Message in a Bottle - Nicholas Sparks [103]
It was complicated. And somehow, everything he’d said had come out wrong. He hadn’t wanted her to feel as if he were giving her an ultimatum, but thinking back, he realized that was exactly what he had done.
Sighing, he wondered what to do next. Somehow he didn’t think there was anything he could say when she got back that wouldn’t lead to another argument. Above all, he didn’t want that. Arguments rarely led to solutions, and that’s what they needed now.
But if he couldn’t say anything, what else was there? He thought for a moment before finally deciding to write her a letter, outlining his thoughts. Writing always made him think more clearly—especially over the last few years—and maybe she would be able to understand where he was coming from.
He glanced toward her bedside table. Her phone was there—she probably took messages now and then—but he didn’t see either a pen or pad. He opened the drawer, rifled through it, and found a ballpoint near the front.
Looking for some paper, he continued shuffling—through magazines, a couple of paperback books, some empty jewelry boxes—when something familiar caught his eye.
A sailing ship.
It was on a piece of paper, wedged between a slim Day-Timer and an old copy of Ladies’ Home Journal. He reached for it, assuming it was one of the letters he’d written to her over the last couple of months, then suddenly froze.
How could that be?
The stationery had been a gift from Catherine, and he used it only when he wrote to her. His letters to Theresa had been written on different paper, something he’d picked up at the store.
He found himself holding his breath. He quickly made room in the drawer, removing the magazine and gently lifted out, not one, but five—five!—pieces of the stationery. Still confused, he blinked hard before glancing at the first page, and there, in his scrawl, were the words:
My Dearest Catherine…
Oh, my God. He turned to the second page, a photocopy.
My Darling Catherine…
The next letter.
Dear Catherine…
“What is this,” he muttered, unable to believe what he was seeing. “It can’t be—” He looked over the pages again just to make sure.
But it was true. One was real, two were copies, but they were his letters, the letters he had written to Catherine. The letters he had written after his dreams, the letters he dropped from Happenstance and never expected to see again.
On impulse he began to read them, and with each word, each phrase, he felt his emotions rushing to the surface, coming at him all at once. The dreams, his memories, his loss, the anguish. He stopped.
His mouth went dry as he pressed his lips together. Instead of reading any more, he simply stared at them in shock. He barely heard the front door open and then close. Theresa called out, “Garrett, I’m back.” She paused, and he could hear her walking through the apartment. Then, “Where are you?”
He didn’t answer. He couldn’t do anything but try to grasp how this had happened. How could she have them? They were his letters… his personal letters.
The letters to his wife.
Letters that were no one else’s business.
Theresa stepped into the room and looked at him. Though he didn’t know it, his face was pale, his knuckles white as they gripped the pages he held.
“Are you okay?” she asked, not realizing what was in his hands.
For a moment, it was as if he hadn’t heard her. Then, looking up slowly, he glared at her.
Startled, she almost spoke again. But she didn’t. Like a wave, everything hit her at the same time—the open drawer, the papers in his hand, the expression on his face—and she knew immediately what had happened.
“Garrett… I can explain,” she said quickly, quietly. He didn’t seem to hear her.
“My letters…,” he whispered. He looked at her, a mixture of confusion and rage.
“I…”
“How did you get my letters?” he demanded, the sound of his voice making her flinch.
“I found one washed up at the beach and—”
He cut her off. “You found it?”
She nodded, trying to explain. “When I was at the Cape. I was jogging and I came across the bottle….”
He glanced at the first page, the