From inside the walk-in cooler, Sookie heard porcelain coffee cups clinking together. "Raquel!" she shouted. "If that's you again, I swear I'm gonna start docking your pay for excessive coffee breakage!" She poked her head out to check to see if it was the young maid with the caffeine addiction that rivaled Lorelai's.
"Oh, it's you! Sorry! Carry on!" she giggled. "I mean, you're the boss. You can have as much coffee as you want!"
"Thanks," Lorelai replied, grateful that her voice didn't come out all gravelly and rough from her cracked throat. She tried again to pour the coffee without letting her shaking hands rattle the china.
Sookie's eyebrows came together in concern. "Here, let me," she ordered, pulling the cup away from Lorelai. Her eyes opened wide as she touched Lorelai's hands in the process. "Oh, sweetie, what did you do?" she implored, as she grasped Lorelai's hands in her own, rubbing them quickly and throwing her apron over them for good measure. "Did you go out and check on the horses again? You've got to stop doing that! We hired Stan to do maintenance partly because he loves horses and was willing to add that to his job duties! You don't need to run out there and check every other minute—especially without your coat! What were you thinking?"
Lorelai shook her head a little, closing her eyes and giving a weak laugh. Sookie was able to jump to conclusions better than anyone she knew, and lately, she'd been willing to let her believe whatever she wanted to about her. "I'm just so cold," she said helplessly. "I just can't seem to warm up."
Sookie's mother-mode popped out and she propelled Lorelai to a stool at the work table. In a minute a steaming bowl of beef barley soup was sitting in front of Lorelai, along with a hot croissant, a pat of butter melting on top. In two minutes, a hot cup of tea laced with extra honey and lemon was there, too.
Lorelai picked up the tea gratefully, letting the warmth permeate her cold hands. She took a sip, loving the way the heat soothed her raw throat. She cautiously took a small spoonful of the soup, appreciating the heat, but not able to really taste anything. For weeks everything had tasted like gruel. Not that she'd ever actually had gruel. But she'd always imagined that was how gruel tasted, all bland and grey, with sort of a school paste consistency.
Sookie watched the shivers still wracking Lorelai's shoulders. She grabbed the house phone on her desk and made a quick call. Soon Raquel appeared, bearing one of the extra blankets they used upstairs in the rooms. She looked shocked when Sookie took it from her and wrapped it around Lorelai, but the surprise faded out when Sookie indicated she could help herself to a cup of coffee.
"Thanks, Sook," Lorelai said to her nurturing friend while she tucked the blanket around her.
"You just stay right there until you get warm," Sookie told her firmly. "And from now until spring, you stay inside, you understand? Or we get a space heater for your office!"
"Mmm," Lorelai hummed, her eyes closed, and hoped that sounded like agreement. Her shivers were easing off as the warmth from the soup and the tea relaxed them. There was still the frozen, fiery spot in her chest that nothing could reach, but she felt so much better.
"Oh, crap! The cooler!" Sookie abruptly remembered she'd left the door to the cooler open and she scurried back to finish her interrupted task, leaving Lorelai to thaw out.
While Lorelai pushed the rest of the tasteless gruel down her sore throat, not wanting to hurt the feelings of her well-meaning friend, she wondered what Luke had thought of her surprise.
Up at the lake the sun was well and fully up and Luke was numb with the cold. He'd pulled the old boat down to the shore and through the thin skiff of ice that was forming along the edges. He'd rowed out to the eastern side of the lake to what had once been his favorite fishing spot, simply drifting silently once he'd reached it, contemplating mindlessly the myriad of changes this lake and his life had seen during the years.
Normally he'd think about his dad, mourning his too-early death, wishing that he'd had more time with him, letting the memories that he usually kept bottled up tight pour out onto this lake he'd loved. But today he'd start thinking about William Danes and end up picturing a frozen pink knitted cap, his hands gripping the oars so tightly they hurt. Finally he gave up and headed back to shore.
Getting back into his truck, he drove the meandering road that skirted the lake, turning right on the main road and following it to the small town a few miles away, parking in front of the ancient mom-and-pop grocery that was a permanent fixture of their summers here.
