Page 66 of Letters From Victor

I remembered the first time Victor took me horseback riding on Laguna Beach. I couldn’t have been more than five or six years old. The salty breeze tangled in my hair as we rode along the shoreline, the Pacific’s cool mist kissing our faces. The early morning sun peeked through the marine haze, low and lazy, streaking the sky in pink and purple.

At first, I’d been terrified of the big chestnut mare Victor had set me atop. She seemed ten feet tall to my child’s eyes, and her sheer size made me feel insignificant, fragile. I clung to the saddle horn for dear life, my knuckles white and my heart pounding. But Victor was patient. He walked beside me, holding the reins and gently encouraging me.

“You’re doing great, Frankie,” he said, his voice smooth and unhurried. “Just breathe. Let your body move with her. She knows what she’s doing.”

I swallowed hard and nodded. I trusted Victor, and if he said I could do this, then maybe I could. Within minutes, my fear melted into exhilaration as I imagined myself a dauntless cowboy. We spent hours that day riding up and down the beach, just the two of us.

I smiled at the memory. That day on the beach had been the beginning of many adventures with Victor. He taught me to ride a bike, stole me out of school to go to a Dodgers game, and hoisted me on his shoulders the day Disneyland opened in Anaheim.

Though not related by blood, Victor had been my dad in every way that mattered. He was the dad I needed—the one my own father had never been. He was the example I’d followed when it was my turn to raise a child.

I gathered the empty takeout containers and dropped them into the large black trash bag I had set up in the kitchen—an unfortunate necessity after I’d foolishly gotten rid of the trash can. Thankfully, I hadn’t made the same mistake with the single-serve coffee maker. I rinsed my cup in the sink, popped a pod in the machine, and brewed a steaming cup of medium roast Colombian.

Coffee mug in hand, I returned to the dining room table and pulled out the letters I had planned to read that night. These were different from the ones I'd already read, and curiosity itched at the back of my mind. Each of these letters had been written during May and June of 1951, and Victor had noted a countdown in the top margin of each letter: 58 days to go, 52 days to go, 39 days to go…

Victor’s letters read like a forbidden romance novel—the kind my daughter wrote. Except this was real life—Mom and Victor’s. And, in many ways, the foundation for my life too.

I spied the fortune cookie from my dinner. Something urged me to open it.

I unwrapped it and cracked the shell with a swift twist of my wrists. The scent of stale, dusty almond rose up as a brittle shard of cookie skittered across the table. I fished out the small strip of paper and smoothed it with my fingers.

Love is the only thing you can take with you.

26

BARBARA

Tuesday, April 24, 1951

58 days to go…

My darling,

It’s only been an hour since I told you goodbye, and I guess our waiting is truly underway. June 21st is the day… That’s 58 days, sweetheart. But you’re worth it, and I’d wait 1,000 days if I knew you were the prize at the end.

I’m awfully sorry for the emotional display, but when there is even a remote possibility of losing someone so very precious, it’s impossible to keep all those fears bottled up. Just some of my Italian background popping out, I’m afraid… Hopefully, you can love me in spite of it.

On the drive out to Malibu after letting you go, I tried, with success but very little satisfaction,going over all the wonderful moments we’ve had together, especially since we’ve been in love. I don’t know how I could pin down any one particular memory as being the best. Still, the one that keeps coming to mind—the most persistent mental picture—is our very first afternoon together at my downtown apartment. The day you first told me you were mine. Funny how those moments fly. At the time, you know that in just a while they’ll be only memories, and you try so hard to hold each fleeting second tightly so as never to let it escape, and yet it does… And then it seems only to be a dream. We’ll never recapture that moment again, darling, but we will have more—even better!

Perhaps this summer we can manage a week or two away. Your sister could keep Frankie, and we could get a place on Catalina Island—something on the water, second story with a balcony. We could get a sail in at sunset and have those marvelous star-studded evenings all to ourselves. Maybe a stroll along the boardwalk or nestle together on the beach watching the boats coming and going. But most of all, my darling, just being there with you, planning our future together, is all I want. To hold you close to me and know you are mine—mine alone—is my fondest dream!

I keep telling myself that eight weeks is really a very short time, that it will go quickly, and I pray it will, but as of this moment…

I can’t erase the picture of your beautiful, damning blue eyes. I can’t forget the magical touch of your hand on mine or the tender touch of your lips, my darling. You can calm all my fears so easily. When we are together, I am yours—your subject, your lover, anything you want me to be. My darling, I do adore you so! I’m yours completely if you’ll only have me!

I want to thank you, honey, for every minute we’ve had together these past few months. It’s probably the nearest thing I’ve ever known to complete happiness. The Hi-Fi is playing “Moonlight Becomes You” in the background, and I guess I’m getting carried away, but I don’t care. It’s you I’m in love with, and I want you to know just how much!

Remember that you belong to me, sweetheart, and that I love you and you only. Always.

Good night, my love.

—V

“Idon’t know if I can keep this up, Edie.”

Frankie charged ahead on his little pedal bike, legs pumping furiously as I guided him with the long handle. I let go, and he wobbled forward, the bell on his handlebars jingling with each unsteady turn.

Edith and I settled onto a weathered park bench beneath a sprawling jacaranda tree, its violet blossoms forming a fragrant canopy overhead. The late afternoon sun stretched long shadows across the grass, and a warm breeze carried the mixed scents of salt air and spring flowers.

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