Mrs. Westin wasted no time having one of the local men deliver her precious desk to Pastor Pierre at the rectory. "Mind you, not one scratch," she admonished him as he hoisted it into the back of his pickup truck.
Now it sat in Pierre's sitting room, in a place of honour by the bay window. It was a beautiful piece, but as he did some research on antiques of that sort he found that it held little monetary value. Poor Mrs. Westin probably paid way too much for it, he thought a little sadly. But the fact that it had once been in his family's home, or so they claimed, was enough to give it at least sentimental value, he assured himself.
He inspected it for the umpteenth time, wondering if the leather needed special treatment, and what to do about that drawer. Perhaps he could fix that without much effort. He pulled the drawer carefully all the way out and set it on the carpet. With his hands he felt the drawer rails, but found no reason for the drawer to be sticking. He went to the hallway and brought back a flashlight to shine into the hole. There was something back there, and it looked like ribbon. He gave a tug but it didn't budge. He extended his arm as far as he could and felt around until his hand found something bulky. A few gentle tugs and it dislodged and he was able to pull it out.
For a few moments he stared at the bundle in his hands, excited and disbelieving at what had been hidden in the back of the old desk. Letters. He quickly counted them. Twelve. A dozen yellowing envelopes tied together with faded blue ribbon. He stood rooted to the spot. History lay in his hands, and he was too excited to move.
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Pierre finally forced himself to calm down. He set the bundle of letters carefully on the coffee table and poured himself a glass of wine. He turned off the phone and closed the blinds – he didn't want to be disturbed. Taking a sip of wine and setting the glass down on the table he reached for the bundle. Gently untying the ribbon he gathered the letters in his lap. How long had they been in the back of the desk, hidden from the world?
He chose the one on the top and opened the envelope. The glue had ceased to hold the envelope closed so he easily removed the letter. The paper was brittle, but in no imminent danger of crumbling in his hands so he carefully and slowly unfolded the paper.
The handwritten letter was dated July 9, 1971. Pierre took another sip of wine. He was anxious to read the letters, but wanted to savour every last word, too. And then, finally, he began to read.
My darling,
You looked beautiful today, so pretty in your yellow sundress I could hardly take my eyes off you. You bring me such joy everyday I can barely stand being so close, yet so far away from you. The way you charmed all those people, everyone wanted to be near you, everyone wanted a piece of you. How you give of yourself so much and still have enough left to laugh and to love and to be so joyful. You never cease to amaze and disarm me.
I wish we could be together always like we were tonight – just the two of us in each other's arms. Dancing with you under the stars, kissing every perfect freckle on your neck and shoulders. Maybe someday we'll be free to show our love, but for now I remain forever yours,
The signature at the bottom was a mere squiggle, it might be a 't' or an 'i' or even a 'j', but he couldn't be sure. Whoever the mystery man was, he certainly had it bad for this woman.
Pierre reached for the second letter, but as is the life of a minister, a knock came at the door. He was needed to attend to someone. The letters lay forgotten on the coffee table as he reached for his coat and car keys.