Page 45 of Lovetown, USA
“Am I reporting for jury duty?” she tosses over her shoulder, making me chuckle.
“Just keep going,” I say, still staring, adjusting myself in my jeans.
At the top of the stairs, I take over, leading her to the library archives. As soon as we enter, we’re surrounded by tall wooden shelves stacked with binders, boxes, and spines so old the gold lettering has rubbed off. Dust particles float in the air caught in shafts of fading light from the high windows. Lane pauses to look around, her face pleasant for the first time since I picked her up.
“This is…kind of amazing,” she admits.
“I figured you would appreciate it, you being a journalist.”
“Well, I’m a reader, too, first and foremost.” She takes a deep breath. “I love the smell of old books.”
I smile at that. “You know you just said the L word, right?”
“Shut up,” she teases, poking her elbow into my side.
“Come on. I wanna show you something.”
I lead her over to a long oak table where I’ve already arranged for our own private exhibit. Neat stacks of envelops cover half of the table, some yellowed, some sealed with wax, others folded into crisp squares.
Her eyes scan wildly. “What is this?”
“Love letters,” I say simply. “From the town’s archive. A few years ago, the historical society called for donated letters for a museum exhibit. Some of these go back decades.”
I can’t read her expression.
“Some were donated by couples. Some were donated by families after their loved ones passed away. Now they’re part of the historical record.”
She brushes a finger across the top of one stack, then reaches for the first letter. She’s careful, as if it might crumble in her hands. Her nails, painted a deep plum color, contrast against the pale, fragile paper.
She reads aloud, her voice softening as she goes. “My dearest Ruby. I’ve been gone thirty-nine days, but I can still smell the bread you bake in the mornings…”
She pauses, then glances up at me. “Wow. Bread. The ultimate aphrodisiac.”
“Keep reading.”
“I think of you every time the sea spray hits my face. It feels like your laughter, sudden, infinite, and soothing. The other men keep pictures of their sweethearts in their pockets, but I keep your last letter folded up like a talisman. When I comehome, I want to marry you, and build you a porch where you can read your novels, and a garden where you can plant those tulips you’re always talking about. I want to build you a life where every day is sweeter and safer than the one before.
Wait for me, Ruby. I’ll be back.
Love, Gregory.”
She sets the letter down, letting several seconds pass before she looks up at me and says, “I guess that was sweet.”
Footsteps scurry across the floor behind us. I turn around, relieved that he’s finally here.
“Sorry, sorry.” The young man rushes over to the table and arranges several long candles down the center. “I got hung up with something.”
Lane watches him light each one, a slow smile spreading across her face. I take the seat next to her, dapping up my man once he’s finished.
“’Preciate it,” I tell him.
“My pleasure. Y’all have a good night.”
Once he’s gone, she turns to me. “Letters by candlelight. Awww. You’d think we hadn’t fucked already.”
I shake my head at that, glancing down at the date on the letter she read. “That’s from World War Two era. Interesting.”
“I wonder if he made it back,” she says softly, mostly to herself, before picking up another letter from the stack.
