Disclaimer: The characters of Gilmore Girls do not belong to me; they are the property of ASP and other affiliates. The story line that I'm using is from the book Message in a Bottle, by Nicholas Sparks, which I hold no ownership of either. I will use some other quotes and descriptions from it in this story. I'm have slightly altered the third letter from Message in a Bottle, but quoted some things directly from the story of Poalina and Ake, and somewhat how Rory and Paris find Michael.
Author's Note: Hey, all! Remember this story? Yes, yes. I too agree that it has been neglected far too long. And since birthdays are coming up, I decided to give my magic key board a spin. Ah, this took too long to write. I need some advil.
Shot-outs: This chapter is for the lovely Chris! Happy 18th, love! Don't get too friendly with those strippers. And the fantabulous Naters. Have an amazing sweatyParis birthday, darling!
****
::Chapter 4: Out of My Head (into My Heart)::
The day Rory found the third letter she had of course expected nothing unusual. It was a typical midsummer's day in Boston—hot, humid, with the same news that usually accompanied the weather.
Rory was in the newsroom, researching a topic on autistic children. She had to admit, The Boston Times had an excellent database of articles published in previous years from a variety of magazines. Through her computer she could also access the library at Harvard University or Boston University. In a couple of hours she had found over 30 articles that had been published in journals she had never heard of, and seven of the articles looked interestingly enough to possibly use. Since she would be passing Harvard on the way home, she could pick them up.
As she was about to leave, a thought crossed her mind. Why not? she questioned herself. I've got nothing to lose. She accessed the Harvard database once more, and hesitantly typed in the words: Message in a Bottle.
Because the articles in the library were indexed by subject or headline, she thought it would be best to scan for the headlines and speed up her search a bit. The response surprised her—a dozen different articles had been written on this topic over the past couple of years. Most of these were published in scientific journals, and their titles seemed to suggest that bottles were being used in various endeavors to learn about oceans currents. Even though she didn't find what she was looking for, she jotted the titles of these articles, deciding to pick them up, as well.
The traffic was slower and heavier than usual, and it took her longer than she expected to get to the library and copy the nine articles she wanted. She got home pretty late, and after ordering from the local Chinese restaurant, she lay sprawled on the floor with the three articles on messages in bottles in front of her.
An article published in Yankee magazine in May of the previous year was the one she picked up first. It talked about the history of bottles, how they make their journeys, and related it to some messages found washed up in New England. Some of the letters that had been found were truly memorable. Rory especially enjoyed the story of Poalina and Ake Viking.
Poalina's father had found a message in a bottle sent by Ake, a young Swedish sailor. Ake, who had grown bored during one of his many trips at sea, asked for nay pretty woman to write back to him. The father gave it Poalina, who in turn wrote to Ake. One letter led to another, and when Ake finally traveled to Sicily to meet her, they realized how much they loved each other. They married shortly.
Stories like these warmed Rory's heart. Even though there was a one in a million chance that something like that was going to happen to her, she held on to that lonely one tightly. Once again, they seemed like fantasies—fairytales, and she wanted something just as magical.
At the end of the article, there were two paragraphs that told of yet another message that had washed up on the beaches of Long Island:
Most messages sent by bottles usually ask the finder to response once with a little hop of a life long correspondence. Sometimes, however, the senders do not want a response. One such letter, a moving tribute to lost love, was discovered washed up on Long Island last year. In part it read:
"Without you in my arms, I feel an emptiness in my soul. I find myself searching the crowds for your face—I know it is impossibility, but I cannot help myself. My search for you is a never-ending quest that is doomed to fail. You and I had talked about what would happen if we were forced apart by circumstances, but I cannot keep the promise I made to you that night. I'm sorry, darling, but there will never be another to replace you. The words I whispered to you were folly, and I should've realized it then. You—and you alone—have always been the only thing I wanted, and now that you are gone, I have no desire to find another. Even though we never were married, I have come to believe that you are my soul mate and forever will be. Till death do us part, we whispered together on your deathbed, and I've come to believe that the words will ring true until they day finally comes when I, too, am taken away from this world."
She stopped slurping her noodle, and abruptly put her chopsticks down. It can't be! She found that she couldn't take her eyes off the words. It's simply not possible…But…but…who else could it be?
She wiped her brow, aware that her hands were now shaking. Another letter? She flipped to the front of the article and took a close name at the author's name: Arthur Shendakin, Ph.D., a professor of history at Boston College, meaning…he must live in the area.
