The One Real Thing (Hart's Boardwalk) (3 page)

I walked out of his apartment, knowing he’d gotten the reminder.

We were just fuck buddies.

He had no right to answers about anything in my life.

Despite the fact that I spent little time away from work, I stretched myself financially to rent my two-bedroom apartment downtown. I’d wanted the extra space so that my best friend, Matthew, his wife, Helena, and my goddaughter, Perry, could visit whenever they wanted.

It was a spacious and airy apartment with an open-plan kitchen and living room. It was stylish and comfortable, and my whole body seemed to sigh with relief every time I stepped inside it. I didn’t get much alone time here, but when I did, I savored it.

The first thing I did was shower, hurrying through the process and then speeding through blowing out my hair. It was still damp when I changed into my pajamas and wandered casually into the kitchen. The kitchen was the reason I chose the place. It was sleek, glossy, and white—white cabinets, white tile flooring, white sink, white stove: white, white, white. But the whiteness was broken up by the backsplash of leaf tiles—copper foil encased in glass. It was a glamorous touch of luxury, as was the huge picture window at the end of the kitchen that gave me a fantastic view of the city.

I grabbed a cold beer and stood at my kitchen counter, staring out the large window as if I hadn’t a care in the world. But trying to relax was impossible when my eyes kept drifting to my purse. I’d left it sitting on my favorite armchair.

Screw it.

I couldn’t wait anymore.

With cold beer in hand I curled up on the chair and pulled the envelopes out of my purse. Part of me wondered why whoever wrote them didn’t mail them, and why they stuck them inside of a book. Did they want them to be found eventually? Or was it wrong of me to read them?

I let my conscience decide it was the former. Putting my beer down, I opened all the envelopes. Inside were letters with lovely feminine handwriting. I checked each for a date.

They were written in 1976, forty years ago.

Wow.

I got little goose bumps just from touching the decades-old paper.

Putting them into chronological order, I picked up the first one, along with my beer, and settled in to read.

Sarah Randall

Inmate No. 50678

Women’s Correctional and Rehabilitation Facility

Wilmington, DE 19801

April 14, 1976

My darling George,

What you must think of me. I dread it. In fact, I can barely breathe under the weight of my secrets, secrets that have kept me from you. Secrets that have destroyed all the good you ever thought of me.

Perhaps it’s too late to explain. It’s definitely too late to change my circumstances. But not too late to change yours. Not too late to change how you think of me. I think I’d be okay if I knew you could forgive me.

You need to know that I love you. I have loved you from the
moment we collided on the boardwalk and you picked up my books and asked me if you could carry them for me. It was such an old-fashioned gesture, when all the other boys were too busy trying to be cool. You were always just you. And you were the kindest, most thoughtful boy I’d ever met. And you made me laugh. I never knew I could laugh like that until I met you.

Do you remember the day Kitty Green put my clothes down the toilet after gym class? I had to wear my gym clothes all day and everyone knew and laughed and teased me. Not only did you stand up for me, you took me to the boardwalk after school and you did all these funny impressions of Kitty and the mean girls. You turned my tears into laughter.

You have always turned my tears into laughter.

It was real between us. You have to know that. From that first smile, to our first kiss, to the first time you made love to me.

I never wanted those moments with anyone else.

If you believe anything in this world, believe that.

Believe that I love you more than any other person and that that love will never die. You’ll be the last image in my mind the day I leave this world, and I hope that image of your goodness, the love I feel for you, will be enough for God to recognize that I know of Heaven and I cherish its value. Perhaps in that knowledge He will forgive me and welcome me home.

Forever yours,

Sarah

It took me a moment to reach for the next letter. Already my chest ached. It was so desperately sad to read the woman’s profession of love without knowing why this stranger had been separated from someone she cared so deeply for. A small part of me envied
her, her love. The larger part of me knew I shouldn’t. She had clearly suffered even though she had known love.

