I didn’t mean to sound nasty or anything. I made sloppy joes for dinner tonight. My dad’s golfing and there’s no telling what time he’ll be home and sloppy joes can sit on the stove till he gets here. My mom used to do stuff like that. Tonight I might babysit for the little girl next door. I do that sometimes while her parents play cards with their friends. They’re home, but I’m fully in charge ofWendy. She’s a year old and adorable. Plus they always have good snacks, like pizza rolls and I get paid. I’d do it even if I didn’t, but I’m saving for a new bike.
Well, bye for now.
Marybeth Lawson
Wednesday, October 7, 1992
Marybeth Lawson,
Don’t think I’m weird or anything and maybe I shouldn’t say this, but I’m glad we’re writing. I hope you are, too. My mom asked about you today when she saw that your letter came. She said to say hi. Don’t worry, she doesn’t see your letters and I don’t tell her what we say. She’s cool, though. She doesn’t ask, except about how you are.
We went to court today. They changed our names. My mom and everyone said to do it. It’s kind of like you said, people won’t always be knowing about the past this way and we can live our lives here with all the new people who never knew us before. But they didn’t know me by my name anyway, ‘cause my mom wasn’t married to my dad yet when she had me and so my name was different from theirs. I just don’t think it’s all that cool. I mean, it’s like I have to pretend now. Like the old me was too rotten to live. Maybe, like Mom says, I’ll understand when I’m older. I guess it’s cool that she and I have the same last name now, instead of me having her maiden name. But anyway, if it’s okay with you, I still want to be James Winston Malone here. That’s who I really am and now you will be the only one who knows him. Unless that’s too weird, then we don’t have to.
See ya,
James Winston Malone
Saturday, October 10, 1992
Dear James Winston Malone,
Of course I’ll call you James, still. It doesn’t really matter what we call each other, does it? I guess you’ll get your letters if I address them that way. If you don’t, I hope you write and tell me who to write to. But if you don’t, you won’t even get this anyway so, oh, well, anyway, tell your mom I said hi back.
Hey, I know what, why don’t you call me something else, too? Then, with you, I can just be any old girl, ‘cause unlike you, I’d kind of like to not have to be me anymore. I’m so sick of all those looks.
Anyway, how ‘bout if you call me Candy? I’ll be Candy Lawson. ‘Kay?
My friend Cara likes a boy in the ninth grade. She saw him at the JV football game last night. I think she’s dumb. I don’t want to start liking boys for a really long time. Well, I gotta go. My dad’s golfing and I’m going with the people next door, the Mathers, they’re Wendy’s parents, you know the little girl I babysit, anyway I’m going with them to see Batman Returns. It’s at the dollar theater. Have you seen it? Cara saw it this summer and said it’s really cool.
Write back soon, ‘kay?
Candy Lawson
Chapter Two
Saturday, December 16, 2006
Dear Candy,
It’s going to be a hard Christmas for both of us. Would that I could send a hug through a letter, my sweet friend, for you would surely have one now and anytime you opened an envelope from me.
Hard to believe that our parents both passed in the same year. And so young. I guess it’s true that someone can die of a broken heart. I watched Mom slowly dwindle over the years, losing whatever zest she’d once had for life. It seemed as though she had the energy to see me raised, but once I left for college, she had no reason left to live.
Much like you say it was for your father.
In answer to your question, no, I won’t be alone for Christmas. I was very glad to hear that you wouldn’t be, as well. I picture you surrounded by people you care about.
I agree with what you said about heart—that it is the only true source that we can trust to guide us through life.
At the same time, the whole heart thing has me perplexed. If it’s damaged by life’s trials and tribulations, how much can we trust it? How much does it control us and how much can we control it?
Will I ever be able to open up and fully feel my heart, fully give it, or did the “incident” irrevocably change my ability to experience love on the deepest levels? Will I always be as I am now, moving through life without ever being fully engaged? Is there something I’m doing that keeps me trapped? Am I sabotaging myself? Or is this just the inevitable result to what happened when we were kids and a way of life for me that I can do nothing about—much like if I’d been in a skiing accident and lost a leg.
Tough questions. I look forward to your thoughts on this one.
In the meantime, know that I will be thinking about you through the season.
Yours,
James
“MARYBETH?”
Stuffing the letter she was reading into the writing desk drawer, Marybeth turned, smiling as a spry, little woman came through the kitchen into her living area, petting Brutus, two hundred and ten pounds of flesh and fur lounging in the doorway, as she passed.
“Hey! I didn’t expect you until later.” Jumping up, Marybeth stepped over the two-year-old mastiff and hugged Bonnie Mather, her surrogate mother from the time she was twelve.
“My garden club luncheon finished earlier than I thought—the speaker canceled.”
“Well, come on in. The cookies are cooling, but I should be able to frost them if you want to wait.” She’d told Bonnie she’d bake six dozen cookies to take to the soup kitchen.
“How about if I help?” Bonnie said, dropping the colorful cloth purse that was almost as big as she was onto Marybeth’s sofa. “I might not make frosting as good as you do, but I can wield a mean knife.”
“Yeah, right.” Marybeth laughed. “My recipe is yours and you know it.”
“That doesn’t mean I can make it as well as you do.” Bonnie stepped over Marybeth’s dirt-colored pal on her way back out of the room. “I know you argued about having that dog, but knowing he’s here with you sure gave your father peace of mind.”
“I’ve gotten used to having him around.”
“Your dad was beside himself when you first announced that you were going to run this place yourself.”
That was putting it mildly. He’d done everything he could to get Marybeth to sell the bed-and-breakfast she’d inherited from a great-aunt she’d barely known.
“He didn’t miss a single check-in from the time
