Love Letters

Junior had fallen in love, hard and hopelessly, with a girl from "the States" and she didn't love him in return. Each morning on his way to work, he picked flowers and left them at the door of her rented cabin. Each evening, he changed clothes, splashed on aftershave, slicked down his hair and parked across the road, hoping for a glimpse of her. He courted her with love notes, telephone calls, boxes of chocolate, an ID bracelet. He began looking for a house to buy and put his precious savings into a fishing boat of his own. He shaved every day and began attending church on Sundays, gave up drinking and learned to dance. He traded his battered, old, practical pick up for a bright red, two door Chevy and housebroke his old retriever. He even got his teeth fixed by a dentist on the mainland and began smoking store bought cigarettes. He was in love and he was serious about it, determined to win her heart and hand by summer's end.

As June faded into July, there were dances and movies and long walks in the warm evenings. He meticulously painted her name on the stern of his new boat and the islanders shook their heads in unison and in resignation. At supper one night, Nana looked at him sternly. Mind me, Albert, she said quietly, She'll break your heart. But Junior laughed it off and gave her a quick kiss, No, m'am, he said with an confident grin, she'll come 'round. But she hadn't by the time of the Sunday School Picnic where he outbid everyone on her box lunch and she hadn't by the time the scallop fleet arrived just after the 4th of July and she hadn't by the time he went to the mainland in search of a ring.

As we came into August, it was common knowledge that she was seeling a scalloper on the side, a tall, good looking and very married scalloper who came to her cabin late at night and stayed til dawn. The dim lights and soft music that drifted into the night air told a tale that everyone understood and was saddened by but Junior's love allowed him the luxury of blinders. He don't mean a thing to her, he told friends generously, she'll come 'round. He carried the tiny diamond ring securely fastened in his shirt pocket, still brought flowers every day and wouldn't hear a word against her. The fleet left in late August and having regained what he considered to be the upper hand, he redoubled his efforts. He wrote almost daily letters filled with rough poetry and passion, he left gifts on her doorstep, he pleaded his case from her porch through the closed door, he wove wreaths of wildflowers and wild grasses tied with love knots and hung them on her windows. As Labor Day approached, he took to spending all night on her porch swing, smoking silently and staring out to sea. Sometimes she would join him, lean her head on his shoulder and they would talk softly, conversations that stayed beneath the wind and stayed private. Sometimes he spent the entire night alone.

Then it was September and one morning the cabin was empty. She had packed while he slept and slipped out at first light, early enough to make the first ferry crossing. She had several hours head start and there was no chance of him catching up with her but he went anyway, pushing the Chevy to the limit over 60 miles of gravel roads until it gave out just outside Annapolis. The final pursuit had left him shaken and disbelieving and when he eventually came home, he'd changed - he was quiet, solitary, distant. He fished alone and spent this time alone, turning away the efforts of anyone who tried to get close. Leave him be, Nana advised, he's been left behind. He'll catch up in his own time. But he never really did. He picked up his life where he'd left off, he went back to making a living as best he could, but he never spoke her name again, never talked of that summer, never married. He'd given away all he had and was never to get it back.