From Across the Room by Gina L. Mulligan (best book series to read .txt) 📖

all times. I hope you find this comforting. I did.

We met at the Union Oyster House on a dreary afternoon. Our lunch seemed endless, as Gertrude lacked curiosity and found single-word answers sufficient to my questions. She did not flirt or attempt clever comments, so by the time we got our chowder I felt certain the stewed clams were having a better time.

“This early rain is terrible for capes,” she at last said after tasting the soup and making a sour face. “Long fringe is the style, but fringe will drag in the mud.”

Unsure how to respond, I nodded and shoved a piece of sourdough in my mouth.

“Beauregard thinks I’m silly for worrying about such things, but then he’s talking of an escapade to South America. Can you imagine? What could he want to see there? I hear it’s filled with vermin and foreigners.”

I chuckled, but her stern glance belayed any misconception she was joking.

“Yes … well … your violin playing is magnificent. I’ve never been as entranced as I was the other night. How long have you been playing?”

“My whole life.” She sighed and pushed food around her plate.

Our lunch dragged on, and I was convinced it would be our only outing. However, as we were saying goodbye outside the restaurant I saw a hint of her cunning.

“I’m a member of a quintet and we’re giving a small concert. We prefer to keep it personal. Only family and friends are invited. I’d very much like you to attend.”

I agreed to escort her, and she smiled for the first time in my presence.

Before Gertrude, I would have never thought one’s talent could transform everything about them. Based on the compliments and comments of others, I was not alone in my sentiment. It was magic, a bewitching magic that lingered long enough for another concert or intimate gathering where she promised to play a new piece or honor my requests. I knew her family well and her parents were fond of me. Before long the conversations turned to our future and prospective marriage.

To ease your mind, I did not propose. I have yet to propose to any woman. Even though I knew I was not in love with her, to say I never considered the idea is a lie. I was enthralled by her music and contemplated a life together. Henry set me straight.

The courtship ended without much discord. She had no deep feelings for me, and upon our final conversation professed she found my humor confusing. Beau and I are still friends and Gertrude married a pianist the following year. I have heard her play since our parting and am still in awe of her talent. I believe God shines through the gifts he bestows, even in the most implausible of hosts.

If this letter were addressed to Henry or Beauregard, I would not admit Gertrude was my only involvement beyond schoolboy infatuations. Once I began studying literature, my time was reserved for Chaucer, lacrosse, and the occasional gathering to sample spirits. Even today my writing requires months of quiet isolation. To have met you, my dearest, is a true miracle. I wonder how I survived all these years alone, but I can state with honest reflection I have never felt lonely until now.

Mary, I hope you find my candidness about Gertrude reassuring. When I was a boy I asked my mother how a man could boast of courtships when ladies did not engage in such behavior. She was tickled, relayed my innocent question at least a dozen times, and told me I had better find a clever woman. She was quite wise. Still, I leave sharing the details of your romantic past to your discernment. It is well known young ladies with dazzling eyes rarely sit alone at parties. My true concern is with one specific gentleman caller of late.

While I create remorseful villains and reward the pious, life outside the pages of a book is unscripted and scoundrels often capture their prize. I never thought I was the jealous sort; however, you avoided any mention of Mr. Kennard whatsoever in your last letter. Before I leave for Newport tomorrow, I must ask: Have you spent more time with the industrious Mr. Kennard?

With love,

Thomas

 

September 20, 1888.

DEAR AVERY —

I am truly sorry. I know how hard you worked and accept full responsibility for Harpers retracting their offer. There is no way to hide my disappointment. If you can muster any more faith in me, perhaps you can send it to another publisher. In the morning I leave for Newport where I will plunge into my next book and nothing else.

With sincere apologies,

Thomas

September 20, 1888.

MARY —

Father collapsed. The doctor is here and Mother just sent for Father’s attorney. I will write as soon as I can.

Love,

Thomas

September 25, 1888.

MY DARLING —

A man who once interrogated Ulysses S. Grant is unable to lift his head to sip from a glass of water. Doctor Stanton has eased some of Father's pain, yet over the past five days the good doctor has twice stayed all night and suggests we confirm Father’s burial wishes.

My father suffered a heart attack during a small dinner party, collapsing just as the men gathered in his study to smoke dog rockets and tell bawdy jokes. He was so condescending at dinner, scoffing at my work and theorizing how I spent my time in Newport, that when he called out I finished setting up the ladies’ loom before going to the study. I was not one of the men who carried him to the bed where he now lies so motionless and puny.

