Mom does her best to help. We talk a little about it, when I can manage. She knows that I’ve had to say good-bye to
Lawrence. Her encouragement that we can come back next
summer and see him again only sharpens the sorrow. But I
know she’s just trying to help.
And in many ways, it does help. Spending time with Mom and Eddie, even with Frank, reinforces something I knew all
along: That as much as I loved Lawrence, I couldn’t have left my family forever.
Little by little. Piece by piece. Hour by hour, the pain softens.
It’s still there, but more a dull, ever-present ache. Then, one morning I’m halfway through my first painting of the summer, and I know. I’ll be okay. I’ll make it through.
I’m finally ready to go back to the library. This time I don’t need to search through boxes and boxes of microfilm. Just one. The one that started this all. I know the date, of course, and I’m sure I have the exact box because it has the same red smudge on the left side.
August 1925. I know exactly where to look. I scroll to where I first read about Lawrence’s murder.
The article is gone.
It skips from the story above it neatly down to the next. It’s
done. Lawrence is truly safe. Now I’m ready to read the pages he gave me on our last day together.
I take them to the beach. It’s the first time I’ve stepped foot on the sand since the day Lawrence left. I honestly never thought I’d be able to come here again, but there’s no better place to feel close to his soul.
My fingers tremble as I untie the string. For the first few
moments, I can only stare at the vague shape of his words. The curve of the letters and gentle indentations on the page, these are his. Maybe I’m not ready for this. I’ve worked so hard to heal in the last few weeks. Do I really want this to tear open the wound again?
But then, the first line sharpens into focus.
We may never be together again, but I will love you for the rest of my life.
As clearly as if he were still beside me, I can hear Lawrence
speak those words, the final words before we parted. The sensation of hearing his voice radiates through me. Every inch of my body tingles with happiness.
Hungrily, I pore through the rest of the pages. I don’t cry
a single tear as I read. I can only soar with joy. I read every last word and then immediately read them again. I stay on the beach for hours, reading and watching the waves, reliving the time we shared. Sitting here in our spot, savoring his words, I can almost feel Lawrence beside me. I can almost feel his arms pulling me close, his fingers brushing my face. It hurts, but I feel happier than I’ve been in weeks. I feel close to Lawrence again, and that’s worth any amount of pain.
As the sun starts to shift to afternoon, I reread the pages
where Lawrence describes how important his writing is to him.
He’s writing fast. I can tell from the way the words slant and are pushed into the paper. He’s excited to share his longest held, deepest dreams. As I read one line in particular, however, I stop.
I reread the lines.
I plan to fully abandon the carefully constructed life my father has laid out for me. I’m even going to shed his name. I’ll
take on my mother’s name, Winthrop. I’ll
start my life fresh.
I ponder the passage. A memory blossoms deep in the recesses
of my mind. Why is that name familiar?
And then all at once I know. Winthrop. As clear as a flash of white light, I can see the large banner stretching across the wall in the library:
L. James Winthrop: Crest Harbor’s Greatest Treasure.
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