Without giving a thought to what she was doing, she jumped up and retrieved the phonebook on the stand near the dining room table. She thumbed through the S's looking for Shendakin. To her surprise there were a dozen or so Shendakin's listed, but only two had "A" listed for the first initial. She glanced at her watch: nine thirty. Late, but not too late. As she punched in the numbers, she felt a queasy churning in her stomach.
The first time, a woman picked up and told her that she had the wrong number. Rory apologized, and noticed that when she hung up, her throat was dry. She went into the kitchen, and got herself a cool glass of water. After drinking deeply, she picked up the phone again. Making sure she dialed the right number, she waited while the phone rang. One. Two. Three.
Maybe he wasn't home, she thought. Just as she was about to hang up, a man answered, "Hello?" By the sound of his voice, she thought he would be in his sixties.
Clearing her throat, she wished that she had pushed the lump down, and would be able to talk. "Hello. This is Rory Gilmore from the Boston Times. Is this Mr. Arthur Shendakin?"
"Yes, this is he," he replied, sounding surprised.
Keep calm, she instructed herself. "Oh, hi. I was just calling to find out if this is the same Arthur Shendakin who published an article in Yankee magazine last year about messages in bottles."
"Yes. I wrote that. How can I help you?"
Her hand felt sweaty against the receiver. "I was curious about one of your messages you said that was washed up on Long Island. Do you remember which one I'm talking about?"
"May I ask why you want to know?"
"Well," she began, uncertain of what to say, "the Times is thinking about doing an article on the same topic. And I was wondering if you could help me obtain a copy of that letter?"
She winced at her own lie, but how would the truth have sounded? Oh, hi. I'm infatuated with this mysterious man who keeps on sending messages in bottles. I think I've developed a crush on him. Yes, this was the man that I've never met before in my life, nor have I ever heard his voice, yet I'm crazy about him. I was wondering is you could give me that letter, so I can calm the pyro maniac inside of me by seeing if he actually wrote it?
He answered slowly. "Well, I'm not certain. That letter inspired me to write those articles…I'd really have to think about it."
Rory's throat tightened. "So you have the letter?"
"Yes. I found it washed up on Long Island beach a year ago, like the article says."
"I know this is an unusual request, Mr. Shendakin, but I'll let you know that if you let us use the letter…" she trailed off, not knowing what to say. Then a thought crossed her mind: money. Everyone wants money. "We'd be happy to pay you a small sum. And we don't need the actual letter. We're just asking for a copy. That way, you're not losing anything. You're actually profiting something."
"Exactly how much are we talking about?"
Rory smiled. The old man had taken the bait. "Um, we're willing to pay three hundred dollars, and of course, you'll be properly credited for finding the letter."
He paused for a moment, considering the offer. Rory chimed back in just in time before he could reject. "I know that you're worried about the similarity to your article and the one that the newspaper prints, Mr. Shendakin. But I assure you, they will be very different. We're going to be writing about the directions that bottles travel in—you know, ocean currents, disturbances, and all that. We just want some letter that will provide human interest stories for our readers." She was pleased with her response.
"Well…I'm still not sure."
"Please, Mr. Shendakin. It would mean a lot to me."
He was silent for a minute. "Just a copy?"
Rory smiled triumphantly. "Yes. Just a copy. I can give you my fax number or you can send it. Should I make the check out to you?"
He paused before replying. "I—I guess so." It seemed as though he was now trapped into a tight corner by Rory Gilmore and her sharp talking.
"Thanks for your cooperation, Mr. Shendakin." Before he had any chance to change his mind, Rory gave him her fax, took his address, and made a note in her palm pilot to pick the cash. She thought it might be a bit suspicious if she sent him a personal check.
The damn letter better be worth three hundred dollars, she thought, and in fact, it would be.
****
The next day, after calling to notify Mr. Shendakin that his money had been sent, Rory left for work with her mind buzzing with excitement.
She thought of Michael all last night, trying to picture what he'd look like, imagining what he liked to do. She didn't understand what she was feeling, but she finally chose to let the letter decide. If the letter wasn't from Michael, she would end this all now. There was no need to torture herself any longer. And if she found her still obsessing over the letters, she would throw them away. Curiosity was fine as long as it didn't take over your life—she wasn't going to let that happen.
