Dear John(83)

“Where?”

Before she could answer, the dog scratched insistently at the door, and Savannah got up to open it. The dog padded in, tongue out and tail still wagging. He trotted toward me and nuzzled my hand.

“He likes me,” I said.

Savannah was still near the door. “She likes everyone. Her name’s Molly. Worthless as a guard dog, but sweeter than candy. Just try to avoid the drool. She’ll drip all over you if you let her.”

I glanced at my jeans. “I can see that.”

Savannah motioned over her shoulder. “Listen, I just realized I’ve still got to put some things away. It’s supposed to rain tonight. It shouldn’t take long.”

I noted that she hadn’t answered the question about Tim. Nor, I realized, did she plan to.

“Need a hand?”

“Not really. But you’re welcome to come. It’s a beautiful night.”

I followed her out, and Molly trotted ahead of us, completely forgetting that she’d just begged to come inside. When an owl broke from the trees, Molly galloped into the darkness and vanished. Savannah pulled on her boots again.

We walked toward the barn. I thought about everything she’d told me and wondered again why I’d come. I wasn’t sure if I was happy that she’d married Tim—since they’d seemed so perfect for each other—or upset for exactly the same reason. Nor was I glad that I finally knew the truth; somehow, I realized, it was easier not to know. All at once, I simply felt tired.

And yet . . . there was something I knew she wasn’t telling me. I heard it in her voice, in the hint of sadness that wouldn’t go away. As the darkness surrounded us, I was acutely aware of how close we were walking together, and I wondered whether she felt the same. If she did, she gave no sign.

The horses were mere shadows in the distance, shapes without recognizable form. Savannah retrieved a couple of bridles and brought them to the barn, hanging them on a couple of pegs. While she did, I collected the shovels we’d been using and set them with the rest of the tools. On our way out, she made sure to shut the gate.

Glancing at my watch, I saw it was nearly ten o’clock. It was late, and we were both conscious of the hour.

“I guess I should probably get going,” I said. “It’s a small town. I don’t want to start any rumors.”

“You’re probably right.” Molly wandered up, appearing from nowhere, and sat between us. When she lapped at Savannah’s leg, she stepped to the side. “Where are you staying?” she asked.

“Something or other motor court. Just off the highway.”

Her nose crinkled, if only for an instant. “I know the place.”

“It is kind of a dive,” I admitted.

She smiled. “I can’t say I’m surprised. You always did have a way of finding the most unique places.”

“Like the Shrimp Shack?”

“Exactly.”

I pushed my hands into my pockets, wondering whether this was the last time I’d ever see her. If so, it struck me as absurdly anticlimactic; I didn’t want it to end in small talk, but I couldn’t think of anything else to say.

On the road out front, the headlights of an approaching car flashed over the property as it sped past the house.

“I guess that’s it, then,” I said, at a loss. “It was good seeing you again.”

“You, too, John. I’m glad you came by.”

I nodded again. When she looked away, I took it as my cue to leave.

“Good-bye,” I said.

“Bye.”

I turned from the porch and started toward my car, dazed at the thought it was really and truly over. I wasn’t sure I’d expected anything different, but the finality brought to the surface all those feelings I’d been repressing since I’d read her last letter.

I was opening the door when I heard her call out.

“Hey, John?”

“Yeah?”

She stepped off the porch and started toward me. “Are you going to be around tomorrow?”

As she drew near, her face half in shadow, I knew with certainty that I was still in love with her. Despite the letter, despite her husband. Despite the fact that we could never be together now.

“Why?” I asked.

“I was wondering if you’d like to drop by. Around ten. I’m sure Tim would like to see you. . . .”

I was shaking my head even before she finished. “I’m not sure that’s such a good idea—”

“Could you do it for me?”

I knew she wanted me to see that Tim was still the same man I remembered, and in a sense, I knew she was asking because she wanted forgiveness. Still . . .

She reached out to take my hand. “Please. It would mean a lot to me.”