As he expected, he was able to get phone reception again. Shaking his head at his unquenchable need to check on her, he dialed the diner.
To his relief, Zach answered. Luke liked Zach. He was goofy but well-meaning, and totally devoted to Lane, but a lot of Zach's brain power was consumed by rock'n'roll, leaving him a bit fuzzy about everything else in life. Luke pretended he thought he'd forgotten to leave Caesar a reminder about ordering extra green beans for the Thanksgiving casseroles he'd be making in a few weeks.
After Zach assured Luke all was well on the green bean front, Luke asked, casually, "So, uh, what's the big gossip scoop this morning? Did I miss anything juicy?"
"Nah, it's really dull here today, Boss." Luke could hear Zach beating out some sort of rhythm against the phone. "Babette actually fell asleep at the table and knocked syrup all over the floor. But don't worry, we cleaned it up," Zach assured him quickly.
Luke took a deep breath in relief. She must be OK, then. Babette would be all over the news if Lorelai had been found frozen in town square. And even if everyone else in town would cut out their tongues rather than say her name to him, Zach would. He'd feel bad about it later, and Lane would chastise him, but he'd tell him without thinking. So it was OK. Everything was OK. He shut his eyes, grateful to be released from his worries.
He ended the conversation and went into the store, picking up the few extra perishables he needed for his stay. Soon he was back at the cabin, putting away the groceries he'd just purchased, as well as the contents from his cooler. He threw his duffel bag into the bedroom that had been his as a boy, and then spent a length of time wandering through the house, touching a piece of wood there, staring out at the lake there.
Eventually his stomach complained about being empty. He had planned on making some chicken on his dad's grill out back, but found he wasn't in the mood for that sort of meal at all. Instead he ate an apple while putting together a pot of chili. Memories flooded through him as his hands completed the tasks he'd watched his mother do in this kitchen hundreds of times. Well, this kitchen when it had been in its simpler state.
He let the chili simmer. He cleaned up the debris from the preparation before grabbing a beer and heading out to the enclosed side porch. Sinking down into a rocking chair, he gazed back out over the lake. Slowly, the absolute silence ate into his core. It was easier in Stars Hollow to ignore the loneliness that filled him. It was easier to ignore the constant ache of missing her. It was easier to pretend that it was all her fault and that he was the wronged party deserving of sympathy. He hunched his shoulders, pretending that he couldn't feel his parents' sorrowful eyes on him, shaking their heads at his blunders.
You threw away love? He imagined his mother's voice, tinged with hurt and disbelief, the way it had been the one time she'd been called to school because he'd cheated on a spelling test. Didn't you learn anything from us? his father added sadly, putting his arm around his wife and squeezing tightly. Don't you know how precious time together is?
The prickly feeling in his eyes and throat returned. Disgusted at himself, he gulped some beer and turned on the TV, soon finding a show with two greasy guys overhauling a car that held his attention enough to beat back the regrets pounding in his head.
The enticing smell of the chili finally woke him up several hours later. He was disoriented at first, wondering why he was watching a show about makeup and shopping, and why he was in a glass cage. His surroundings soon became clear, and he turned off the TV and slowly made his way into the kitchen, shaking the stiffness out that had settled into his joints during his unexpected nap.
Quickly he mixed up a pan of cornbread and put it in the oven. He fixed a small salad and ate it while waiting for the cornbread to bake. When it was ready he ladled a nice portion of the chili into a thick soup crock and sat down to enjoy it with another beer.
Dusk was falling by the time he finished. While he was doing his clean up duties he noticed that several of the handles on the lower kitchen cabinets were loose. He realized then that he hadn't brought in his toolbox.
Briskly he jogged out to the truck through the crisp air, reaching under the tarp for the old, heavy box of tools. His hand skimmed past the tackle box and pulled back, shocked, as it touched paper. Curious, he pulled back the tarp, his forehead wrinkling in confusion as he saw a shopping bag he had not placed there.
Slowly, he pulled the bag out, not knowing what to think. Eventually his brain said, Well, open it up, stupid, so he did, and her scent wafted out ever so gently, clogging his throat and wrapping itself painfully around his chest.
