More Than Words Can Say
Read More Than Words Can Say Online
Authors: Robert Barclay
More Than Words
Can Say
Robert Barclay
Dedication
For my parents, Harry and Muriel.
I couldn’t have done it without you.
Contents
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Reading Group Questions for
More Than Words Can Say
More Than Words Can Say
The Story Behind the Book by Robert Barclay
Addendum: A Small Collection of Brooke Bartlett’s Personal Recipes from World War II
A
s the young woman sat on the front porch of her cabin, her heart ached. Unable to sleep, she had left her bed and come here to gaze out over the moonlit lake she so loved. It had been her hope that the soothing waves might coax the sandman nearer, but so far, that had not been the case.
A black leather journal lay in her lap, its next empty page waiting to accept her troubled thoughts. To be sure, she had written other journal entries since coming here to spend the summer alone. But to her great dismay, each one had been more heartrending than the last. Worse yet, the one she was about to create would surpass even the sadness of its predecessors.
At last, she unscrewed the cap from her fountain pen, and she began to write:
Friday, August 7, 1942, midnight
This wonderful cabin is quite unused to seeing heartache. Instead, it has always been a place to which I could come and happily forget all about the world. But now a terrible war is raging, the same awful struggle in which so many other countries have been desperately fighting for years but finally engulfed the United States just nine months ago. So now heartache and worry exist even here, instead of the happy and joyous feelings that had heretofore always filled these humble rooms. Even so, the war is but one factor in my grief, rather than the entire cause. Because most of my heartache, I must admit, is a product of my own making . . .
Before now, I had always loved being here. And for as long as I can remember, I had believed that I always would. But so much has happened to me during my brief summer stay that I can no longer be certain of those long-held sentiments. Part of my anguish is due to the fact that this terrible war has taken my loving husband far from me, so that he might finish his military training. And then he will go on to lead others like him in the killing of our enemies, leaving me alone and causing me to wonder if he will ever return . . .
Pausing for a moment, she put down her pen and then turned to gaze down the sandy, moonlit shoreline. A recently built cottage stood there in the darkness. Although no lights shined through its windows at this hour, she knew that he was there. She could almost feel his presence, beckoning her to go to him. As tears began filling her eyes, she again bent to her task . . .
As I look out at the lake, the intense quiet of this place only deepens the sense of guilt that has been growing in my heart since the day I first met him. I should go home, I know; back to Syracuse, where I would not be so easily tempted. But if I did return to my previous life, would it still hold the same meaning for me? Or would the pain of being without him cause me to rush back? Sadly, I fear that it would be the latter . . .
I know that I should leave here and do my very best to forget him, but I cannot. Because so long as he remains, my heart won’t let me. And so, I sit alone on my porch at midnight, watching the waves and wondering where the fates will eventually lead me. As I look at the sky, the clouds seem unusually bright this night, highlighted as they are by a magnificent full moon. Are all of the world’s lovers like them, I wonder? Are we too just clouds of constantly changing nature, randomly colliding with one another in a turbulent sky?
On finishing her soul-searching entry, the distraught young woman closed the journal. And this time when she cried, her tears came without end . . .
Early June 1999
Syracuse, New York
C
ongratulations,” Allistaire Reynolds said. “Despite the tragic circumstances, of course.”
Yet again, Chelsea Enright nodded incredulously. “Thank you,” she answered. “I think . . .”
Allistaire leaned back in his chair. He was an attractive man in his early sixties, with a full head of gray hair and a matching, neatly trimmed mustache. The sleeves of his white dress shirt were rolled up, and a navy suit jacket hung informally from his chair back. A lifelong antiques hound, he had tastefully decorated his law office with a selection of Americana that gave the room a homey, lived-in look.
“Your grandmother Brooke had me amend her will on the day that you were born,” Allistaire explained. “Although she never said why, she wanted you to have the cottage rather than your mother. And for other reasons that she never divulged, after her car crash she never went back.”
“I’m grateful to Gram, but I’m not sure about what to do with a cottage,” Chelsea said. “I was aware that she owned it. But I’ve never seen it, and my inheriting it is a big surprise . . .”
Allistaire shrugged his shoulders. “I understand,” he answered. “But before you pass judgment on a place that you’ve never even seen, let me explain a few things.”
His lawyerly persona now surfacing in full, Allistaire leaned forward and laced his fingers atop the desk.
“As you probably know, your great-grandfather James first owned the cottage,” Allistaire said. “He was the one who had it built, back in the 1930s. Then, in 1943, while your grandmother was still in her in her midtwenties, she had her car accident. Because of the war and having to care for your grandmother, your great-grandparents became too busy to get up there very often. When they died, your grandmother of course inherited the place, but she never returned there. Because of her handicap, she requested that this firm serve as her property manager. The first lawyer who handled it arranged for all of the cottage expenses to be sent here, where they were paid from Brooke’s escrow account. That remains the case today.”
Pausing for a moment, Allistaire took a sip of coffee and collected his thoughts.
He soon continued. “Anyway, sometime around 1946 or 1947, your great-grandparents thought it prudent to hire a young handyman to help look after the place. He’s of French origin and quite ancient now, but believe it or not, he still does a pretty good job. Knows the property like the back of his hand. He oversees any needed repairs, keeps me updated, things like that. When the first attorney retired, your grandmother became my client, and I’ve taken care of all her affairs since then. Even though they never met, the caretaker served your grandmother steadfastly for all that time.
“Also,” he added, “before her recent death, Brooke had the cottage’s appliances and electrical service upgraded, along with the phone service. She realized that she wasn’t getting any younger, and she wanted to know that when you inherited the place, it would be livable—or sellable, should you wish. She even had a dishwasher installed, but otherwise, nothing about the property has changed. It must be an antique-hunter’s dream! Long story short, the place has been uninhabited for over sixty years, and now it’s yours.”
Allistaire gestured toward a thick file that lay atop his desk.
“Everything’s in there,” he said. “Repair bills, Brooke’s will, tax receipts, deed, escrow account statements, your codicil—the works.”
While staring blankly at the folder, Chelsea shook her head. “I still don’t get it,” she said. “That cottage should have gone to my mother.”
Allistaire smiled again. “Perhaps,” he answered. “But Brooke was a sharp old gal. She must have had some good reason for willing it to you, rather than to Lucy.”
“But I’m not sure that I can afford to keep it,” Chelsea answered. “The taxes, the maintenance . . .”
“Don’t worry about all that,” Allistaire answered. “There’s enough escrow money—which, by the way, is now also under your control—to cover the expenses for a long time. And there are additional funds set aside in Brooke’s will, should you need them. Plus, the property is completely unencumbered.”
“So I can sell it, if I want?” Chelsea asked.
As Allistaire leaned back again, his chair hinges squeaked pleasantly. “Sure,” he answered. “But you should at least go and look at it. Who knows? You might like it.”
Chelsea doubted that, because she had never been the outdoors type. She didn’t particularly like hiking or boating, the only place she had ever caught a fish was in her supermarket basket, and her most adventurous experience with wildlife had been raising Dolly, her beloved golden retriever.
While Chelsea considered his advice, Allistaire admired her. She was a tall, single, and attractive woman of thirty-three. Chelsea was a respected and tenured art teacher at a local Syracuse high school, and she loved her work. Though he was a confirmed bachelor, whenever Allistaire saw Chelsea, he sharply lamented their insurmountable age difference.