The One Real Thing
Page 101
George still lived in the same house.
One half of the double front doors swung open before I could knock and I found myself staring into the warm brown eyes of a tall, older gentleman. “May I help you, miss?”
Oh, my God.
Butterflies raged in my stomach as I clutched the purse that contained Sarah’s letters. “Mr. Beckwith. George Beckwith?”
“Yes?”
I thrust out my hand. “Jessica Huntington.”
Bemused, George shook my hand. “Pleased to meet you, Ms. Huntington. Now, how can I help?”
“This is strange,” I said softly. “I . . . uh . . . I guess I’ll start off by saying that up until a few months ago I was a physician at the women’s correctional facility in Wilmington.”
Immediate understanding dawned on him and I saw the warmth overshadowed by pain. “Is this about Sarah?”
Like the emotional nutcase I’d become, I had to fight back the strong urge to burst into tears. She was the first thing he considered.
He’d never forgotten her.
“Yes.”
George opened the door wider. “Then you’d better come in.”
“So . . .” George said a few minutes later, as he put down a tray of tea and biscuits on the coffee table in front of me.
I was sitting in a large, comfortable lounge, the furniture dated but of a quality that put my stuff now stored in Cooper’s garage to shame.
Shit. My stuff. Getting that back would be awkward.
“What do you have to tell me?” George said, pulling me from my thoughts.
He sat down on the sofa across from me as I reached for my cup of tea.
The letters were by my side. I’d gotten them out of my purse while he was making tea. Shaking a little— for him—I handed them over. “I found these, Mr. Beckwith.”
“Please call me George,” he muttered as he took the letters from me.
“They were sealed inside a library book. They’ve been there for forty years.”
His eyes washed over his name and address, and I heard the pain in his voice when he whispered, “This is Sarah’s handwriting.”
“She wrote to you . . . but unfortunately she passed away on the same day she wrote the last letter. She never got the chance to send them.” The tears I’d been holding back sprang free and I swiped at them, embarrassed.
George’s gaze turned kind at my show of emotion. “I’m almost afraid now to know what’s inside, if it has caused such a reaction in a stranger.”
“You need to know.”
“And you came all the way here to give these to me?”
I nodded.
He studied me. “How extraordinary,” he murmured.
Not really. Not if he knew me. He’d get it then. He’d understand why Sarah’s story had gotten under my skin.
“I can leave,” I said, “if you’d like to read them in private.”
“That’s alright.”
So I sat there, watching George read Sarah’s words, and my heart broke for him as he reached the last and his own tears began to fall. I watched him as he read them all over again.
And again.
Finally he looked up at me, his eyes shining, and he whispered, “I already knew. I already knew. God damn it, Sarah.”
With my chest aching so much for them both, I moved to sit beside him, to clutch his hand in comfort. “I’m so sorry.”
After a moment he took a shuddering breath, his fingers tightening so hard around the letters they began to crumple. “I found out about my father’s criminal activity a few years after Sarah married Ron. I was disillusioned, yes, but I still loved him. I couldn’t betray him. All I could do was stay out of it, let it all die with him.” He looked at me, regret in his eyes. “She should have trusted me. She should have trusted me enough to tell me.”
“Was I wrong to give you these? Have I made it that much worse?”
“No,” he said. “At least this way I know that she loved me like I loved her.”
A little sob escaped my mouth before I could stop it.
Looking concerned, George slid an arm around my shoulder. “Why does this touch you so much?”
It took me a minute before I could speak properly. “I feel like I understand her.”
His expression fell. “For your sake I hope that’s not true,” he said kindly.
I had to ask, had to know . . . “Do you still love her? Despite what she did? Do you forgive her? Do you still love her?”
George gripped my hand tighter and leaned in to me so I could see the absolution in his eyes. “I loved my wife. I did. But Sarah Randall was the love of my life, Ms. Huntington. Yes. Yes to all of the above.”
I swiped at my tears and gave him a shaky smile. “You can call me Jessica.”
George smiled back. “Jessica. Somehow I think there is more to this story for you.”
I nodded and looked at Sarah’s crumpled letters. “You know, she doesn’t say it, but I think maybe she didn’t fight her life with Ron because you were lost to her once you married Annabelle.”
“Why do you think that?” he said hoarsely.
“Because you were her whole world, George. Maybe it wasn’t right, maybe it was stupid, but she made you her whole world. Once you were gone, she stopped fighting . . . until she realized not fighting was going to kill her.”
“She was my whole world, too,” he said quietly. “I thought she knew it.”