Self-preservation took over his hands and he violently crushed the bag closed, keeping her scent inside as he took some deep breaths, trying to clear his head.
Well. At least now he knew why she'd been on the bench this morning.
He tucked the bag under his arm before grabbing the toolbox and returning to the house. His brain was in an uproar. He dropped the tools by the door and put the bag on the table, backing away from it cautiously, as if it had red LED numbers ticking away on it.
Nervously he turned his gaze back to the lake, as though it could tell him what to do if he just looked hard enough. Eventually enough time passed that he began to feel silly and he returned, determined, to the table.
Some crazy package from his ex-girlfriend, ex-fiancée, whatever the hell she was…
Love of your life, his heart chimed in, helpfully.
...was not going to scare him so badly that he couldn't even open it.
Grimly, he sat down at the table and pulled open the bag. Her scent whirled up at him again, but this time he breathed it in deeply, letting his face push down into the bag. God, how he'd missed that scent. Warm, sweet vanilla, but something spicy, too, and just some sort of hint of something citrusy and tangy. He was never sure if the scent was a mixture of all of the different products she slathered on herself during the course of the day, or if it was Lorelai's body chemistry reacting with her perfume that made it so unique. All he knew was he'd never smelled the same scent on anyone else. As with so many other things associated with Lorelai, it was hers alone.
Slowly, he reached inside and pulled out a large, flat, rectangular box. He felt the smile bloom on his face; he couldn't help it. She'd wrapped it in actual flannel material, the blue and black plaid design reminding him of his favorite shirt.
His favorite because she'd worn it more than he had.
Carefully he untied the blue satin ribbon pulled over the flannel. He wondered if this was supposed to be a birthday present. His birthday was still some weeks away, but at least there would be an explanation for this. Cautiously he loosened the material away from the box, folding it carefully and putting it back into the bag. Finally, holding his breath, he pulled off the top of the box.
He smiled out in delight then, his head shaking from side to side slightly in disbelief. There, in front of him, was the diner.
He soon realized that the book itself was some sort of photo album or scrapbook, and the front cover had originally been made to look like a house, but Lorelai had altered it until it was the spitting image of his diner. The walls had been painted to look like gray stone. The steps leading up to the front door were there. The windows had blinds and the café curtains. 'Luke's' and the coffee cup were there. The 'Williams Hardware' sign was above the door. It was amazing, absolutely amazing, and he couldn't imagine how much time this had taken her.
With great care he lifted the album out of the box, placing it gently on the table in front of him.
Opening the cover, he saw that the first page was covered with all sorts of quotes and poems about home and family. He scanned over them quickly, then turned the page. And sucked in a deep breath to calm the huge wave of emotion that crashed over him.
The large picture in the middle of the page was his family, here, at the cabin. His mother sat on the steps outside, laughing. His mother had not been a beauty the way Lorelai was, but her eyes could sparkle and sing, and the way they lit up made her look vibrant, drawing people to her. She held an impossibly-tiny Lizzie in her lap, who looked a little confused about what was going on, her smooth blond hair held back from her face with miniscule bunny barrettes. Lizzie was maybe two, he judged, which would make him, the tanned, shyly smiling boy with knobby, scraped knees standing next to her, around four. His dad sat on the other side of him, his mouth open in a laugh, his hand on the top of Luke's head, as though he was afraid the boy would go running off if he wasn't held in place.
This picture was printed in black and white, although Luke seemed to remember it in color. The image was blurred around the edges. He recalled that his mother had kept it hanging just inside the door here at the cabin. It had been a lot of years since he'd seen it.
Several smaller images were scattered around the large one around the page. In the upper left corner he saw his father helping him flip burgers outside on the recently-completed grill. He was around seven, and even then his face was serious, set in the concentration of completing the task. Under it Lorelai had made a label stating, "Future diner owner in training!"
The picture under it, at the bottom of the page, showed him and his dad proudly showing off the fish they'd lured to their bait that day. It was hard to pinpoint exactly when it had been taken; there had been so many days like that.
Next he examined a picture he didn't remember at all. He was tucked up in a hammock out back with his mother, looking drowsy as she smiled and read him a story. He looked really small, and judging from the roundness of his mom, he guessed Lizzie was on her way. He rubbed his finger over the image for a moment, feeling his throat tighten.
