Dear John(79)

She giggled, sounding remarkably girlish. “Yeah, I remember. The first time you got on a horse, you were more scared than a lot of the kids.”

“No, I wasn’t,” I protested. “And besides, Pepper was frisky.”

“Ha!” she cried. “Why do you think I let you ride him? He’s just about the easiest horse you can imagine. I don’t think he’s ever so much as shimmied when someone rode him.”

“He was frisky,” I insisted.

“Spoken like a true rookie,” she teased. “But even if you’re wrong, I’m touched that you still remember it.”

Her playfulness summoned a tidal wave of memories.

“Of course I remember,” I said. “Those were some of the best days of my life. I won’t ever forget them.” Over her shoulder, I could see the dog wandering in the pasture. “Maybe that’s why I’m still not married.”

At my words, her gaze faltered. “I still remember them, too.”

“Do you?”

“Of course,” she said. “You might not believe it, but it’s true.”

The weight of her words hung heavy in the air.

“Are you happy, Savannah?” I finally asked.

She offered a wry smile. “Most of the time. Aren’t you?”

“I don’t know,” I said, which made her laugh again.

“That’s your standard answer, you know. When you’re asked to look into yourself for the answer? It’s like a reflex with you. It always has been. Why don’t you ask me what you really wanted to ask.”

“What did I really want to ask?”

“Whether or not I love my husband. Isn’t that what you mean?” she asked, looking away for a moment.

For an instant I was speechless, but I realized her instincts were correct. It was the real reason I was here.

“Yes,” she said at last, reading my mind again. “I love him.”

The unmistakable sincerity in her tone stung, but before I could dwell on it, she turned to face me again. Anxiety flickered in her expression, as if she were remembering something painful, but it passed quickly.

“Have you eaten yet?” she asked.

I was still trying to make sense of what I’d just seen. “No,” I said. “Actually, I didn’t have breakfast or lunch, either.”

She shook her head. “I’ve got some leftover beef stew in the house. Do you have time for dinner?”

Though I wondered again about her husband, I nodded. “I’d like that,” I said.

We started toward the house and stopped when we reached a porch lined with muddy and worn cowboy boots. Savannah reached for my arm in a way that struck me as being remarkably easy and natural, using me for balance as she slipped off her boots. It was, perhaps, her touch that emboldened me to really look at her, and though I saw the mysteriousness and maturity that had always made her attractive, I noticed a hint of sadness and reticence as well. To my aching heart, the combination made her even more beautiful.





Nineteen





Her small kitchen was what one would expect from an old house that had probably been remodeled half a dozen times over the last century: ancient linoleum floors that were peeling slightly near the walls; functional, unadorned white cabinets—thick with countless paint jobs—and a stainless-steel sink set beneath a wood-framed window that probably should have been replaced years ago. The countertop was cracking, and against one wall stood a woodstove as old as the house itself. In places, it was possible to see the modern world encroaching: a large refrigerator and dishwasher near the sink; a microwave propped kitty-corner near a half-empty bottle of red wine. In some ways, it reminded me of my dad’s place.

Savannah opened a cupboard and removed a wineglass. “Would you like a glass of wine?”

I shook my head. “I’ve never been much of a wine drinker.”

I was surprised when she didn’t return the glass. Instead, she retrieved the half-empty bottle of wine and poured a glass; she set the glass on the table and took a seat before it.

We sat at the table as Savannah took a sip.

“You’ve changed,” I observed.

She shrugged. “A lot of things have changed since I last saw you.”

She said nothing more and set her glass back on the table. When she spoke again, her voice was subdued. “I never thought I’d be the kind of person who looked forward to a glass of wine in the evenings, but I do.”

She began rotating the glass on the table, and I found myself wondering what had happened to her.

“You know the funny thing?” she said. “I actually care how it tastes. When I had my first glass, I didn’t know what was good or what was bad. Now when it comes to buying, I’ve become pretty selective.”