were three five-by-eight photographs and two four-by-sixes. She stared at each one for a long time.

The five-by-eights were in color. They were unposed, at the restaurant in Boston. In two of them, Archer and Connor were looking toward the camera, smiling, both radiant. In the third, Archer was still smiling at the couple, but Connor was smiling at her, his eyes soft, keen, in love. How could she have missed it for so long? It pained her to look, but neither could she look away.

Finally, she turned her attention to the other set. The four-by-sixes were black and white. Had the photographer changed cameras? She hadn’t noticed. Both showed Connor and Archer raising their glasses in a toast to the elderly couple at the other table. Archer caressed each photo lovingly. Connor.
Do I drive away everyone I love?

She peered eagerly inside the manila envelope again. There
had
to be a note. There had to be. She shook it out, holding it upside down, and finally a mockingly small note fell out, a two-by-two square of bright yellow paper that said, “Ye of little faith! C.”

“
That’s it?” she cried, staring into the envelope to make sure. “That’s it? You’ve got to be kidding!”

But still, she had the pictures. She held all five close to her, closed her eyes, and sighed deeply. Then she put them back carefully into the envelope and laid it on the seat next to her. She sat quietly for a few moments, then started the engine and headed home.

When she got home, Archer found an old, empty photograph frame in one of the boxes in the basement, dusted it off, and meticulously cleaned the glass. Then she polished the wooden frame with lemon oil and fitted one of the pictures of her and Connor into the mahogany frame. She placed it on the kitchen counter, fussing with its position until she had it right—visible from her reading chair as well as from everywhere in the kitchen.

As for the black-and-whites, she went to her bedroom and got out her sewing box, where she kept a pair of sharp little scissors. She took them out, and with utmost care, she cut herself out of the photo, salvaging only a smiling Connor, which she cut into a smooth oval.