Page 27 of The Christmas Letters
“Ah.”
Daisyandher new boyfriend.
“You know, I bet I can ask Shelby for a third ticket. That way you can bring a date, too.”
I pull a fork out of the silverware drawer while Grandma Pearl lifts a piece of pie onto a plate and slides it across the counter. “Except I’m not dating anyone right now.”
“Shoot. You could ask anyone. Any woman would jump at the chance to spend an evening with you.”
“Not any woman,” I say, thinking of Daisy. I shovel an enormous bite of pie into my mouth. Eating feels much easier than having this conversation with my grandmother.
“Andrew,” she says, leveling me with a stare I can’t ignore. Especially not when she pulls out my full name. That means she’s really serious.
“Grandma,” I say back around a mouthful of pie.
She props her hands on her hips. “It’s time for you to let this go. That woman was awful.Let her go.Her, and the anger you’re hauling around in your heart.”
I take another bite, knowing Grandma Pearl is right. The trouble is, I’m not exactly surehowto move on.Not with Tess, I know that much. My eyes drift to the letter sitting on the counter just to the left of my plate.
Gran nudges it forward. “You never know,” she says softly. “Just be open-minded, all right?”
With a weary sigh, I break the seal on the envelope and scan the contents, nervous if only for my grandmother’s looming presence across the counter.
“What does it say?” she finally asks.
“Nothing, really. She apologizes that no one answered the letter and then asks me how I managed to move on.” It’s the truth—the letter doesn’t say much. But a knot of emotion forms in my gut anyway. There’s something about it that makes me wish whoever wrote it had written more.
Which doesn’t make sense. She’s a stranger. I shouldn’t want more from a stranger. But the vulnerability, the honesty of her question, it makes me think I would like her. I’m not sure I’d call it a connection. Not yet. But the woman has definitely made me curious.
“Let me read it.” Grandma Pearl holds out her hand, and I hand her the letter.
Her eyes scan over the page. “Your Christmas Pen Pal?” she asks, looking up. “There isn’t a name anywhere else?”
“Not unless you see one that I don’t.”
“Is there a street address? I bet we could use the google to find her name.”
I press my lips together over my grandmother’s use ofthe google.“When did you become such an internet detective?”
“Get with the times, Drew. You can learn anything on the google.”
I watch, highly entertained, as my grandmother grabs her phone and navigates her way to a search engine with unexpected ease. Still, it’s doubtful Gran will find anything worthwhile. If the address were to a house that someone owns, we could look up property records to see who’s on the deed. But the address on the envelope is to an apartment complex over on East Bay Street. If the woman is only renting, those records aren’t public.
Sure enough, the address pulls up a few outdated listings on real estate sites, but nothing else significant. I swallow an unexpected twinge of disappointment. I didn’t truly expect to find anything, but I won’t lie and say I wouldn’t have liked finding a name. Which feels a little sneaky when she didn’t give it to me willingly. But I’m part of a generation that has grown up with cell phones in our pockets. It’s hard not towantinformation when it’s usually so easy to find it.
Grandma Pearl sighs and closes out the search. “Are you going to write her back?”
I shrug, feigning disinterest if only to keep my grandmother from getting her hopes up. “I guess so. She asked me a question. It feels wrong not to answer it.”
She nods, seemingly satisfied with my answer.
Which means I don’t have to tell her the real reason I’m writing back is because weirdly enough, I really want to.
Dear Christmas Pen Pal,
Thank you for responding to my letter. Even after all these years, it’s nice to know that someone read my words and cared enough to respond. I wish I had an answer to your question, but honestly, time is probably what helped me the most. I was young when my parents died. I was surrounded by people who loved me, and that made a big difference. The island also helped. My grandma lives on Sullivan’s Island, and I moved in with her after everything that happened. If any place is capable of healing someone, it’s Sullivan’s. I think the beach might be magic. I still spend most Sundays there—it’s time I look forward to all week.
Maybe there’s some place like that for you—a place that fills you up and makes you feel whole even when the rest of your world feels like it’s falling apart. What is it about your life that you’ve lost? I like to think that what we make of our lives is up to us. Maybe it isn’t too late to get it back? Thanks again for writing back.
