“Who takes care of it?”
“I have no idea. My dad could probably tell you, but I assume it’s a local. Come on.”
As she walked toward the mailbox, she glanced at Tru, noting again the small dimple in his chin and his windblown hair. Over his shoulder, she saw Scottie sniffing near the dune, his tongue hanging out, tired from the endless quest to keep birds in the air. “You’ll probably take this idea back with you to Zimbabwe, and you’ll put up a mailbox in the middle of the bush. How neat would that be?”
He shook his head. “The termites would eat the post in less than a month. Besides, it’s not as though anyone could put a letter in it, or sit around reading it. Too dangerous.”
“Do you ever go out into the bush alone?”
“Only if I’m armed. And only when I can predict that I’ll be safe, because I know what animals are in the vicinity.”
“What are the most dangerous animals?”
“That depends on the time and the location and the mood of the animal,” he answered. “Generally, if you’re in or around the water, crocodiles and hippos. In the bush during daylight, elephants, especially if they’re in heat. In the bush at night, lions. And black mambas anytime. That’s a snake. Very poisonous. The bite is nearly always fatal.”
“We have water moccasins in North Carolina. Copperheads, too. A kid came into the emergency room once after being bitten. But we had antivenin at the hospital, and he recovered. And how did we get on this subject again?”
“You suggested that I put a mailbox in the middle of the bush.”
“Oh yeah,” she said. By then, she had her hand on the handle. “Are you ready for this?”
“Is there a protocol?”
“Of course there is,” she said, “First you do ten jumping jacks, then sing ‘Auld Lang Syne,’ and you’re supposed to bring red velvet cake as an offering, which you place on the bench.”
When he stared at her, she giggled. “Gotcha. No, there’s no protocol. You just…read what’s in the mailbox. And if you want to, you can write something.”
Hope pulled it open and removed the entire stack of mail that rested inside, bringing it with her to the bench. When she set it beside her, Tru took a seat next to her, close enough that she could feel the heat from his body.
“How about I read first, and then just pass them to you?”
“I’ll follow your lead,” he answered. “Proceed.”
She rolled her eyes. “Proceed,” she repeated. “It’s fine if you just say ‘okay,’ you know.”
“Okay.”
“I hope there’s a good one. I’ve read some amazing letters when I’ve been here.”
“Tell me about the one you remember most.”
She took a few seconds to consider it. “I read about this man who was searching for a woman he’d met briefly at a restaurant. They were at the bar and they spoke for a few minutes before her friends arrived and she went to her table. But he knew she was the one for him. There was this beautiful line in there about stars colliding, sending shimmers of light through his soul. And anyway, this guy was writing because he hoped that someone knew who she was and would let her know that he wanted to see her again. He even left his name and phone number.”
“He’d barely spoken to her? He sounds obsessive.”
“You had to read the way he wrote it,” she said. “It was very romantic. Sometimes a person just knows.”
He watched as she lifted a postcard from the top of the stack, one displaying the USS North Carolina, a World War II battleship. When she was finished reading it, she handed it to him without comment.
Tru scanned it before turning toward her. “It’s a shopping list for someone planning a barbecue.”
“I know.”
“I’m not sure why I’d be interested in this.”
“You don’t have to be,” she said. “That’s why this is exciting. Because we’re hoping to find that diamond in the rough, and who knows,” she said, lifting a letter from the stack, “maybe this is it.”
Tru set the postcard aside, and when she was finished with the letter, she handed it to him. It was from a young girl, a poem about her parents, and it reminded him of something Andrew might have written when he was younger. As he read, he felt Hope’s leg move against his, and by the time he finished, Hope was handing him a sheaf of pages torn from a notebook. He wondered if she realized that they were touching, or if she was simply lost in the words of anonymous writers and didn’t even notice. Now and then, he saw her glance up to make sure that Scottie was still nearby; because there were no birds, he’d plopped himself down a bit closer to the water’s edge.
There was another postcard, and a handful of photographs with comments on the back. That was followed by a letter from a father to his children, with whom he seldom spoke. In the letter, there was more bitterness and blame than sadness about the broken relationship. Tru wondered whether the man took any responsibility for what had happened.
As he set it aside, Hope was still reading the next letter in the stack. In the silence, he spotted a pelican skimming low over the water, just past the breakers. Beyond them, the sea continued to darken, becoming almost black near the horizon. Broken seashells littered the smooth, hard sand, left behind by the receding tide. Hope’s hair was lifting slightly in the breeze; in the graying light, she seemed to be the only element of color.
She had yet to hand him another letter, and only then did he realize that she was reading the one in her hand a second time. He heard her sniff.
“Wow,” she finally said.
“Did he write about stars colliding and sending shimmers of light through his soul?”
“No. And on second thought, you’re probably right. That other guy was definitely obsessive.”
He laughed as she handed over the letter. She didn’t reach for another one, instead keeping her gaze on him.
“You’re not going to watch me read it, are you?” he asked.
“I have a better idea,” she said. “Why don’t you read it aloud?”
The suggestion caught him off guard, but he took the letter, feeling her hand brush against his. He thought how relaxed they already seemed to be with each other, and how easy it would be to fall for someone like her. And that maybe, just maybe, he was already falling, and there was nothing he could do to stop it.
In the silence, he felt her move closer. He could smell her hair, the scent clean and sweet, as fresh as flowers, and he fought the urge to put his arm around her. Instead, he took a deep breath and, lowering his gaze, began to read the shaky scrawl.
Dear Lena,
The sands in the hourglass have fallen without mercy throughout my life, but I try to remind myself of the blessed years that we shared—especially now, when I am drowning in riptides of sorrow and loss.
I wonder who I am without you. Even when I was old and tired, it was you who helped me face the day. I sometimes felt as though you could read my mind. You seemed to always know what I wanted and needed. Even though we had our struggles at times, I can think back on the more than half a century we spent together and know that I was the lucky one. You inspired and fascinated me, and I walked just a bit taller because you were by my side. Every time I held you, I felt as though I needed nothing else. I would trade anything to hold you just one more time.