I should tell you why you’ve never heard of Doc until now. It isn’t his real name, but it suited him perfectly (because he looksnothinglike a Doc), and I loved calling him a name that was just ours. It was one of our “secrets”—one of many, as it turns out.
We saw each other several times that summer, accidentally and accidentally on purpose, and I think we were a little in love before we knew enough to admit it. I think I fell for him first, but he wasn’t far behind, and he fell as hard and as far as I did.
Jennifer, I know how terribly sad you still are about Danny. I understand as much as anyone can. And no one can tell you how long to grieve. I just want to tell you this one important thing. Don’t shut out love for good. I couldn’t feel this more strongly, my sweet, sweet, smart, smart girl. It’s why I’m writing these letters to you.
Please don’t shut out love—it’s the best thing about life.
Now, stop reading right here. Think about what I’m telling you. These letters aren’t just about my life, Jen; they’re about yours.
PART TWO
Young Love
Twenty-three
I WAS SETTLINGinto the quite wonderful ebb and flow of life on Lake Geneva, and I was loving it even more than I thought I would.
Sam’s friends were there for me at every turn. I could have eaten at somebody’s home every night if I’d wanted to. In many ways, I was on summer vacation. Except that, of course, Sam was sick, and I didn’t know if she would get better.
Early one afternoon I sat in her kitchen, an old-fashioned black phone cord connecting my laptop to the Internet. My e-mail in-box was crammed with notes from readers, many of whom said they missed me and hoped I was okay.
I absolutely love this connection to my readers. It’s one of the best things about my job. Actually, keeping my job depends on it. If readers react to me emotionally, they buy theTrib. So an hour ago my editor and I agreed that I’d write from Lake Geneva for now; 750 words per column, three columns a week, just like always. Only completely different.
I opened my word-processing program and was fooling around with a couple of ideas, but my thoughts kept drifting to Sam. And I thought about my mom, who should’ve been there but wasn’t. My mom, who shouldn’t have died but had. And I thought about Danny, of course. He was always on my mind, or not far from it. And then I stopped thinking about the past. I just had to.
A light tapping on the back screen door broke into my thoughts. I went to the door and discovered Brendan Keller standing there. I hadn’t seen him in a couple of days and was surprised to see him now.
He smiled and asked, “Can you come out and play?”
Twenty-four
“OKAY,”I said, probably surprising both of us. Then, before either of us could change our mind, I stepped outside. I wasn’t in the mood to write, anyway—or rather, to stare at a blank computer screen.
“Double-chocolate thick shake,” Brendan said, and I immediately knew what he had in mind.
“Daddy Maxwell’s,” I said, and smiled.
Daddy Maxwell’s Arctic Circle Diner is a white stucco, igloo-shaped local eatery at the highest level of low cuisine. It has blue-striped awnings, and what it lacks in class, it makes up for in really good food. Just two miles from Knollwood Road, it took all of three minutes to get there.
Nothing seemed to have changed since we were kids and Maxwell’s was the place to be seen. We took a table by a window and turned our attention to Marie, Daddy Maxwell’s latest perky waitress. She took our order, then disappeared into the kitchen.
Less than ten minutes later, I was staring over my veggie burger at Brendan’s plate. He’d ordered the special of the day. Plus a chocolate thick shake. The special was a scrumptious-looking southern omelette made of three eggs wrapped around grilled onions, “dirty” fried potatoes, and extra cheddar cheese.
“You’re adoctor,” I said.
“You only go around once.” Brendan grinned. “Show some guts, Jennifer. Give it a try. The omeletteandthe shake.”
I laughed, reached my fork over to his plate, and lifted a bite of steaming omelette to my mouth. Then I had another bite.
And a sip of the chocolate thick shake.
Then Brendan ordered me my own omelette and shake.
“You’re too thin, anyway,” he said, which was one of the more endearing remarks I’d heard recently.
We lingered over the meal, and then coffee. I was surprised that I was kind of enjoying myself. We were filling each other in on our headlines of the past twenty-five years. I told him a few details about Danny, but he already knew. Brendan told me that he’d been divorced for a year and a half—his ex-wife had been having an affair with a partner in her law firm. “Figures, that ma belle Michelle would get involved at the office,” he said. “Workaholic that she was—is, whatever.”
I nodded, then had a guilty thought about how Danny had called me a workaholic, and he’d been right. I felt a curtain of sadness drop. Brendan noticed, and he touched my hand. I told him I was okay. Reflexively, I pulled my hand away. So maybe I wasn’t okay.
