Page 32 of Somewhere Without You
Seventeen
December 27th, 1863
West Virginia
My Dearest Charlotte,
Ithasonly been months since Isawyour face, yet itfeelslike a lifetime. I dream of you often, butevenin dreams, your voice slips away like wind through trees. Your deathwasa cruel fate, but the hollowness of your absence lingers. I write to you not out of hope, but habit. Writing to you brings me solace, though Finn mocks me for it. He says it’s a waste of time, but time is all we have. Time to wait, to wither, to die.
Do you rememberthatspring by the Sycamore Grove, where the wildflowers tangled around your ankles and you told me you feared nothing so long as I stood beside you? I’ve carriedthatmoment with me through every blood-soaked field and silent night. It reminds me of something worth surviving for.
I sometimes imagine you waitingtherestill, knees tucked to your chest, sunlight in your hair, hummingthattune your mother used to sing when the sky turned amber with dusk. I try to hum it now, though I fear I’ve forgotten the words.
The warhastakenso much, Charlotte. Brothers. Futures. Sanity.ButI refuse to let it take you. Nottruly. So long as I write, you remain. So long as I remember, you live.
I write from the cold ridges of the Appalachians, where the Confederacy creeps northward. Winter bares its ugly teeth, and already Ifeelits chill settle in my bones. These mountains are as deadly as they are beautiful, and we’ve lost many men to their wrath.Still, we march. Between the cold and the threat of attack, the days are long and unforgiving, but in every breath, I carry your memory.Whetherpeace finds me, or death claims me first, I pray it brings me back to you.
Your loving husband,
James
Twelve love letters, all achingly beautiful, sat sprawled out before me on the living room floor. They overflowed with passion, with a tenderness so profound itfeltalmost wrong to read them.ButI couldn’t help myself. A love like this only existed in books and movies, and yet these twoclearlyshared a connectionthatdefiedevendeath.
I didn’tknowwhat itfeltlike to be loved likethat—to be cherished sodeeply,thatyour spirit finds solaceevenwhen the world around you is crumbling.
Icarefullyrefolded the letters, their paper crackling with age. Slipping them back into the satchel, I hesitated—brieflytempted to return them to the fireplace, to let them rest beside the spirits of Charlotte and James.Butsomething aboutthatfeltwrong, like snuffing out a fragile light. A local museum would be perfect—maybeone dedicated to the memory of the Civil War. Perhaps theycouldeventrack down any living descendants.Fornow, I placed the satchel on the kitchen table, twelve silent witnesses to a love storythathadoutliveda century.
An ache stirred in my stomach as late afternoon melted into evening. I rummaged through Grans cupboards only to be met with empty shelves—save for a lonely jar of pickled onions and a dented can of somethingthatvaguelyresembled beans. I must’ve tossed out more expired food than I realized during my manic cleaning spree.
Icouldorder a pizza, butthatdidn’t solve the rest of my problems. Iwasstill in need of things like shampoo, trash bags—maybeevena bottle of wine or two. A trip into townwasunavoidable.
Upstairs, I found the envelope my sister gave me and tucked a few twenty-dollar bills into my pocket. Anxiety tightened in my chest as I refolded it. This wouldn’t last. Not forever.EventuallyI’dneed togeta job—something Ihadn’thadin years. I thought back to my last summer in Windhaven, working at the local Frosty Boy flipping burgers and scooping ice cream. What kind of jobcouldIevengetnow? My resumewaspracticallya blank page.
The thought of going into town filled me with cold dread. News of Gran’s deathhadsurelymade the rounds by now, but in Windhaven, old news lingered like humidity.Still, eleven years had passed since I left. Time had carved its changes into me. I was older now—heavier. The sharp lines of my youth had softened, blurred by years of trying to hold myself together. I looked like someone still halfway between who they’d been and who they were trying to become.
With a sigh, I reached for my keys, the jangling sound loud in the quiet house. I wouldn’t be in town for long. And besides, who would recognize meanyway?
Eighteen
Before
Granlivedontheoutskirts of town—sheltered by the mountains and magnolia trees hugging her never ending driveway. You couldn’t see the old farmhouse from the main road, but you knew it was there.
Everyone in Windhavenknewitwasthere.
Granhada reputation. Shewasa spiritual woman, an eccentric woman. She spoke to the earth as if itwerea living thing, and she threatened us with Karma instead of God. She danced in the rain, carried crystals in her pockets, and insisted on consulting her tarot cards before making anybigdecisions.
The squeak of my sneakers echoedloudlyon the linoleum. Kat, her hand in Gran’s, trailed behind me. My eyes darted to the aisle crammed with cheap toys and candy.
“Can Igeta toy?”I asked Gran, batting my eyelashes.
With a smile, she glanced back and nodded.“What about you Kitty Kat? Want to tag along with your sister while I grab what we need?”
Kat shook her head.“I’drather stay with you.”
Gran gave her hand a firm squeeze, before turning to me.“Don’t stray,”she instructed,“I don’t want to have to hunt you down later.”
With a gleeful squeal, I skipped over to aisle twelve, where the Barbie knockoffs and generic Hot Wheelswerewaiting.However, I skidded to a stop a few feet away. A girl with hair as bright as sunlightwasexamining a miniature castle containing a tiny fairy princess.
