I won’t. I can’t. I don’t need to be checking email several times a day like I’m obsessed. She’s my friend, but that doesn’t mean I have to open that mailbox like a madman, pathetically hoping for a reply.
Absently, he fingered the stone keychain some crazy elderly woman had sent him several months ago with a note attached, telling him he needed the stone to clear his blocked paths to happiness. He should have thrown the Apache-tear rock away. Apparently, according to the letter that accompanied the gift, she’d stocked up on this particular crystal since she’d decided that every one of the Sinclair men and their prospective mates needed one. He’d met . . . what was her name? “Beatrice,” he whispered gruffly, remembering the senior citizen he’d met at Dante’s—and then Jared’s—wedding. She seemed harmless enough, but she was definitely “touched” or suffering from some sort of dementia.
For some unknown reason, he’d never gotten rid of the stone. In fact, he kept it on his person almost all of the time. Maybe it was the novelty of actually getting a gift from someone, or just the fantasy that the supposedly mystic woman had woven around the nature of the stone.
I’ll find Beatrice in Amesport and give it back.
It was the least he could do. Even he wasn’t hardhearted enough to offend a woman of advanced life experience by throwing away her gift. Maybe she could peddle it to someone else.
Surprisingly, he realized they were already moving through the gate to the Peninsula and getting close to the long driveway leading to Jared’s home. The miles had sped by, but his mind was elsewhere.
Damn! He’d meant to check out the progress Jared had made on restoring Mara’s old home and shop as he passed it by. It had been a mess after the fire that had almost taken Mara’s life. He’d looked forward to seeing it nearly restored, but had missed the chance by being lost in his own thoughts.
Later. It’s not like I won’t see it while I’m in town.
The former shop sat directly on Main Street.
“We need to drop Micah off at Jared’s,” Evan told Stokes in a firm voice.
“Yes, sir,” the chauffeur answered appropriately.
Micah was dropped off quickly and efficiently, Stokes never missing a beat once he had instructions. Evan waited as they approached his home on the Peninsula, forcing himself not to look at his phone for messages. If there was one thing Evan had in excess, it was control. His life ran in a very orderly fashion, just the way he liked and needed it to be.
The only two things that had even thrown him off-balance were his correspondence with the mysterious M.—and Randi Tyler. His pen-pal-type relationship with his mystery woman had been easier. He was drawn to her and her personality, but he had been able to remain anonymous, and he didn’t have the same visceral, gut-wrenching reaction to M. as he did to Randi. Maybe some of his desire to meet his email friend was curiosity, the need to find out if he’d feel the same reaction to her as he did to Randi if he met her in person. In some ways, it would really suck if he did. Then he’d want to nail two women who didn’t feel the same way he did.
Once they arrived at his home on the Peninsula and he was settled in, Evan finally checked his email, because it was the appropriate time to do so. He seated himself in a recliner in the living room, his laptop on his long, stretched-out legs as he connected to the Internet.
His heart raced just a little, and he felt the dampness of sweat on his forehead as the free email service took its damn time to appear. He might not have the visceral physical reaction to M. that he experienced with Randi, but he was always anxious to hear what she had to say. And then . . .
Nothing!
There were no new emails in the inbox.
Is she okay? She usually answers right away. What if she’s hurt? What if she’s still mourning the loss of her foster mother and is really depressed? I should be there for her. She’s listened to me complain a thousand times.
M. always listened to him as a person and not a boss, which was why he valued the relationship so much. It was unique to talk to someone like a normal person.
Disappointed, but determined not to let an absence of any new emails bother him, he turned his attention to work just like he always did, trying desperately to lie to himself that it didn’t matter that she hadn’t yet responded.
CHAPTER 2
Dear M.,
I can’t pretend that I understand your sense of loss regarding your foster mother, but I do understand your mixed emotions. I think it’s probably quite normal to want to see an end to her suffering, yet mourn your loss of her at the same time.
It’s moments like these that make me wish we had never promised to remain strangers. I’d like to help, but I’m not certain I know exactly how. All I can do is send you virtual support and let you know that my thoughts are with you right now. You’re not alone.
Sincerely,
S.
Randi sighed as she read the entry from her pen pal, feeling just a little bit better after reading his words. The email was short, but somehow comforting. Whatever S. said in his messages, she always sensed that he was sincere.
Her foster mother, Joan Tyler, had passed away not long after the beginning of the new year from heart failure, and Randi knew she’d be mourning the loss of the last person on earth who would love her unconditionally for a very long time. Her foster father, Dennis, had died a few years ago, and Joan had never been the same after his death. Her heart problems had escalated, and she’d been declining since Dennis’s death. Sometimes Randi wondered if she’d actually finally died of grief rather than advanced age.
Joan and Dennis had been in their early seventies when they’d brought Randi to Amesport, and both foster parents had lived a long, happy life—well into their eighties. Knowing that still didn’t lessen the pain of losing them for Randi, or make her wish any less that she’d had more time to spend with them.
Nothing had prepared Randi for the deep emptiness she’d experienced since her loss. Dennis’s death had been heartbreaking; Joan’s had been unbearable. She wasn’t sure if the uncontrollable ache she felt every time she thought about her would ever go away.
Looking at the note, she smiled sadly. Her correspondence with S. was more like a continual conversation. Their entries often weren’t long, and sometimes they wandered into subjects that weren’t really important, but that was part of the fun of having a secret friend.
I still can’t believe that I’ve befriended a person who started off as such an asshole!
Her buddy, formerly known as Unsympathetic in Boston, had been a jerk in the beginning, but what had started off as what she assumed was a practical joke soon turned into a conversation, and eventually mutual admiration. Randi felt a connection to the author of these emails that made her laugh and cry, and were sometimes so thoughtful—like his email in front of her—they made her melancholy.