Page 229 of Love in Riverbend
Another laugh. “Um, if you say so.”
“Call back after work.”
“I will.” We disconnect our call. I lay my phone on my desk and smooth out the page, reading the flowing words.
* * *
Dear Marilyn,
Someone told me that handwritten letters are a rarely used form of communication. I read where they are also the sincerest. It’s easy and fast to send a text message. An email takes only seconds longer. A handwritten note takes time, penmanship, and patience. That doesn’t even take into account the delivery.
I didn’t want to wait on the USPS, so I delivered this letter personally to your office.
If you haven’t stopped reading yet, I might have a chance of you reading to the very end. I told you last night that I was sorry. That’s an insignificant explanation of a complex emotion. I’m not sure the English language has a word capable of expressing my distress over causing you pain.
Hurting you wasn’t my intention—neither years ago nor last night.
The partners’ dinner means nothing if I can’t consider you a friend—or more. You see, working at Parker and Stevens would mean more to me if I knew I could see your beautiful smile, hear your glorious laughter, and bask in your presence. Without those qualities, the firm would mean nothing more than any other.
I hope you continued reading, and I hope that when I call, you will answer. If you call, I will always answer.
Yours,
Ricky
* * *
I read the letter to the end.
Yours.
Yours?
What the actual hell?
Despite my gut reaction to his sign-off, I’m ashamed to say I read the handwritten note multiple times before folding it neatly and placing it back in the envelope. To be honest, I’m not sure what I’m thinking.
A look up at my screen, and I admit that the wealth perspectives and investment growth of my clients is far away from my current radar. I’m about to call it a day when there’s a knock on my office door.
Not waiting for a command from me, the door opens. While I expect to see Klara with another message, a letter or maybe more ice cream, instead, I’m met with the green stare of Bryce Perkins. My ex.
“Marilyn, can I ask you for a favor?”
I grit my teeth. “No, Bryce. It’s Friday, and I have plans.”
He comes toward my desk, wearing his business casual, pants, a sweater, and a suit coat. The aroma of his cologne proceeds him as he nears. There’s no question that Bryce is a handsome man. The truth of the matter is that, like T.J., the guy from the gym, Bryce is boring and too self-assured for his own good.
“I know it’s late notice,” he says, “but I’m supposed to attend the dinner tonight for the applicants for our new entry-level position.”
I sit taller and purse my lips. “Are you inviting me? It is a little late.” I look at my watch. “There’s only two hours to cocktails.”
His expression pinches. “How do you know about it?”
“A friend told me.”
“Are you available?” he asks hopefully.
Standing, I meet his gaze. “No, Bryce. I’m not available at the last minute to be your plus-one. What happened? Does your current flavor of the month have a broken nail?”
