“Farewell, my love,” Cooper and I both read out loud as we reached the end, the words soft and sacred.
Cooper carefully placed the letters in the rear of the small stack, leaving another letter, this paper thicker and heavier than the last, the handwriting bolder and crisper, lacking the artistic flourishes of the first writer, and written nearly thirty years later.
Dearest Lucy, it began. My gaze quickly scanned to the bottom of the page. I love you, Lucy. Always.
“My father’s handwriting,” Cooper said softly. “John Ravenel.”
I glanced away, not sure I could read it, knowing it was a love letter to my mother from a man who wasn’t my father. But I forced myself to read every word of John’s plea to convince my mother to move to Charleston and be with him.
“I don’t understand why she didn’t go with him. There was nothing here for her except for Philip Schuyler, and I know he wasn’t her first love.”
He let the letters slip from his hands and I looked at the papers scattered around us, the detritus of ill-fated love.
I clasped my fingers together on my lap. “Olive was Harry’s muse. His great love. And even though they both married others and had their own families, a piece of their hearts always belonged to the other.”
I stood so I could think clearly. It was too hard with Cooper so close. “And my own mother must have orchestrated her entire relationship with my father so she could somehow claim what she thought was hers, a mistaken belief that she was part of the Pratt legacy because of her mother’s love affair with Harry Pratt.” I looked up as a thought occurred to me. “She probably even wondered at least at some point if she could be their daughter.”
I pressed the heels of my hands against my eyes, as if I could erase the memory of the mural and the necklace. And my mother’s constant search for something that could never be hers. “I wonder . . .” I closed my eyes and took a deep breath. “I wonder if my mother ever loved my father. If he ever really knew who she was.”
John stood and took my hands. “Were they not happy? Did you never see her laugh?”
“No, I mean, it wasn’t like that. My father always made us laugh. He loved us so much, and never stopped trying to make her happy. She must have loved him, in a way. He was just never . . . enough.”
He let go of my hands and walked toward the window, his movements agitated and jerky, like a flag in high wind. “Why didn’t our parents marry?” He sent me a wry look. “Don’t get me wrong—I’m glad they didn’t. But why? What happened?” His gaze fell on the black opening behind the bricks. “Maybe we missed something . . .”
His words were forgotten as he walked back toward the fireplace and reached his hand into the dark hole. He screwed his eyes shut for a moment as his hand traveled from corner to corner of the secret compartment, a blind man reading Braille. Then they popped open in surprise as Cooper withdrew something small from the hole behind the bricks.
“What is it?” I asked, but I could tell even from where I stood that it was a black velvet ring box.
Our eyes met as he walked back to the bed and sat down. After a brief hesitation, he lifted the hinged lid. I had already guessed it was a ring, maybe even a valuable one, but I’d never imagined it would be as stunning as the bauble staring up at us from its velvet cushion. The large brilliant-cut diamond nestled in a platinum setting, with tiny diamonds surrounding the larger stone like a queen and her ladies.
“It’s at least three carats,” Cooper said, his voice almost reverential.
I sat down next to him and reached for the ring. Gently I lifted it from the box, admiring how the designer had made sure that the view from any angle would show off the exquisite artistry of the ring. “There’s something inscribed on the inside,” I said, bringing it closer to my face, then reading the tiny letters out loud.
To O from H—Always—1-1-93
“He meant to marry her,” I said quietly, my heart stretching and pulling inside my chest, an old heartache brought to life again.
“But she married someone else instead, not even two weeks later.”
I couldn’t look at the ring anymore, a talisman for broken hearts and an always that didn’t mean what it should. I stuck it back in the box and closed it, then shoved it back into Cooper’s hands. “You should take this—it’s a family heirloom. You can give it to your fiancée.”
He regarded me for a long moment, his eyes narrowed and dark as if I’d just delivered a physical blow.
“So here we are,” he said finally. “Back to the place where it all began. It’s like fate has brought us together, to find the happy ending our parents and grandparents so desperately sought.” He shoved the ring box into his pants pocket, then reached for my hands.