He smiled wide, though, when he saw the last picture. This day he remembered in perfect clarity. It had been one of those long, long, "When are we going to get there?" rides in the car. It had been unbearably hot and humid, but his dad had gotten cranky and insisted they didn't need the air conditioning on. He and Lizzie had fought continually all the way here, poking at each other, griping, making life miserable for everyone. When they had finally, finally reached the cabin, he'd climbed out of the car, still sulky, and proclaimed that he was so hot he should just go jump in the lake right now. His mother, a sneaky grin on her face, had leaned down to his ear. "Do it!" she'd urged. She'd linked Lizzie's hand into his, and given them both a shove down towards the lake. They'd raced shrieking down the hill and onto the pier, the picture catching them just as they both launched themselves towards the water, their knees tucked up and arms held up over their heads. Luke remembered that when they'd surfaced, sputtering from the chill of the water, his parents had both been standing on the shore watching them, laughing themselves silly, his mom still clutching the camera she'd used to catch the shot. He shook his head a little, silently chuckling, remembering. That had been a good day.
With a small sigh he turned the page, and there were his parents on their wedding day. His dad looked handsome but very young in his suit and tie, a smug, pleased smile on his face. His arm was tightly around Luke's mom, who looked stylish and trim in a white satin dress, ('tea-length' he recalled from some forgotten conversation), her sandy curls hanging over her shoulders and a pleased smile of her own curving her lips. Happiness seemed to radiate out from them.
One of the smaller pictures showed his parents and Buddy and Maisie apparently on some sort of road trip, probably even before they were all married, judging by how young they all looked. The girls—and they were girls, in this shot—were practically holding each other up as they shrieked with laughter, headscarves and sunglasses covering their heads and faces. Buddy, wearing a fedora, was pointing off in the distance, looking confused, while his father appeared to be trying to refold a map, his lips pressed tightly together into a thin line. Luke recognized that look. It meant: I screwed up, and I know I screwed up, there's no need to rub it in. Luke wished he knew the story behind the picture.
Buddy and Maisie were in another picture on the page, this time dressed up and formally posed beside his parents, who were seated in a booth at Sniffy's. He wondered if it was taken when the restaurant first opened. Maisie held menus in her hand, and both she and Buddy looked nervous. His parents, on the other hand, looked delighted. His mother looked odd and exotic to him, wearing long dangly earrings and bright lipstick.
Two other pictures featured Mia and the old Independence Inn. In the upper picture, his dad was hammering something on the porch, while Mia's late husband, Rob, supervised. Mia and his mom stood watching, Mia holding a small boy in her arms. Luke assumed it was one of Mia's sons, until he looked closer and saw it was himself.
The other picture was an interior shot, obviously taken during some sort of dance being held there. He recognized the old dining room, even with all of the tables removed. It took some time, however, before he picked up on the fact that the couple in the center of the room were his parents, dancing close and oblivious to whatever else was going on. It made him smile to see them like that.
He sighed and pretended he didn't know what it felt like to waltz with the woman you loved.
Turning to the next page again brought a wave of sharp emotion. This time the subject was the home where he'd grown up. This time there were two main pictures on the page, both showing the front of their home.
The first was taken in the winter and he was helping his dad put up Christmas lights, while Lizzie stood by, so bundled up it was a miracle she was able to hold up a large, red bow, waiting for them to take it from her. The second shot was in the heat of summer, and he and his dad were painting the house.
That picture was sad, because they'd lost his mother by then. But yet, Luke grinned. He remembered that. His dad had said they couldn't head for the lake until the painting was finished, so Luke had cajoled some of his Little League buddies into coming by and helping, promising them cold bottles of soda from the cooler in the hardware store for their labor. He had grossly misjudged just how much soda young boys could drink, and his father had taken back his allowance for many weeks to come to cover the expense. But they had gotten to the lake quicker, so Luke still thought it was a winning deal.
