Page 51 of Rejected
“It is perfectly human to cry,” Jo said, feeling completely lost. “Even for a gentleman.”
Sainted John chuckled wetly. “Not about that, my dear,” he said, and motioned for me to sit by him on the sofa. “I… I have done something.”
“Well, what is it?” Jo asked, exasperated.
“I… I…” He clung to Meg’s hand until his knuckles turned white. “Your sister was aware of my doings, and gave her heartfelt blessing to them, but now that I am about to tell you, I see that she is silent. The task falls to me.”
For him to express a slight criticism of Meg, even in jest, the situation must be dire indeed. Jo grit her teeth, bracing herself.
“Tell me,” she said.
And he did.
Dear Beth,
You are never going to believe what the sweet, idiotic man our sister married has done.
He took all those letters I have been writing to you to a publisher, without even telling me. Of course, he did not take any personal letters, not like this one, containing my news and personal… musings. He had Meg look through all those letters I write to you at midnights, the ones where I pour out all my grief and hope and longing. The ones following the little light.
Together, Meg and Sainted John scrapped any personal information from them, like my name, and are getting them published. John says they help him tremendously—I have been reading them out loud to him and Meg every evening.
It turns out, the publisher loved them so much, he wants to publish them in a bound book! Can you believe it? Apparently, he wants the book to circulate by Christmas (impossible, I know), and thus it was very urgent that John speak to me this very evening. He was scared to death of my reaction.
I was delighted.
I am delighted. I am sort of frightened of course, at the idea of so many eyes perusing my innermost thoughts, but there is always the hope that the book won’t sell. On the other hand, if it does sell, as the publisher seems to believe, if it sells a lot of copies, itmight help more people through grief dark such as mine.
I cannot object to that.
The only thing that makes me sad is that, no matter how many copies they sell, my writing will never reach the one person I really want to help, our brother. No one can reach him now.
Things are going well, Beth. Really well.
I am no longer alone, and maybe in a month or two, I will have a book published. Soon, there will be nieces and nephews, judging by the way our sister and her husband look at each other.
Laurie’s absence will forever be a gaping hole in my heart, but the rest of me is growing. I hope that eventually that hole is not the only thing that exists in my heart.
The book is going to be titled ‘Dear Beth’.
Eternally,
Your sister
twenty-one
In the new year, a letter arrived from Paris, from Amy.
Dear Jo,
Forgive me.
I have betrayed you.
-Amy.
“What does it say?” asked Meg, seeing the frown on Jo’s face. “It looks uncharacteristically short for our sister.”
They were in the breakfast parlor, eating jam and scones. The first snow of the new year was starting to powder the grounds outside the frosty window, and Sainted John stood to feed the fire, because he saw his wife slightly shiver.
