“I think the word you’re looking for is ‘un-special.’”
“Pretty sure un-special isn’t even a word.”
I smirk at him. “It is now.”
If he’s annoyed, he doesn’t let on, just keeps his eyes on the bay. I let my gaze linger a little too long on his profile. Despite his general calm nature, when he’s not actively riling me up, there’s a wildness to him that draws me in. It’s the unpredictability of it that intrigues me. Like he’s a mystery that’s waiting to be unraveled.
Back in the city, there’s no mystery. With social media and places like LinkedIn, you can immediately pull a profile on someone new within seconds without ever having to ask them a question about themselves.
With Elias, you have to ask questions.
And he may refuse to answer them.
It’s both thrilling and a little maddening all at once.
“What did she do up here?” I ask after setting the tea glass down to inspect the pipe. “Would she sit up here a lot?”
Elias drains his glass and then rises to his feet. “She visited a lot, especially toward the end.” He gestures at my feet. “Mostly she looked at the water and read her letters.”
I frown as I realize the ottoman must have storage. “In there?”
“Yep. I need a refill and Silas seems pretty busy. I’ll check and see if he needs help. Take your time.”
I’m pretty sure it’s just an excuse to give me my privacy, but I gratefully accept it. I put my feet on the ground on either side of the ottoman and then lift the seat up. Inside, neatly stacked and bundled, are lots of postcards and unsealed letters.
They’re all addressed to Amos Everhart and bear stamps from over the years. I quickly thumb through an unbound stack, marveling over the time Grandma must’ve spent handwriting all of them. Unfortunately, though there’s a return address listed under her name, there’s not an address listed under his.
No wonder Mom ran away from all this, and Grandma kept a tight lid on it whenever I was around.
The emotions are heavy around my grandfather.
Most of the postcards are just updates about local people, businesses, and festivities. Something tells me the letters inside the envelopes are more personal. They’ve all been carefully ripped open despite never having been sent anywhere. I untie some twine holding a bundle together and fish out a letter from one of the envelopes.
Amos,
I got into an argument with one of Wayne Harker’s kids today. They had the audacity to be selling neglected budgies from a street corner. It reminded me of the time we ran into him all those years ago on Wing Whirr Way. That started my rescue right then and there. You funded it.
This time, I funded my rescue myself, but I didn’t have you to pull me back from turning vicious. I told them they were rotten apples who didn’t fall far from a diseased tree. As soon as I said it, I regretted those choice words. Oh, Amos, I’m a mess without you.
Come home to me and Sandy. She’s got your eyes, you know. They’re electric like a neon sign. Beautiful.
Anyway, I’ll keep the light on for you and chocolate covered strawberries in the fridge.
Love you and see you soon,
Goldie
I sniffle as I carefully fold the letter up and tuck it back into the envelope. The love she had for him was deeper than any ocean. It was a lasting love, too, carrying her long into her elderly years and finally to death.
Denver chooses this moment to call. I stare at his face plastered on my phone screen and feel numb. The soul-consuming love Grandma had for my grandfather feels foreign. Ease, comfort, and affection are how I feel for Denver.
It’s just not the same.
Again, and not for the first time since I landed here in Budgie Bay, I’m left questioning what to do about it.
I send the call to voicemail.
It’s a problem for another day.