I picked up the next letter, desperate to know the reason for their separation and her incarceration.

Sarah Randall

Inmate No. 50678

Women’s Correctional and Rehabilitation Facility

Wilmington, DE 19801

April 23, 1976

My darling George,

I am so sorry. I meant to explain everything in my first letter. I truly did. For a moment I lost courage. All that seemed important was telling you I loved you. But as important as that is, I realize it’s just as important for you to hear that I didn’t love Ron.

I pleaded guilty because it was the truth, George. I killed Ron. I killed my husband.

He didn’t deserve the title. He was cruel. Beyond cruel. There is no excuse good enough for taking a man’s life, I know that. But I was protecting myself. I’d taken so much for so long. He kept hurting me. From the night of our wedding until the day I shot him, Ron hurt me.

I didn’t want to marry him. He forced my hand. On the night of our wedding he took . . . I never wanted him. Not once throughout our marriage did I want him.

I was becoming nothing. I lost myself and it was his fault. He took everything from me. He took you from me.

That night he came home angry about something. He was so angry. He’d threatened to kill me before, and the last time
he’d been so angry that he’d almost succeeded. He beat me so bad I lost consciousness for hours. He had a doctor come in from out of town. He paid him a lot of money to keep quiet. Ron told everyone I’d gone to a spa for a few weeks. He almost killed me and yet he told people he’d paid for me to go to a spa.

So I knew. I knew that night when he came home that he was going to kill me. I felt it coming. I can’t explain it. I just knew in my gut. He managed to get a few hits in before I got away from him and got to his gun. I knew where he hid it. I made sure I knew after that last time.

He sneered at me. Said I didn’t have the backbone to do it.

I shot him in the heart. And I was surprised. Really surprised when it killed him. I just wanted him to stop.

I shot him.

Please forgive me, George.

I feel guilty. Ashamed. I do. But I also feel relief that I’m free of him. Maybe if you forgive me, I can forgive myself.

Forever yours,

Sarah

I was surprised at the splash of water that fell on the paper and I jerked it away from my tears. The ache in my chest had intensified as I read the second letter and for the first time in a long time I cried. I cried for this faceless woman. I cried for the powerlessness, the pain, and the truthful shame of that freedom that Sarah’s words invoked.

My phone suddenly rang and I felt like I jumped a foot in fright. For a moment there, everything had disappeared, including the apartment.

Reaching into my purse for my cell, the irritation I felt at being interrupted melted away when I saw who was calling.

It was Matthew. Matthew and I had been friends for twenty-five years. He was the only remaining tie I had to my life back in Iowa.

“Hey, you.” I smiled.

“Hey, sorry for calling so late.”

“Don’t be. Is anything wrong?”

He heaved a heavy sigh, causing the line to crackle. “Helena’s mom has been admitted to the hospital with pneumonia.”

I knew Helena was close to her mom. “Oh, God. What are the doctors saying?”

“Well, we’re hoping she’ll pull through, but even then she’s looking at some recovery time. She’s going to stay with us during recovery.”

Suddenly I knew the other reason he was calling. Every year, during the anniversary of my sister’s death, I went on vacation. This year I couldn’t because my colleague, Dr. Whitaker, had already put in for her vacation for the weeks that I’d wanted. And she refused to even consider swapping vacation time. I hated the idea of working during what was always a hard time for me. The next best thing I could do was to plan a vacation with my best friend. In two weeks, I’d planned on meeting Matthew, Helena, and Perry in Key West for a shared vacation together. I never went home to Iowa, so these planned trips were the only chance we had to see each other.

Disappointed, but more concerned for Helena and her mom, I said, “Matt, it’s okay. If you contact the owner of the house we were renting and explain, we should get our money back.”

“I’m not worried about the money. I’m worried about you. It was our only chance this year to see each other.”

“Don’t worry about me. I’ll figure something else out.”