One of the smaller pictures showed him proudly serving his mother breakfast in bed. It was Mother's Day, and his mom had just showed him how to make pancakes the week before, so that Sunday he'd gotten up extra early and mixed up a batch just for her. He knew now that they had been burned along the edges and still raw in the middle, but his mom gobbled them up like they were the best thing she'd ever eaten, praising him between every mouthful. He forcefully moved his eyes onto the next image before his mother could morph into Lorelai begging him to put more chocolate chips into her order of pancakes.
There he was up in the treehouse out back, Lizzie sitting next to him in the open doorway. He remembered as soon as the picture was taken he'd thrown a fit about Lizzie being up there, insisting it was for boys only. His mother had told him in her no-nonsense voice that if he didn't let Lizzie play up there, too, she'd put frilly curtains up in the windows and bring up Lizzie's tea set. That had effectively quelled that argument.
The last shot was of his room. He sat at his desk, concentrating hard on putting together a model of a rocket, one of the Apollo ones, he thought. He could see some of his other models displayed on the bookcase beside him, along with his best Hot Wheels cars and a few ribbons and trophies. He ruefully shook his head as he saw that part of a Star Trek poster was visible behind him. There was mocking material.
Luke groaned when he turned the page. Here was stuff he could have done without. The page was covered with newspaper articles detailing his success playing high school athletics, along with the accompanying stiffly-posed team photos. There was a candid shot he liked though, of he and some of his friends collapsed against the garage after a furious game, the basketball resting between the feet of his old friend Denny.
He half-groaned, half-laughed in embarrassment when he saw the last three pictures on the page. In one he was dressed self-consciously in a tux, his hair looking unnaturally hardened by whatever gunk he was using at the time, a corsage box in his hand. Liz stood next to him, giggling uncontrollably as she held onto his arm. Her hair was swept to the side in a ponytail, dressed in hot pink leggings and a long, black and white striped top. In the next shot, he and Rachel sat on the couch, his arm around her shoulders, both of them with shocked looks on their faces. As he recalled, Liz had suddenly popped up and flashed the camera at them, admitting later that she had hoped they were doing something more than watching TV so she'd have some blackmail material on him.
He couldn't help but wonder, briefly, if it had cost Lorelai something to include that particular picture. She'd liked Rachel, sure, but he could also sense the insecurity whenever her name came up.
The last picture was one that made him scratch his head, because he could swear he'd never seen it before. He and his dad were working on his car, the hood was up and both of them had their shirts off. They looked hot and irritated, and annoyed that someone was taking their picture. Maybe the details would come to him later.
He shrugged, turning the page. "Whoa," he said, out loud, amazed.
It was an article from the Stars Hollow Gazette, profiling his dad opening the hardware store. If he had ever seen it, he'd completely forgotten it. There was a picture at the bottom of his dad standing proudly on the steps, his arms folded across the official "William's Hardware" apron he always wore while at the store. The story made mention of the fact that the church steeple had recently been repaired due to the generosity of his dad donating shingles and nails to the project. It also talked, in great detail, of the repairs his dad had made to the old building that now housed his business. Luke could almost hear his father's voice, telling that to the reporter.
Tucked down at the bottom of the page was a picture of himself, very young, being held securely by his indulgent dad, who was letting him try to push down the keys of the old, ancient cash register that still graced the counter at the diner.
Looking closer, Luke realized that the background of this page was made from old ads for the hardware store. There was even a ten-cents off coupon on a mop. Where had she found these things?
He couldn't wait to see what was next. Eagerly he turned the page.
This time, it was himself who stood on the steps of what was now the diner. His pose was nearly identical to that of his dad on the previous page, but where his dad displayed a proud smile, he had a scowl, his arms folded tightly across his chest. His hair was short, shorter than he'd ever remembered having it, and he appeared to be wearing some sort of polo shirt, an apron of his own tied around his body. It had taken awhile before he'd stumbled onto the comfortable-yet-practical flannel shirt and baseball cap combo. He glanced through the article. It sounded as though Taylor Doose himself had written it, "…as we hope this young man knows what he's doing, tearing apart an old, established business to flirt with the fickleness of the food trade."
Yeah, I think I know what I was doing, Taylor, he thought, smugly.
There was only one other shot on the page, and it was a small, grainy image of he and Jess, the day that Jess appeared wearing an outfit mimicking his uncle's, right down to the backwards baseball cap. Luke snorted a little laugh. Damn those cell phone cameras.
