To: [email protected]
Date: Wed, Sep 16, 2015 12:31 a.m.
Subject: Re: An Affair to Remember
Dear Amelia,
You weren’t exaggerating. It is complicated. I’m sorry you’re faced with such a horrible dilemma.
Here is my honest advice. If I were you, I would talk to my brother’s fiancée. Tell her what you saw and give her a chance to explain. Maybe it’s not what you think?
I want to thank you for trusting me enough with your problem, and for giving me an excuse to procrastinate. At the moment, I’m currently ghostwriting a book for a celebrity. My contract forbids that I say who, but I will give you two hints. He’s rather famous and he’s not the easiest fellow to work with, which I think might surprise many of his fans.
And hey, would you mind doing me a favor? If you follow my advice, please let me know how it goes. And if you don’t follow my advice, let me know that too. Maybe it’s the writer in me, but I have to know how things end. Loose strings drive me crazy.
Best,
Nate
PS: Your subject line made me smile.
“There are far, far better things ahead than any we leave behind.”
—C. S. Lewis
From: [email protected]
To: [email protected]
Date: Wed, Sep 16, 2015 6:07 a.m.
Subject: Re: An Affair to Remember
I’m glad it made you smile. And wow, a ghostwriter. I don’t think I’ve ever had the pleasure of meeting one of those before. I’m grateful for the advice. You’re right. I should talk to Bridget. (That’s her name, by the way. I don’t think I told you in the previous e-mail.) Maybe I didn’t see things correctly. I read once that eyewitness accounts aren’t nearly as reliable as we think they should be. I promise to keep you updated on the situation. Wish me luck!
—Amelia
I stepped inside the front office of Mayfair’s one and only school. It served grades K–12 all in the same building, with the second story reserved for the high school. I attended in kindergarten and halfway through first grade before my dad moved me and one-year-old William to our new home and family in Green Bay.
Mrs. Berdahl, a short-haired, big-hipped woman who ran the front office when I was there in kindergarten, greeted me with a big smile. “Amelia, what brings you here so bright and early?”
“I was wondering if I could have a quick word with Bridget?” She taught French. This was her first year. If I was going to confront her, as Nate advised, I had to do it as soon as possible. Before I could talk myself out of it.
“Let me get you a visitor badge, and you can go on up to her room.” Mrs. Berdahl opened her top drawer and pulled out a lanyard with a badge attached that said Visitor in a bold black font. “You know, everyone was talking about William’s proposal yesterday. It was one of the most romantic things I’d ever seen, him walking down to her room with all those roses. Bridget hasn’t stopped smiling since.”
I forced my lips to curve up, wishing it were genuine. Hoping Bridget had a good, solid explanation for what I’d seen. I wanted to be happy for them.
Mrs. Berdahl handed me the badge. “Say, do you have any yellow roses in stock? It’s my aunt’s birthday tomorrow. She adores yellow roses.”
“I can make sure to have some if you want to swing by and pick up a bouquet.”
“Oh, that would be wonderful. I’ll be in after work tomorrow.”
“I’ll make sure to save some yellow roses for you, then.” I put on the lanyard, said good-bye, and headed toward the stairwell. It was eight o’clock. Classes didn’t start for another thirty minutes. I was technically supposed to be at the shop by now. I nodded hello to a few teachers who spotted me walking past their classrooms. Once outside Bridget’s, I wiped my sweaty palms on the thighs of my jeans and took a deep breath, hoping the extra oxygen might give me some courage. When I knocked on the open door, Bridget looked up from some papers on her desk, her eyes going wide at the sight of me.
She stood abruptly. “Amelia? What are you doing here? Did something happen to Will?”
“Oh no. Sorry. William’s fine.” At least, physically. The state of his heart remained to be seen.
She pressed her palm against her chest, as if to calm her racing heart.
My hands took to fidgeting. “Do you have a second to talk?”
“Sure, I have a few minutes.” Bridget straightened the papers on her desk and waved me inside. “Is everything okay? It seemed like you had something on your mind last night at the party. I’m sure this must be a little weird for you—your younger brother being engaged—especially when the two of you are so close.”
“No, it’s not that. It’s just . . .” I stepped farther inside the room. “I saw you.”