When she got to her office, she ran towards the fax machine. And there was the answer to the course of her life. She picked up the three pages, and when she looked at them more closely, the first thing she noticed—as she had with the first two letters—was the sailing ship embossed din the upper right hand corner. But this letter was shorter than the others, just like her decision would be made.
****
January 19, 2006
Dear Christine,
Happy Birthday, darling. I don't know whether to laugh and celebrate the day you came into this earth, or cry and mourn over your loss because this was the day you were taken away from me.
A month has passed since I've written, but it seemed to pass much more slowly. Life passes by now like the scenery outside a car window. I breathe and eat and sleep, as I always did, but there seems to be no great purpose in my life that requires active participation on my part. I simply drift along like the messages I write to you I do not know where I'm going or when I will get there.
Even work does not take the pain away. I may be diving for my own pleasure or showing others how to do so, but when I return to the shop, it seems empty without you. I stock and order as I always did, but even now, I sometimes glance over my shoulder without thinking and call for you. As I write this note, I wonder when, or if, things like that will stop.
Without you in my arms, I feel an emptiness in my soul. I find myself searching the crowds for your face—I know it is impossibility, but I cannot help myself. My search for you is a never-ending quest that is doomed to fail. You and I had talked about what would happen if we were forced apart by circumstances, but I cannot keep the promise I made to you that night. I'm sorry, darling, but there will never be another to replace you. The words I whispered to you were folly, and I should've realized it then. You—and you alone—have always been the only thing I wanted, and now that you are gone, I have no desire to find another. Even though we never were married, I have come to believe that you are my soul mate and forever will be. Till death do us part, we whispered together on your deathbed, and I've come to believe that the words will ring true until they day finally comes when I, too, am taken away from this world.
Michael
****
Rory knocked the door and poked her head through the opening. "Hey, Paris. Do you have a minute?"
Paris looked up from the computer, and then glanced at her watch. "Sure, but make it quick. I have to get to my yoga class soon."
Rory's eyebrows shot up in surprise. "Yoga? Really?"
Paris responding annoyed, "Yes. Yoga. And keep the smirking to a minimum. Jess thinks that I get stressed out way too easily, so he signed me up for classes."
"And you gave in that easily?"
"Well, you don't understand the circumstances, Rory. You see, I tried puttin—"
Rory laughed. "He denied you sex, right?"
"I can't believe you think so low of me. That is a huge insult on my behalf, not to mention how demeaning it is to my ego. Do you actually think I would do something so horrendous?" she stopped abruptly, and then reluctantly admitted, "Yeah, he did."
"Who would have thought?" Rory mused out loud. "Paris Gellar, a sex addict."
"This really isn't going to help you get what you want, Rory," Paris stated, irritated.
"What can I say? I take pleasure in your discomfort."
"Oh, the tables will turn soon, my dear friend.
"Speaking of tables turning, let me tell you a yoga story about my mom. I'm sure it'll boost your morale."
Paris took a seat. She had grown accustomed to Lorelai stories.
"A few years back Mom broke her leg during yoga class. The headstand portion took a very ugly turn. There was no other place to kick up on, so my mother, the lady with less common sense that a mole, decided to use the table. The good thing was she brought the smug, blonde, pretzel chick down with her. Since then she's learned that she's a bit too competitive for yoga."
"I assume that's also the story behind her "yoga kills" t-shirt."
"How do you know about her shirt?" Rory asked, curious.
Paris bent down and picked something out of her bag. She held up a "yoga kills" t-shirt. "Jess must've told Luke about my classes, and Luke, Lorelai. This arrived in the mail today. At least someone feels my pain."
"She'll be giving a lot more pain to feel this weekend."
"Oh, that's right. She's coming over." Paris looked at the time again. "So what's up? What did you need to talk to me about?"
Their light banter almost made Rory forget about the intention of her visit. She quickly took out the three letters and laid them on Paris' desk without speaking. Paris picked them up one by one, her eyes widening in surprise.
"Where did you get these other two letters?"
Rory explained how she came across them. After reading the letters one by one, all Paris could say was, "I can't believe you paid that old geezer three hundred dollars! What were you thinking?"
"That's the thing, I wasn't thinking at all. I was just making up everything on the spot."
Paris picked up the letters again, "You've certainly been keeping a secret, haven't you?"
Rory shrugged, and Paris went on. "But there's more to just finding these letters, isn't there?" Rory shrugged again. "You want tell me something, don't you?"