One half of the double front doors swung open before I could knock and I found myself staring into the warm brown eyes of a tall, older gentleman. “May I help you, miss?”
Oh, my God.
Butterflies raged in my stomach as I clutched the purse that contained Sarah’s letters. “Mr. Beckwith. George Beckwith?”
“Yes?”
I thrust out my hand. “Jessica Huntington.”
Bemused, George shook my hand. “Pleased to meet you, Ms. Huntington. Now, how can I help?”
“This is strange,” I said softly. “I . . . uh . . . I guess I’ll start off by saying that up until a few months ago I was a physician at the women’s correctional facility in Wilmington.”
Immediate understanding dawned on him and I saw the warmth overshadowed by pain. “Is this about Sarah?”
Like the emotional nutcase I’d become, I had to fight back the strong urge to burst into tears. She was the first thing he considered.
He’d never forgotten her.
“Yes.”
George opened the door wider. “Then you’d better come in.”
“So . . .” George said a few minutes later, as he put down a tray of tea and biscuits on the coffee table in front of me.
I was sitting in a large, comfortable lounge, the furniture dated but of a quality that put my stuff now stored in Cooper’s garage to shame.
Shit. My stuff. Getting that back would be awkward.
“What do you have to tell me?” George said, pulling me from my thoughts.
He sat down on the sofa across from me as I reached for my cup of tea.
The letters were by my side. I’d gotten them out of my purse while he was making tea. Shaking a little— for him—I handed them over. “I found these, Mr. Beckwith.”
“Please call me George,” he muttered as he took the letters from me.
“They were sealed inside a library book. They’ve been there for forty years.”
His eyes washed over his name and address, and I heard the pain in his voice when he whispered, “This is Sarah’s handwriting.”
“She wrote to you . . . but unfortunately she passed away on the same day she wrote the last letter. She never got the chance to send them.” The tears I’d been holding back sprang free and I swiped at them, embarrassed.
George’s gaze turned kind at my show of emotion. “I’m almost afraid now to know what’s inside, if it has caused such a reaction in a stranger.”
“You need to know.”
“And you came all the way here to give these to me?”
I nodded.
He studied me. “How extraordinary,” he murmured.
Not really. Not if he knew me. He’d get it then. He’d understand why Sarah’s story had gotten under my skin.
“I can leave,” I said, “if you’d like to read them in private.”
“That’s alright.”
So I sat there, watching George read Sarah’s words, and my heart broke for him as he reached the last and his own tears began to fall. I watched him as he read them all over again.
And again.
Finally he looked up at me, his eyes shining, and he whispered, “I already knew. I already knew. God damn it, Sarah.”
With my chest aching so much for them both, I moved to sit beside him, to clutch his hand in comfort. “I’m so sorry.”
After a moment he took a shuddering breath, his fingers tightening so hard around the letters they began to crumple. “I found out about my father’s criminal activity a few years after Sarah married Ron. I was disillusioned, yes, but I still loved him. I couldn’t betray him. All I could do was stay out of it, let it all die with him.” He looked at me, regret in his eyes. “She should have trusted me. She should have trusted me enough to tell me.”
“Was I wrong to give you these? Have I made it that much worse?”
“No,” he said. “At least this way I know that she loved me like I loved her.”
A little sob escaped my mouth before I could stop it.
Looking concerned, George slid an arm around my shoulder. “Why does this touch you so much?”
It took me a minute before I could speak properly. “I feel like I understand her.”
His expression fell. “For your sake I hope that’s not true,” he said kindly.
I had to ask, had to know . . . “Do you still love her? Despite what she did? Do you forgive her? Do you still love her?”
George gripped my hand tighter and leaned in to me so I could see the absolution in his eyes. “I loved my wife. I did. But Sarah Randall was the love of my life, Ms. Huntington. Yes. Yes to all of the above.”
I swiped at my tears and gave him a shaky smile. “You can call me Jessica.”
George smiled back. “Jessica. Somehow I think there is more to this story for you.”
I nodded and looked at Sarah’s crumpled letters. “You know, she doesn’t say it, but I think maybe she didn’t fight her life with Ron because you were lost to her once you married Annabelle.”
“Why do you think that?” he said hoarsely.
“Because you were her whole world, George. Maybe it wasn’t right, maybe it was stupid, but she made you her whole world. Once you were gone, she stopped fighting . . . until she realized not fighting was going to kill her.”
“She was my whole world, too,” he said quietly. “I thought she knew it.”
