“Yeah.” He clears his throat and sings, “Meow meow meow meow,” from the cat food commercial.
I nod. “Much better.”
He raises our connected hands, and we both lean forward to kiss our thumbs before disconnecting.
“If that didn’t work, nothing will,” he says.
“Maybe we’ll get extra juice from opening it in Smitten Kitten’s apartment. Here we go.” I cut the envelope and slide out the letter. I check the signature and the date. “April 2, 1966. Yours always, Dear Heart.”
“Hang on. Let me check that.” He does a search on his phone. “That’s a Wednesday. His letters are always dated on Wednesdays.”
Any pattern could be another clue. I mull that, evaluating what it might mean. “A midweek check in. Do we think he mailed every week but we’re only getting some of the letters?”
Jay shakes his head, likeno clue.
“This one is thicker than the other two.” I clear my throat and begin to read.
Dear Smitten Kitten,
Anyone who has witnessed you in your adorable rage might rightly mistake you for a tiger rather than a kitten. But I’m glad you forgave my surprise visit this weekend. I know you didn’t want me there for the pageant, but I had to come cheer for my girl, didn’t I?
It was good to see you, to hold you, to close the distance that I hate more with each passing week. I have no idea how our parents ever did this for months on end during the war. My father always says that his generation is made of sterner stuff and complains that we’re all soft, and I’m afraid I’ve found the evidence: me. I need more of you more often to hold me over for the weeks I don’t see you.
You see what I mean, Kitten? I’m as soft as my old man says I am. But I don’t care because I can’t imagine he ever loved anyone, even my mother, like we love each other.
I like seeing your world in Serendipity Springs, especially when we went up to look at it from your roof. Thinking about our future together often makes me feel like I have the world at my feet, but on Sunday night, we really did, didn’t we? I do see why you’ve enjoyed your time there. Looking out at the city lights, it put things in perspective. Maybe it shrunk down the next two years we’d have to wait to marry if you decide to do this master’s program. Maybe they felt more manageable.
I know I haven’t been supportive of the idea. I’m trying. But I have to ask, if you’re going to study art history, could you not find the same fulfillment immersing yourself in all the art and culture Boston offers, learning and discovering on your own? That sounds like a really nice way to do it, honestly. Do you need to have a degree to prove you did it? Think of it as independent study. It would mean we wouldn’t need to wait to get married.
I ask because I have news. I dropped by Professor Mindell’s office this morning at his request. I thought I’d blown my lab report after not studying this weekend while I was with you, but I got a 93 on it, the highest score in the class. He says he’ll be leaving at the end of the semester to work for the Aerospace Corporation and asked me to consider taking a position with them when I graduate.
It’s as good as mine, Kitten. This field is growing fast, and I’ll be able to move up quickly. It wouldn’t take much time at all before I make a salary that will let us hire a nanny. Imagine it, you wandering through Boston’s finest museums at your leisure with the nanny pushing the baby behind you, ableto enjoy your art and your children at the same time.
The future is ours to reach out and take. I feel almost a physical pain at the idea of pushing it back two years.
And yet …
And yet you made a compelling case. I see how excited you are by the idea of becoming a scholar once more.
I’m not demanding any of this be set in stone, only that you consider it. Can we keep it as an open conversation that we’ll have when you’re here next week? And for as long afterward as we need to until we’re both pleased with the shape of our future? So long as you’re in it, I know I will be happy.
But I confess, Kitten, if your perfect future means you earn a master’s degree, there is nothing I would deny you. You may have placed fifth in the pageant, but you’re first in my heart.
Yours always,
Dear Heart
I set the letter down and look up at Jay, stunned. We got far more than I even hoped.
He holds up his hand and crooks his pinkie a couple of times. “It worked.”
“Pretty sure it was the O’Reilly jingle.”
“Let’s call it a tie. But we just got a whole bunch of helpful info.”
“Before we get into that, we have one more big element to talk about.”
“Why these letters keep magically showing up for you?” he jokes, but his smile fades when I flinch at the wordmagically. “I’m teasing. I’m sure someone is feeding these into your mail slot for some reason. When we figure out who these were meant for, maybe we’ll figure out who has been delivering them to you and why.”