Rory cracked. "Stop it with the "haven't you", "isn't there", "don't you" interrogation!"
"You either want my help or you don't. Pick now because I have an appointment with my inner self soon."
Rory sighed before admitting, "Yes, Paris. I need your help." Even though the girls were as close as they could be, there was till some tension between them.
"That's much better. Now, from where I see it," Paris said with a sly smile, "you didn't come in here because you found these letters. You came in here because you like this Michael dude."
Rory winced at the word "dude" coming from Paris' mouth. She raised her hand, as if seeking approbation from Paris before speaking. "Request."
"Yes?"
"Please don't say "dude". It really doesn't suit you."
Rolling her eyes, Paris continued, "Like I was saying before I was so rudely interrupted, because you don't approve of my choice of words, which by the way, are my choice of words. I can say anything I please thanks to the 1st Amendment, which clearly states the right of freedom of speech. Now that we've gotten that out of the way, let's continue on my analysis of how you have fallen for Michael, and what steps we'll take, shall we?"
Rory gulped and nodded her head obediently. There was no stopping Paris when she got riled up about something.
"So now what?" asked Rory, tapping her fingers impatiently.
Paris looked up from the letters, and there was a twinkle in her eye. "You want to know what I think?"
"Do I have a choice?"
"I think you should go to Wilmington and find Michael."
"That's ridiculous, Paris. Even to me—"
"Why?"
"For one, I don't know anything about him."
"Rory, you know a great deal more about Michael than some poor girl in India, who sees her groom the night of the wedding, all because her parents believe in arranged marriages. And besides, I'm not telling you to marry him; I'm just telling you to go find him. You may find out that you don't like him at all, but at least you'll know, won't you? I mean, what can it hurt?"
"What if…" She paused and Paris finished her sentence.
"What if he's not what you imagined? Rory, I can guarantee he's not what you're imagining already. No one ever is. But to my mind, this shouldn't make any difference in your decision. If you want to find out more, just go then. If you don't, then stay. The worst thing that could happen is he isn't your Prince Charming. And what would you do then? You come back home, but with your answer. Really, how bad would that be? Probably not as bad as what you're going through right now."
"You don't think this is crazy?"
"Look, Rory, I might sound like a sap right now, but I've wanted you to start dating other people, especially after your break-up with Seth. You two were together for a long time, I understand that, but you need to move on. Now, I'm not saying to marry Michael, but I want you to pick up your life. I'm not sure how this whole Michael thing will work out, but that doesn't mean you shouldn't try. If everyone who thought they would fail didn't try, where would we be right now?"
Rory was silent for a moment. "You're being too logical about this. How'd you learn to talk like that?"
"Oprah."
Rory smiled a little. "I don't know, Paris."
Paris shrugged off her protests. "Rory, you are in a really wonderful situation. There's no downside for you, so don't blow this out of proportion. If you want to go, go. If you don't, don't. It's as simple as that."
Rory was a little stunned. "Okay, we seriously need to cut weed out of your diet."
Laughing Paris replied, "Don't be so shocked, Rory. I've been through a lot too, and I have learnt a lot."
"What about my column?"
"We still have that column that you wrote but never published, because you used the letter instead. After that, we can run a couple of repeats from last year.
"You make it sound so easy."
"It is easy. The hard part will be finding him. But I'm sure we have enough information in the letters to help us out."
"So, how do we start?"
Paris let out something that sounded like a little squeal. "This is so exciting. I've always wanted to be a detective or something when I was little, but my mother took away all my books and kits. She said they were too much. Ugh. I hate her. I mean reading Sir Arthur Conan Doyle's work or learning how to color code your sock drawer the right way."
"Funny," Rory uttered, "my mother always said rich people have hilarious sock drawers."
"Okay," Paris cleared her throat, "enough distractions. First of, I think it's safe to say that his real name is Michael. That's how he signed all the letters. I don't think he would have bothered using a name other than his own. He might have done so with one letter, but with three letters, I'm pretty sure it's either his first name of his middle. Either way, it's the name he's known by."
"And," Rory added, "he's probably in Wilmington, or Wrightsville Beach, or another community close by."
Paris nodded. "In all his letters he talks about the ocean or ocean themes, and of course, that's where he throws the bottles from. From the tone of his letters, it seems he writes them when he gets lonely or is thinking about Christine."
"That's what I thought. And, in the third letter, he mentioned that Christine's birthday and death day were on the same day, January 19th. He both loves and hates this day. It's his gift and his curse. So we know for sure that Christine is dead."