He suddenly saw that this page was laid out on one of his old menus. He knew that Lorelai had stolen one a long time ago. It touched him that she would give it up for this.
So, what was next? He couldn't wait to see.
He turned the page and instantly shut his eyes tight against the sudden pain tearing through him. Abruptly he pushed away from the table, heading for the sanctuary of the glassed-in porch. He leaned against the glass, watching the moonlight on the water until he felt the pressure from those pesky tears dissipate.
Come on, man up, he encouraged himself. She was brave enough to do this. You can be brave enough to look at it. With a sigh he headed back to the table, dropping heavily onto the chair and slowly bringing his eyes back to the pictures.
It was the Rory page. Good God, how he missed that girl. He understood completely how some daughters had their fathers wrapped around their little fingers, because that was how he had been with her since the first time he saw her. Rory had filled him with a fierce, protective sort of love right from the beginning. While he was still so annoyed with Lorelai that he wanted to strangle her, he was proud that Rory counted him as her friend.
Rory had been into the diner several times since the breakup, but it had been awkward and tense. Usually she'd come by to see Lane, only giving him a sad, "See ya later, Luke," as she left. Once or twice she'd looked like she really wanted to say something to him, but he didn't know how to encourage her, and she'd given him a half-hearted smile and a wave of her hand as she went out the door. Of all the million regrets he had about the way things turned out, losing Rory was right up there at the top.
The large, middle picture on the page showed them at her graduation from Chilton. He was so proud of her that day. He could still hear parts of her speech in his head, especially what she said about the town and Lorelai. He wasn't ashamed he'd cried. He'd just been so moved that she'd recognized how much Lorelai had sacrificed for her.
Later, Lorelai had insisted on a picture of the two of them. They'd stood together in their normal, awkward pose, until Lorelai had said something ridiculous, as usual, and Rory had reared back, laughing, losing her cap in the process, and Lorelai had captured the shot just as Rory leaned her head against his shoulder, still laughing, and he himself was smiling broadly, his hand squeezing Rory against his side.
He could still see Lorelai standing there in that red lace dress with that saucy smile on her face, igniting his desire to see just how many layers were underneath that flouncy skirt. What would have happened, if instead of coyly asking her if he should go on that cruise with Nicole, if he'd just spelled it out for her instead? What if he'd said, plainly, "Lorelai, I don't want to go on a trip with Nicole. I want to go on a trip with you. Or stay home with you. Or do anything with you. Do everything with you, for that matter. So you go on to Europe, and when you come home, I'll be here waiting for you." By the time she got back, would she have wrapped her mind around that idea? The jealousy she displayed about Nicole had always made him think she might have been receptive to it. But as usual, he'd stayed stoically quiet, and waited.
One of the smaller shots showed Rory back in the diner's kitchen with him, flour liberally dusting her face. She'd been terrified of failing home ec., and he'd offered her a lesson about making pie dough one day after school. She was by no means a natural, but slowly she'd gotten the hang of rolling out the dough and fitting it in the pie pan. Things had been going really well until Lorelai snuck back into the kitchen and surprised them by taking this shot. The split second after the flash went off Rory had shrieked and jumped, and all three of them ended up covered in flour and dough. She'd passed home ec., though.
To the right there was a picture of Rory sitting on the counter, some award grasped in her hands, while he leaned on his elbows beside her, smiling proudly. But there was a look in his eye that told Lorelai how much he didn't want to have his picture taken. But as usual, look who got their way.
The last picture blew him away. He had on a dress shirt and a tie, his hair long and shaggy down his neck, curling the way it always did when it got too long. He grimaced, looking at the mustache he'd sported for a while. His hands were clasped reverently in front of him. Beside him a very young Rory dressed in angel wings grasped a small box, her sad mouth drooping in that pout that got her anything she wanted. (The pout her mother had taught her.) It was that blasted caterpillar funeral. The event that started it all. They day that he actually talked to Lorelai, and she talked to him instead of teasing. The day he figured out that it was a lot more than just lust.