Mother is extraordinary. She is composed and compassionate as she presses cold cloths to his forehead and changes his damp shirts. Though every Saturday my father set a white rose on Mother’s breakfast plate, until I watched her kiss his brow I never thought of my parents as lovers.

Mother calls, so I must leave you here. Please pray for my father and that you and I may someday share such a strong bond. On such grim days it is difficult to imagine what will become of our future.

Thomas

September 27, 1888.

GOOD HENRY —

Do you remember the day I walked into your Beginning Fiction seminar and tripped over a chair? I suppose that would be hard to forget. Yours was my first class in anything other than law, and I had been tripping for days before I tore open my knee that morning.

After my stylish entrance, I headed to the back of Thayer Hall. You watched me, or at least it felt that way, and once I sat down you scribbled in a notebook. I imagined you were writing something horrible about how obvious it was that I had stumbled into the wrong lecture. Before I could scramble out of that class, you cleared your throat.

You pointed to me and demanded I stand and tell the class about my interest in creative writing. My limbs quivered so violently I feared everyone could see my terror through the hole in the knee of my trousers. As I stammered about a newfound creative passion, you yawned.

It would be most gratifying for both of us if I could remember your first lecture. I do recall the way your deep voice reverberated between the oak beams in the peaked ceiling, like a preacher in a well-built hall. The room smelled of mold and stale overcoats; the classmate behind me tapped his suede boot against my chair; and if anyone dropped a pencil you stopped and grumbled.

When for the next six classes you called on me to explain my literary pursuits, you must have noticed my confusion. I thought you were doddering. By the seventh class I had prepared notes for your inevitable question, but when you said my name I tossed them aside. My voice sounded coarse.

“You still want me to tell you why I’m here? I thought it was because I like to write, but that’s obviously not what you want me to say. So here’s something else. I had an internship at a South End law office where my job was to dig through stacks of files in a dusty back room looking for anything to absolve the back-stabbing, corporate swine known as the defendant. Well, I did just that. My discovery of an erroneous deed led to a dismissal. And what did I get for my diligent research? The defendant went on demoralizing his workers and I was handed a new pile of papers. I thought anything would be better, so I picked your class because of your fashionable pantaloons. Who knew suffering your lectures could be worse.”

Remorse struck the instant I had finished, yet you responded by leading the class in a round of applause. Energized by my triumph, I cornered you after class. I still believe you only agreed to join me for coffee because you feared a crush of eager students if you stood in the hallway too long. Tell me, Henry, was I correct?

It seems comical now, but I strutted on the way to that overcrowded bistro with the stale muffins. It was cold outside and you hurried with your head toward the cement and your hands in your pockets. I had hoped to begin our discussion during that walk, but you never broke stride.

The drab eatery smelled of pickles and fried onions, and we were shown to a table that needed place settings and clean glasses. As soon as we sat down you rocked the table back and forth, grunted, then pulled a silver dollar from your pocket and stuck it under the short leg. Unlike professors who compared surnames with gold placards on the university’s libraries, you looked me straight in the eye and asked what I wanted. I had such admiration for your writing I found your approach refreshing. Now that I consider you my friend, I know that you just wanted to get back to work without suffering soggy hash or a soggy student. That, however, was not part of my agenda.

I desperately wanted to know if I had made the right decision, if my skills and motivation were sufficient for a literary career. Nevertheless, I had trouble finding the vocabulary for such a personal question and stammered like a lad facing the belt. You grumbled about the stupidity of convention then at last spoke. Your words still rattle in my head all these years later.

“I don’t have answers that fit in a cigar box. I don’t know if you’ll succeed as a writer, and frankly I don’t care. What you do with your life is up to you, not your father. It’s your pine box.” You plucked your silver dollar from under the table leg and walked out before I could even clear my throat.

If not for the invitation to Professor Reed’s annual poker tournament where your losses paid for a month of rounds at the pub, I would never have overcome my awe to speak with you without frothy adulation and a facial tick. We are true friends, are we not? But it seems your role as mentor has yet to fade. Though I write this knowing there is little time for your guidance, Henry, I must again ask for your wisdom.

You once admitted you were unable to write even a brief note after your father died. Years later, do you still believe your work was silenced by what was left unresolved? Was it best you let him die without condemnation for the pain he caused you, or do you regret not airing your grievances?

My