“He did, that was tragic. She died, can’t remember from what. Now, do you want cold meat and mashed potato?”
“That would be lovely. Why don’t I get that sorted, you go and pour us a glass of wine each.”
As soon as Dad left the kitchen, I sat to think. Miller had lost his partner yet he hadn’t said a word about that. I wondered why. Wouldn’t that have given us a connection, something in common? Or maybe he didn’t want to talk about it at all. The more I knew about Miller, the more I realised I knew nothing at all. Yet his kiss had been so consuming, so connecting, and passionate. It had felt so natural but he was effectively a stranger. How could that be?
There was something in the back of my mind that I just couldn’t grasp. Some knowledge that was wriggling its way to the front. It frustrated me, but all I could do was to concentrate on something else and hope whatever it was, would come to me.
I set about to prepare dinner and put Miller out of my mind. His kiss though, was there thanks to the tingle still on my lips.
Dad and I decided to eat off our laps in front of the TV. It wasn’t something we’d normally do, but there was a movie that we both didn’t want to miss. Dad moaned at the unreality and I gawked at the leading man in his ripped t-shirt and oil stained skin. We had fun and it was another day that I didn’t feel overwhelmed with Trey, Hannah, Christian, Helen, affairs, and deceit. When the movie finished, I picked up the plates and took them to the kitchen.
My head felt a little fuzzy just from one, large glass of wine, so I poured myself a glass of water. I was such a lightweight when it came to alcohol. I guessed it stemmed back to uni days when I was always the designated driver. When I should have been out challenging my tolerance, I was sober and sensible.
I stacked the dishwasher, let Lucy out for a ramble around the garden, and topped up her feed and water bowls. She would enjoy some leftover turkey and warm gravy. It was as I let her back into the kitchen that a thought came to me.
I rushed upstairs and retrieved all the letters I’d received from Lincoln and returned to the kitchen. I scanned through them.
Knew you as a child.
My wife died a couple of years ago.
Reconciling, of sorts.
I have many wrongs to right.
I shook my head. They were just a few words in a sea of hundreds. Was it just coincidence that Miller had either told me similar things, or I’d found out similar things? I’d convinced myself for such a long time my Lincoln was an elderly gentleman, who sat at a scratched old desk, in front of an open fire with a dog by his feet. My Lincoln resembled the man in the cemetery that day, the man caring for Anna’s grave, even though that wasn’t his wife. And, of course, Miller wasn’t called Lincoln.
…son called Lincoln…
Those words, said by the man at the cemetery floated through my mind.
“No way,” I said, aloud.
“No way, what?” Dad said, bring the empty glasses into the kitchen.
“Is Miller his real name?”
“I guess so, why do you ask?”
“I’m beginning to think the man who writes these letters to me is Miller.”
I showed Dad the passages in the letters and explained some things that either Miller or he had told me.
“I don’t know, Dani, that’s a pretty obscure conclusion to come to. I mean, I know I said his partner died, I don’t know if they were married or not. So he knew you as a child, but this is a small village, everyone knows everyone. Are you sure you’re not just grasping at straws because you want to know who this Lincoln is?”
“The man at the cemetery said he had a son named Lincoln, yet no one knows of two Lincolns living in this village.”
“Well, I don’t have an answer for that. What would you do if this was Miller?”
“I don’t know. I think I’d be upset, if I’m honest. I’ve poured my soul out in these letters, told Lincoln things I’ve not been able to tell anyone, even you. I’d feel cheated, deceived, again.”
“I guess all you can do is ask him but I hope you’re wrong. And you’ll need to be careful, you don’t want to alienate him. Those letters have been a comfort to you, is it really so important to know who wrote them? Let’s say it was Miller, wouldn’t you want to focus on the fact that you have two, as such, people that support you? And who’s to say that what he’s written aren’t, like you, words he can’t express in person?”
I didn’t answer because I couldn’t.
“Can I borrow your car?” I asked. I’d made a decision.
“You can, obviously, but I’m not sure you’re doing the right thing,” Dad replied.
“I don’t know if I’m doing the right thing, but something changed between Miller and me today, and I now need to know if this is him,” I said, waving the letters in front of me.
Dad opened a cupboard and retrieved his car keys. I pulled on a jacket and gave him a kiss on his cheek.
“Thank you. Don’t wait up for me, but I’ll call if I need you,” I said, knowing that was want he’d want to hear.
Dad nodded and walked me to the front door. He watched as I opened the barn and drove his car onto the drive. I hadn’t driven in a long while, but it didn’t take long to find the headlights and head off down the lane.
My palms started to sweat and the closer I got to Miller’s house, the more nervous I became. As I rounded the corner, and his cottage came into view, I slowed the car.
“This is daft,” I said to myself.
I scanned the lane, looking for somewhere I could turn around but the only place was Miller’s drive. I saw lights on in the room at the front of the house, if I pulled onto his drive, he’d see the headlights. If I killed the lights, I was sure that he’d still hear the car. I was committed.
I pulled onto his drive and turned off the car. I sat for a moment, taking some deep breaths before opening the door and walking to his front door. Before I could change my mind, I knocked.
Miller opened the door wearing a pair of jeans and a crumpled t-shirt. His hair was wet, as if he’d recently showered.
“Dani?”
“What’s your name?” I asked, probably more abruptly through nerves than was necessary.
“Sorry?”
“What’s your name,” I repeated.
“Do you want to come in?” He stepped to one side and I walked into the hallway.
“Are you Lincoln?”
He didn’t answer immediately. “Can I get you a glass of wine, or tea, since you’re driving?”
“I don’t want a glass of wine, or tea, I want to know if you are the one who wrote me these letters.” I held them in front of me.
“Come through,” he said, walking away.
I followed him into a living room. There were two standard lamps lit, and a fire roaring in the hearth. A book was placed face down on a brown leather sofa, and a small glass filled with a brown liquid and ice sat on a wooden table in the centre of the room.
“Take a seat,” he said, indicating with his hand towards the sofa.
“Did you write these letters?” I asked again, while standing in the middle of the room.
He sighed. “Can I read them?”
“No. Answer my question, please?”
Miller sat on the sofa; he leant forwards and picked up the glass, taking a sip of the liquid. He rested his head back and closed his eyes for a moment. I wasn’t sure if that was him savouring his drink, or contemplating what to say.
Without opening his eyes, he answered me.
“Yes.”
Just one word was all he gave me, and I deflated. I sat at the other end of the sofa, my legs all of a sudden so weary.
“Why?”
“Because you needed me to.”
“I didn’t need you to,” I said.
“You needed someone to answer you. I found your letter, in fact, I saw you place it in the bottle. I was curious.”
“And you just decided to write back?” I could hear the sarcasm in my voice.
“Is that so terrible? Your letter tore at my heart, and you know what? Maybe I needed someone to write to as well.”
He stared hard at me.
“All this is a bloody lie. You’ve deceived me, just like…”