"Or maybe," Paris thought, "he might say her death day because that's the day they broke up or something. But I'm pretty confident, that she's not in this world anymore."
Paris was getting more and more excited as they went on. "There was a boat mentioned…"
"Happenstance," Rory spat out quickly. "The letters said that they restored it together and used to sail on it. It's probably a sail boat then."
"Write that down," Paris instructed, giving Rory a pad of paper. "We can get more information from here. Maybe there's a place that registers boats names. I think I can call the paper down there to find out."
"It also looks like he owns a scuba diving shop where he and Christine used to work."
"That's another thing to write down. Anything else?"
"Not that I can think of."
"Well, it's a good beginning. This might be easier than we think. Let's start making some of these calls."
"What about your yoga class?"
"Screw yoga. I heard it kills."
The first place that Paris called was the Wilmington Journal, the paper that served that area. She identified herself and asked to speak with someone who was familiar with boating. After a couple of transfers she found herself talking to someone who covered sports fishing and other ocean sports. All she got from him was that boats were not registered by names.
"That was a dead end," Rory said quietly.
Paris put her hand over the receiver and whispered, "Maybe. Maybe not."
After thanking the man for helping them, Paris hung up and looked at the list of clues again. She thought for a moment, then decided to call information for scuba-diving shops in the Wilmington area. Rory watched as Paris wrote down the name and numbers of all the shops in that area.
"What are you going to do when you call?" questioned Rory.
"I'm going to ask for Michael," Paris stated simply.
Rory's heart skipped a beat. "Just like that?"
"Just like that," she explained, smiling as she dialed. Paris motioned for Rory to pick up the other extension, just in case it was Michael. They waited, and were disappointed to find out that the Atlantic Adventures wasn't his shop. They went through five more shops, and six must've been their lucky number.
Paris asked each person picking up the same question. Expecting the same answer, she was surprised when the person on the line hesitated for a minute.
"Are you talking about Michael DuGrey?"
Michael.
Rory nearly fell off her chair at the sound of his name. Michael. She didn't like that name. Why couldn't he be named something else? Chiding herself, she listened to Paris talk to the man.
"He's with Island Diving. Are you sure we can't help you? We've got some classes coming up soon."
"No, I'm sorry. I really want to work with Michael. Thanks for the offer, though."
"We're getting close!" Rory let out a gleeful squeal.
"Much better than yoga." Paris called information again and got the number for the ship registry in Wilmington. After dialing, she told the woman on the line, "My husband and I were vacationing down there," she said with such confidence that Rory almost believed it to be true, "when out boat broke down. This nice man helped us get back to shore. His name was Michael DuGrey, and I think the name of his boat was Happenstance, but I wanted to make sure since I'm writing a story.
Paris went on, refusing to let go of the woman. She told her how scared she had been, and recalled the fond memories of what it meant to her. Then, after flattering the woman about how nice people were in the South and Wilmington in particular and how she wanted to do a story on southern hospitality and the kindness of strangers, the woman was more than willing to help. "Since you're verifying the information, and not asking for something that you don't know, I'm sure it won't be a problem."
The woman clarified that all was true about Michael and his boat. Paris thanked the woman profusely and asked for her name, so she could be included in the "article".
"Michael DuGrey," she said with a victorious smile. "So we finally know his name."
Rory was in a daze. "I can't believe you found him."
"Believe it." Paris picked up the phone again.
"Now whoa re you calling?"
"My travel agency.
"I didn't even say I was going yet, Paris."
"Oh, you're going. I'm not going to have you moping around, thinking of what could've been."
"Thanks, Paris."
"Not a problem. Not a problem. Besides, anything to get out of yoga."
Suddenly, the door flew open and Jess stormed in. "Aren't you supposed to be somewhere?" he growled, impatiently.
Flabbergasted by his appearance, Paris started stuttering, "I—was just leaving, Jess… Rory!" she pointed an accusing finger at the wide-eyed girl. "It's all her fault!"
"I think this is my cue to exit now. Have fun, Paris. Jess, nice seeing you." She received a nod of acknowledgement from him, as the left the room. Then, it hit her. Rory was going to see him—Michael.
She was getting all this get to her head…or maybe her heart.
To Be Continued…
****
I know this chapter is slow, long, and not at all exciting, but I promise, things will speed up soon! :D
Priya