“Gracie,” is all he’s able to say as I move closer, drawn to him across the space and anything else that might separate us. When he lifts his hand to brush away my tears, his warm palm is better than any homecoming I can imagine.
“Does she know?” I ask. “That you planned on telling me?”
He nods mutely, lips parted as though he can’t believe he’s touching me again. I step closer, wishing I could shield him from all the pain he’s ever known and silently carried.
“When you left me,” he says, making my rib cage want to crumple, “I forced myself to accept that it was for the best. You were right to leave someone who couldn’t be open with you. Who would always be in constant fear of sharing too much. But then, I found these.”
He reaches around to his back pocket and pulls out two small envelopes. I immediately recognize the handwriting, and my mouth parts in a silent gasp. “Letters from Agatha?”
He nods. “One for each of us. Do you want to read them now?”
At this, my heart becomes a kite in my chest, freewheeling and wild. I let out a breathless, “Yes, of course!”
He doesn’t make me wait. My hands are trembling when he hands them to me. I look up at him, fresh tears already welling. “I don’t know which one to read first.”
A corner of his mouth lifts. “Says the woman who once spent thirty minutes snooping in my sock drawer. Go ahead.”
Letting out a choked laugh, I take out his letter, which is soft around the edges like it’s already been read about fifty times. The truth is, I do want to save my letter for last—if only because it means holding on to her final, unknown words for a little longer.
Unfolding the paper, I begin to read and promptly start to cry. And laugh. And gasp. And cry some more. By the time I’m done reading, my chest feels like it’s been asked to hold twice its capacity for love and grief.
“Jude—” I begin, hardly knowing how to express my desperate urge to become a living shield against anything that might try to hurt him. Or how to apologize for my own misjudgments and assumptions. Or how to digest the ludicrous fact that Agatha successfully set us up from beyond the grave.
But he shakes his head. “Read yours.”
Nodding, I hand him back his letter before opening mine.
At the sight of my name in her elegant hand, I can’t help my shaking exhale.
Dear Gracie,
If you’re reading this, then I believe it’s safe to assume you’ve been missing me for a little while now. Darling, I already miss you, too. But with my departure, one of my greatest comforts is knowing that you’ve finally met my outrageously handsome grandson, Jude. And if you agree, I believe a big, glittering I-Told-You-So is in order.
If he’s let you read his letter (and I’m assuming he has because I did an excellent job raising him as a gentleman), then you already know about my romantic meddling. And while I’m not sorry in the slightest (I do love a side of drama with my champagne), I do sympathize with the growing pains you must have endured after meeting each other. I understand how dearly you’ve relied upon Larkwood to stay in your beloved comfort zone, and conversely, how deeply Jude has yearned to remove it from his life.
It was never going to be an easy needle to thread. But as I’ve said to you before, I have always believed that Larkwood was meant to be a place of hope and new beginnings—no matter if it stays a wedding venue or transforms into something new. Above all, I hope that it has become a means to a fresh start for both of you—together. Because (as you know) I’m nothing if not a romantic.
As someone who has known and loved you both, having to wait until the right time to introduce you has felt like holding two halves of the same heart in separate hands. And maybe I’m wildly mistaken. Maybe you both still despise each other—wouldn’tthatbe a twist? But something tells me that if Jude is with you as you read this, he’s staring at you with every ounce of the—frankly, alarming—amount of love he’s capable of. And that you’re giving it right back.
Which is the only reason I’m able to say goodbye to you nowwith a smile. There’s no earthly way of expressing how dear you’ve become to me, but I’ll rest easy knowing you and Jude have found each other. I only ask that you give him one last kiss for me and eventually name a grandchild after me—a middle name is fine. I’m only kidding, of course.
Love eternally,
Agatha
P.S. Or am I?
When I finish reading on a sound that’s somewhere between a laugh and a sob, I lift my eyes to Jude’s. And just as his grandmother uncannily predicted, he’s staring at me like my tear-stained face is the light source for all his future happiness. His love swims in my bloodstream, as permanent and necessary as oxygen, and I know I’m incapable of reflecting anything less back to him.
“She knew,” is what I finally whisper, knowing he’ll understand.
He nods, his smile soft and a little tired. “Of course she knew I’d fall in love with you, Gracie. How couldn’t I?”
There’s a feeling in my chest like invisible hands are reaching toward him. I step closer. “She called us two halves of the same heart.”
He closes his eyes for moment, swallowing hard. “We should probably get that checked out.”
I smile through my tears, bringing my hands up to loop behind his neck. When he looks at me like he still can’t believe I could want him after all the immeasurable good he’s done—I try not to crumble under the weight of how long he’s isolated himself.