He couldn't believe that she'd had this picture for all of these years and had never tortured him with it, or used it for collateral to get something she wanted. The thought whirled through his head that the day must have meant something to Lorelai, too, for her to have kept this picture quietly to herself.
With a sigh he turned the page.
This page was for April. The shots were all taken during the 15-minute period of grace when they thought everything was going to work out for them, during the thrown-together birthday party. With a jolt to his system, Luke realized that those were the only possible photos Lorelai could have, since that was the only time she'd been around April.
Luke shook his head. Man, when he screwed up, he really screwed up.
The main photo showed April with her arms around his neck, thanking him for her wonderful party, for not embarrassing her in front of her friends, looking truly happy and relaxed. There was a ribbon under the picture stating "Fathers and Daughters" and that was just what the scene looked like, just a father and a daughter, happy to be together. Only Luke knew that the expression on his face, that grateful, adoring look, was aimed at the person taking the picture and not at the new teenager next to him.
There was another shot showing April clad in one of the diner aprons, taking several plates of food from him behind the counter. She'd begged to be allowed to help serve her friends that night, and had tormented him by talking only in the diner lingo that Lorelai had quickly taught her.
Other pictures showed April and her friends dancing, Luke standing in the background, his arms folded across his chest, but smiling at their antics. Another showed April up against the screen, the movie images playing across her, as she pointed mischievously at something happening there.
He noticed then that up in the right hand corner of the page, Lorelai had stamped a little "Don't Forget!" reminder symbol of a hand with a string tied around one finger. Next to it was a tiny picture of what even he knew was a Barbie.
That conversation flooded back to him in a moment, Lorelai agonizing over her strained relationship with her father while they sped to the hospital where Richard Gilmore had been taken. His jaw tensed, still hearing the quiet acceptance in Lorelai's voice, "How disappointed he must have been to get me." How could any parent make their child feel like that? "You'd be a good father," she'd told him. "You'd buy your daughter a Barbie."
He blinked; drew in a breath. April was probably too old for Barbies, wasn't she? Besides, she'd mentioned one time that she'd been a weird little girl, preferring Legos over dolls. It didn't matter. He understood what Lorelai meant. He'd find out whatever April's heart's desire was, and get it for her. Better yet, they'd go out together to get it. She'd know that her dad wasn't ever disappointed in her. He wouldn't forget.
Once again eager to see what was next, he turned the page. But that page, and the few that remained in the album, were blank. Only a pink post-it note adorned it. 'For future good times,' it said.
Yeah, right, he thought, skeptically. How can there be good times without you?
He tried to get past the let-down feeling that there wasn't more to the album. It had been amazing, and he still couldn't believe that Lorelai had disciplined herself enough to finish such a detailed-oriented project. Follow-through normally wasn't her strong suit. The fact that she had done it for him … well, that was something.
Luke picked up the book to shut it, so he could go back to the beginning and appreciate it all over again, this time taking more time to soak in all of the little details she'd added to each page. When he moved the scrapbook, an envelope fell to the floor.
His heart started beating fast as he picked it up. Nothing was written on it; not even his name. He laid the album down and held the envelope in both hands, dying to open it, dying to pretend he hadn't even seen it. He held it for several long moments, his breath quickening.
"Damn it, Lorelai!" he finally muttered, and ripped it open.
'To My Luke,' he read, and everything inside of him shut down.
He pressed his hand flat against the pale, dull paper, obscuring the words she'd labored to put there, using his other hand to cradle his forehead, rubbing it slightly. Could he do this? Could he read whatever she'd written down on this generic, cartoon-free paper? It didn't look like her anymore, what if it didn't even sound like her? Could he do it?
Well, how could he not? It was just like Lorelai, waiting there right in front of him, taunting him, tantalizing him, luring him into crashing against the rocks. How could he not read her words?
Bravely, nervously, he spread the pages smooth and began to read.
'To My Luke,
I hope you're not mad at me. At least, not madder than what you already are.
I hated so much that you had this huge, sad thing inside of you and that I couldn't help make it go away. That's what I do, you know? I make jokes and talk fast and flirt, and I make the sadness go sit in the corner. But with you, that didn't work, and I hated that.