“You’ll call me when you do?”

Smiling at his overprotectiveness, I said, “Yes. But more importantly, keep me posted about Helena’s mom. And give my love to her and Perry.”

“I will. We’ll talk soon?”

I could still hear the anxiety in his voice and I wished I were a less complicated person so he could stop worrying about me. “I promise.”

Once we hung up I stared at Sarah’s last two letters.

An emptiness had struck me when I realized Matt was canceling, and it suddenly expanded and filled my chest. It was strange how such emptiness could cause an ache.

I didn’t know what I was going to do. I had my three-week vacation time to use up and I knew I couldn’t stick around Wilmington for it. I’d have to come up with a plan.

The thought exhausted me so instead I picked up the letters and started reading again.

Sarah Randall

Inmate No. 50678

Women’s Correctional and Rehabilitation Facility

Wilmington, DE 19801

May 5, 1976

My darling George,

I will mail these letters to you. I will. It’s just taking me time to find the strength. Now you’ll get them all at the same time. At least you won’t have to wait for the truth then. There will be no agonizing wait as I try to gather my courage to tell you what I need to tell you.

If I could save you from this truth I would. Perhaps it is selfish of me to tell you now, after all these years of protecting you, but it has taken me this long to realize that secrets are poison. You, of all people, are owed the truth.

I wish I had known then what I know now.

Everything would be so different.

Do you remember the weekend you went with your father to tour the Princeton campus? You were so excited. You’d never wanted anything more than to be a Princeton man. Except
me, you said. You said you’d always want me more than anything.

Why didn’t I remember that then?

I am so sorry.

You were gone that weekend and that’s when Ron came to me. Remember he’d been bothering me for months, trying to get me to go out with him? He was becoming a problem. You two had that fight in Loretta’s the night he touched me. Everyone on the boardwalk was there to see you best Ron. He never forgave you for that. I sometimes wonder if he came after me just to get his revenge for that night.

Ron came to me and he had proof that Anderson was involved in criminal activity. I know how much you love your father and how proud you feel of him. Back then you were secure in your place in life: son of a state senator and soon-to-be Princeton freshman. I couldn’t bear the idea that you might find out, that all that would be taken away from you. But now here is the truth:

Ron discovered Anderson was making money illegally, mainly drugs and prostitution. He had photographs. Even I knew of Dot’s place out near Route 1. Your father was pictured there. Incriminating photos. Money passing hands outside the brothel. And Ron suspected your father of buying votes. Finally, he showed me money transfers from Anderson to Ron. Ron was blackmailing him, which was all the proof I needed that what he said was true.

At the time.

I wish I could go back to that scared kid and tell her to trust you, to tell you, to let you take care of it. But I’d lost Mom and you knew how much that destroyed my world. I didn’t want to destroy yours like that by taking away your father.

I realize now how wrong I was.

Please forgive me.

Ron told me he would go to the police and the newspapers with what he’d found and that not only would Anderson go to jail, but you would lose any chance you had of getting into Princeton. Your whole future was on the line. I was stupid. So stupid.

I agreed to marry Ron in exchange for his silence.

Everything fell apart anyway. You hated me. I still see your face when I told you what I’d done while you were gone. I will never get that look out of my head. And I understand.

About you and Annabelle.

I don’t know if you slept with her to hurt me or if you genuinely cared for one another. When the baby came, when little Marie came, I was angry. I was hurt. I was . . . I lost my love and I lost my best friend. I lost my best friend when I needed her the most. But over time I’ve grown to understand. I hope you two found happiness in your marriage in spite of everything.

And I’m sorry that after everything I hid so you would have Princeton and the future you dreamed of, fate took it away from you anyway. But I hope that being a father has been a new kind of dream, better than the one that came before it. God, I hope that for you, George.

I’m sorry for keeping the truth from you for so long. I’m just so ashamed that something that could have been avoided grew so out of my control.