Suddenly I understood why the average person died so young in Emily’s days. Time passed differently when there wasn’t anything to do. Someone who reached my age had probably already endured eighty-five years’ worth of time.
I went back inside and returned to my book on Emily’s life, determined to understand her, to truly connect. The book made her life seem dull and grim, a popular take on the subject. History regularly painted her as averse to people, obsessed with death, and more than a bit sad. Not the image I held of her, or the one I wanted. Emily saw beauty in the world. Her writing proved as much. She valued love, family, and friendship. Her heart was pure and open, the way I wanted mine to be.
My bag of novels from Village Books caught my eye, and I switched gears. I needed something light to improve my mood before class, so I closed my eyes, reached in, and pulled out my next read. A story of lifelong best friends fulfilling a childhood promise to open a historic bed-and-breakfast together in Cape May. Two dozen chapters, a lot of laughs, and a round of tears later, the grandfather clock in the foyer announced it was time to go.
I filled my favorite canvas tote with the supplies Grace had given me and a pair of ballpoint pens and hurried to Village Books. Shoppers lingered in aisles and lined up at the checkout. Others had gathered near the wooden cubbies and the long rectangular tables in the back.
Michael waved to me from the register. “You made it!”
“I did,” I agreed, thankful for the friendly face. “Fancy seeing you here again.”
“You’ll find me here nearly as often as you find Grace,” he said. “Are you ready for class?”
I looked at the gathering letter writers and bit my lip. “I hope so.”
A customer approached the register, setting me free to join the others, and I lifted a hand to Michael in goodbye.
A man carrying a cup of coffee paused when he noticed me. His shy smile put me instantly at ease. “Are you here for the letter-writing class?” he asked.
I smiled and nodded. “I’m new.”
“I’m Paul,” he said, offering me his hand. He was tall and lean, probably only a few years older than me. His grip was nice, warm, and gentle.
“Emma.”
“Emma,” he repeated. “Are you new to the area? Or just new to the class?”
“Both, I guess. I’m in town for an extended vacation,” I explained.
“In that case,” he said, swinging an open palm toward the refreshments, “let’s get you a cup of coffee and introduce you to everyone. It’s always good to have a few friends in a new land.”
I followed Paul to the refreshments table and watched while he poured me a cup of coffee. His congenial disposition was a welcomed change from the grumpy handyman who’d helped me build a fire.
“Where are you from?” he asked, as we settled in with a cluster of men and women around our age.
“Willow Bend.” I smiled when a few of the people nodded in recognition. “I run my family’s bookstore.”
“I think it’s safe to say you’ve found your people.” Paul adjusted the glasses on his nose. “We’re all a little bookish here.”
Grace approached the group a moment later with an affectionate grin, trading hugs and air-kisses with the folks I’d just met.
Slowly, everyone settled into their seats.
“Welcome, class,” Grace said sweetly, moving to the head of the table. “I’m glad, as always, to see so many familiar faces, and I’mdelighted to see a few new ones as well. This is my Lost Art of Letter-Writing class, where we get back to the pretexting, preinternet, and pre-instant-messaging times of ole and actually write our thoughts on paper to communicate with others.” She clasped her hands before her and widened her eyes, as if to say “Imagine that!”
“In a time when messages are everywhere,” she continued, “posted on social media for all the world to see, or thrown into a tweet, this class will help you focus on writing what’s important and what it is you truly long to say. You can’t backspace or even erase, so you should think carefully about what you intend to convey, then say exactly that. If you make a mistake that can’t be overlooked or eliminated satisfactorily by drawing a single line through it, you’ll have to get a new piece of paper and start over. A letter full of scribbles and black marks is a no-no. The message won’t be received in the same way as a letter that was clearly written after careful thought. Keep that in mind before you begin. Now, for today’s inspiration.”
She lifted a sheet of paper in one hand and positioned glasses on her nose with the other. “I’m going to give you some food for thought from author John Steinbeck, often called a giant of American letters. He wrote this letter to his son, Thom, in response to Thom’s letter from boarding school announcing he’d fallen in love.”
Grace offered a warm smile to the class. “Love is something we can all understand, whether romantic, platonic, or the sort we have for family. Love is the little silver thread connecting all of humanity, around the globe, century to century, forevermore.”
My heart sank and stomach tightened. Whatever I’d expected from letter-writing class, it hadn’t been to discuss love, the exact thing I was in Amherst to denounce.
“Steinbeck begins with a greeting, of course, and then jumps right into the good stuff. He tells his son that being in love is a good thing, maybe the best thing, and he tells him not to let anyone ever make light of that. Then, he issues a warning about the sorts of people who wield love like a weapon, who are unkind and use the attachment to controltheir partners or break them down. But the right kind of love, that sort that comes from all that is good in oneself and based on true respect for their partner, will lift you to new heights of confidence, strength, and wisdom.”
Grace paused to let us process the words. A classmate or two jotted something down. I waited, invested and eager. She raised the paper, and my breath caught in anticipation. The immortal romantic in me danced, giddy for more. “He goes on to say love should be reveled in. Rejoiced in and deeply, truly appreciated.”
Grace dragged her hand down the page, letting the top portion of the printed work droop backward as she skimmed.