So about a year ago, I got this idea to put together this book for you. We had a bunch of scrapbookers at the Dragonfly, and as I talked to them, and saw the variety of things they were doing, it looked like it might be just the thing I was looking for to put a smile back on your face. I wanted you to remember that even though you were carrying around this painful part, you also had this other place that was happy inside of you.
Here's the funny part, though. While I was working on this, and looking at all of the pictures of you and Liz growing up, I realized that this was what I wanted. Not just 'a' happy family. 'Your' happy family. I wanted in. I wanted to be a part of all of your memories, Luke. I wanted your family. I wanted it so badly I couldn't stand it. I didn't care what shape it took. It could be you and me, or you, me and Rory, or you, me, Rory and April, or you, me, Rory, April, Jess, Liz, TJ, and even a couple of rugrats of our own. I didn't care. The details didn't concern me. As long as it was you and me, I didn't care about the rest. I didn't care about where we lived, or who lived with us, or where we kept the coupons. I just needed us, together.
Then it all started to go away. It was so close, Luke. Do you understand that? How it was almost at my fingertips, and then it got yanked away from me? The one thing I'd been longing for my whole life, and you were there, jumping up and down, saying, "Here, Lorelai, it's right here, just open your eyes and see it!" and then, just when I started to believe you and reached for it, trusting you, you laughed at me and said, "April Fool!"
(Huh. I just realized that works on a couple of levels.)
I was so crazy. Do you understand how crazy I was? I saw it slipping away, and I panicked. I was insane with the worry and the fear of losing you. I was out of my head with trying to figure out how to hang on. So that's why I pushed you. I knew it was crazy, I knew it was wrong, but I didn't know what else to do. I pushed, and you let go.
You let go. Oh, God, Luke, you let me go. And I was falling, and falling, and falling, and so terrified. Everything I thought I knew, everything I depended on, had just been cut loose. There was nothing around me to hang on to. It was all slipping by me because I was falling so fast. It was like I was trapped in some nightmare, because this couldn't really be happening. You couldn't have really let me go. But you did. And all I could think of was how they always say that if you dream about falling and you hit the ground, you die.
So I was terrified, and I reached out, and I grabbed the worst possible thing to stop my fall. Now I know I should have just hit the ground. That pain would have been so much better than the pain I live with everyday.
I'm so sorry, Luke. I'm so, so sorry. No matter how long I live, please know that everyday I'm going to be thinking those same words. So sorry. I'm so sorry. On the day I die, that will still be what I'm thinking. Please know that.
OK. So, got a little off track there, since I was supposed to be telling you about the scrapbook and why I made it for you.
I know that right now you're sitting in your family's old cabin, and you're thinking your sad thoughts about your dad, and your mom, and maybe even a little about me. I know that the pictures in this scrapbook probably didn't do much against all of that sadness. I hate to think of you sitting there, so sad. I know this is weird, but it's me, so you should be used to weird. If it's too sad, and you need a friend, I'm still here, Luke. We have the history, after all, and I know you. I get you. There are probably hundreds of people you would rather see than me, but if you need someone, I'm here. I promise, I wouldn't read anything more into it than just you needing a friend to help ease a sad patch. So keep that in mind, OK?
I started this whole thing because I love you. I finished it because I love you.
Now, if you know me at all, you probably know that I just spent the better part of the last half hour staring at this letter, trying to decide how to sign it, because even though I just told you I still love you, I'm worried about signing it 'love' and freaking you all out. So, Luke, here's the thing, and don't freak out: Even though my heart is broken into about a gazillion pieces, your name is still stamped on every single one of them. I love you, Luke.
Be careful on your trip. Come back safe.
Always,
Lorelai'
For several long moments, Luke did nothing but stare at the loopy cursive letters spelling out her name. His hands moved on their own, pushing flat against the table, pushing him away. He stood up, feeling the tension that had built up throughout his body, and took the first real breath he'd allowed himself since he'd started reading the letter. He averted his head so as not to see the ivory pages, or the scrapbook full of memories, or the flannel that smelled like her. He walked away, as far away from it as he could possibly get inside the cabin. He'd read it again, of course. He'd read it again, and look through the scrapbook, and he'd even smell the flannel.
But not yet.
