‘Yeah! Really! And he seems genuine. And you’ll never guess what.’
‘What?’
‘He thinks he has Maggie’s coat and the packet of letters. You know the ones she says she left on the Carpathia. The letters from Séamus.’
The two women sat at the kitchen table then, as they often did when they had something important to discuss, and Grace filled her mother in on all the details which Edward Lockey had passed onto her. They both agreed that there was a chance that he was a hoaxer, but deep in their hearts, they both hoped that he was genuine.
*
On the morning that Grace had agreed to meet Edward Lockey, she received a letter. In her hurry to make the agreed rendezvous time, she almost walked past the pile of post her mother had placed on the small console table in the front porch, assuming that it would just be bills for her mom as usual. But something made her stop and pick them up.
She recognised his handwriting immediately.
‘Jimmy,’ she whispered.
Trembling with excitement and dread, she ran up to her bedroom, sat on the edge of her bed and carefully opened the envelope. Her heart fell at the sight of a single piece of notepaper folded in half Good news comes in large packages she remembered her father saying when she had first applied to college courses and was waiting for news as to whether her application had been accepted or not If it’s bad news, it’ll be short and sweet.
This was definitely short and sweet.
Hesitating, afraid of what she would see written on the page, she unfolded the single piece of paper.
Hey stranger. Read the article - amazing! I told you you’d find a story eventually. How about a coffee?
He didn’t need to sign it.
Despite there being only a few words written on the page, they were the best words she could have ever hoped for. She read them over and over and over again. It was an olive branch. It was more than an olive branch. He wanted to meet her for coffee. He’d read her article. He was still here. He was still interested – maybe. A million thoughts and emotions swirled and spun around Grace’s mind.
Since opening the box of letters she’d kept under her bed all these years, she’d held out some hope of a reunion . I guess this is just too hard for you, he’d written in his final letter. I’m not sure I really understand Grace, but I am trying to, I really am. So I’m going to leave you now, to heal in peace. I’m not going to write to you again Grace because it’s too painful when I don’t hear back. Take your time and mourn your father as you need to. I don’t know how long that’s gonna take – possibly forever? But, maybe, someday when you’ve gotten over this, and feel a little better, maybe you could write me? Maybe I could buy you a coffee and we could start over? Think about it. You know where I am. Always, J xx
After reading that, she’d written to Jimmy’s old home address and sent a note for his attention via Professor Andrews along with the manuscript for her article. She’d left her phone number but having not heard anything had assumed he had given up after all this time and had moved on with his life. This small note, which she held in her hand now, told her otherwise.
Recognising the number he’d added to the bottom of the note as a Chicago number, she wondered whether she should call straightaway. Life is fragile, she heard Maggie saying, we never know what’s waiting around the corner.
Her mind was made up. She ran downstairs, stopping for a moment to check her appearance in the hall mirror. Her cheeks were flushed, her eyes sparkled. She looked like the girl who used to stare back at her from the mirror; a girl whose lust for life and whose vibrancy oozed through her every pore. The girl looking back was a girl she hadn’t seen for a long time.
She adjusted her hair and dialled the number quickly before she could change her mind. The phone rang and rang at the other end. Her heart raced, her mouth as dry as sandpaper. ‘Pick up, pick up, pick up,’ she muttered under her breath.
‘Hello.’
Her heart did a somersault at the sound of his voice. She had to fight back the tears as she responded.
‘Jimmy, she whispered, her voice shaking. ‘It’s me. It’s Grace.’
CHAPTER 30 - New York, 18th April 1912
Catherine Kenny handed her yellow ticket to the inspectors at the top of West Street. Satisfied that she was a relative awaiting the arrival of the Carpathia which was expected at around midnight that evening, she was permitted access to the fenced off area and made her way to join the hundreds of others already gathered at the docks.
The flags in New York harbour, which were all lowered to half-mast, flapped and snapped in the wind which gusted over the exposed harbour, rattling the flag poles, blowing out the ladies’ skirts and lifting umbrellas from rain-soaked hands. It was just gone three o’clock in the afternoon but the darkening sky cast a hue of nightfall over the entire city.