Chapter 1
Rip Current - a strong usually narrow surface current flowing outward from a shore that results from the return flow of waves and wind-driven water (Merriam Webster)
A rip tide, or riptide, is a strong offshore current that is caused by the tide pulling water through an inlet along a barrier beach, at a lagoon or inland marina where tide water flows steadily out to sea during ebb tide. It is a strong tidal flow of water within estuaries and other enclosed tidal areas. (Wikipedia)
Dearest Claire,
I'm sorry I've not written sooner. I have treasured the letters you sent and the words of encouragement and comfort. I've leaned on them as I would you if you could be here.
Everyone has been so kind, and Grady has been up every weekend. He's been such a comfort.
I find I don't know what to write. I struggle to put sentences together, to eat, to get out of bed, even. I sometimes find myself standing in the living room or in front of an open cabinet in the kitchen with no memory of how I got there or what I needed or wanted to accomplish. I wonder if I will ever be the same again.
The answer is, of course, no. I will never be the same. I'm not the child I was nor the same young woman who fell in love with Frank. I'm not the same woman who married him; I'm not the same person I was on our tenth wedding anniversary or our twenty-fifth. We became something new once we married. "Therefore a young man shall leave his father and his mother and hold fast to his wife, and they shall become one flesh."
And I do feel as though I've lost not only Frank, but also myself. Who am I, now? Grief is so isolating.
Everyone has been so kind, and they mean well, but I feel as though I'm—this will sound strange—in water. Sometimes I'm floating, peacefully. It's sunny and I know Frank is waiting for me back on the shore, so there's nothing to fear, nothing to do but float. When I'm ready, I'll simply stop.
Sometimes I'm treading water, working furiously to stay just where I am, to keep my head above the water.
When I try to talk with people, I feel as though I'm a child again, attempting to hold a tea party underwater. Each of us is speaking, but we can't understand what the other is saying.
I'm a member of a club I never wanted to join.
I hope I'm not, or rather I don't want to burden you, Claire, but I must admit it gives me some ease, being able to confide in you like this. I'm a fortunate woman to have a friend such as you.
Write soon and let me know how you're faring.
All my love,
Jess
Dearest Claire,
I was so pleased to receive your letter, and so soon after I'd posted mine! I don't believe you're half as busy as you say if you're able to respond to your correspondence so promptly.
I'm teasing, as you well know. I know the only reason you answered so quickly is that you're worried about me. On my better days, I worry about me. But I'm in very good hands, dear.
Grady's been up nearly every weekend, and I don't know what I'd do without him. He was such a dear little boy and he's grown into a fine young man, if a little idiosyncratic. He and Frank were so close. Frank really became a father to him, and I'm so grateful we were able to take in Grady after his parents died. Selfish, I know, but I treasure those memories, especially as we were never blessed with children of our own.
Grady has taken Frank's death quite hard. You'd smile to see how he's appointed himself my protector. In truth I have let him deal with a few of the financial details. Not that I couldn't, mind you. It just gave him something to do. You understand?
Frank was always so attentive to those details that kept our household running smoothly. I don't mean to imply that I was Frank's little woman or worse, his ball and chain, but rather each of us had our strengths. Still, though, we shared the work and, apart from never having learned to drive, I can do just about everything Frank did, and that is a small comfort. I don't like feeling helpless. And it's not as though I really need to drive in Cabot Cove. I can bike or walk, excepting in the very worst weather.
I think I must be replying to your letter on a treading water day. I feel more connected, more tethered to the world. I bike around my beloved Cabot Cove and marvel at the feelings it inspires in me. I wanted to be with Frank wherever that might be, but I can admit to you, though I suspect he knew it as well, that I found Cabot Cove to be a dreary, humdrum backwater compared to Boston and San Diego. But we made a home here, and now I can't imagine myself anywhere else.
I've had several generous offers to stay indefinitely on either coast, but this is where I made my life, where I spent the very best years of my life with a man I loved deeply and who loved me equally as deeply. I've been so fortunate, Claire, and it's the worst sort of self-indulgence to cry and moan, but I confess I've shed an ocean of tears. The fierce tug of grief can still pull me under the wave, but I've learned that if I struggle, I'll surely drown. All I can do now is move through whatever comes next with as much grace and peace as I can muster. I know Frank would want me to live. "Life is a banquet, and most poor suckers are starving to death!" Oh, dear. I forgot that you might not recognize the quote. It's from Auntie Mame…a favorite film of ours. She's an eccentric who lived deep and sucked out all the marrow of life, as Thoreau put it. Oh dear. I really should close now. Two allusions too many. At least one was literate.
All my love,
Jess
Dearest Claire,
I hope this letter finds you well. How are you and your sisters making it through the long, dreary winter? I'm looking through seed catalogs and earmarking what I'd like to put in the garden this spring. It warms these old bones just thinking about the sunshine. And before you tease, it does get warm here in Maine. Eventually.
I'm feeling more like myself these days. Perhaps it's the idea of spring, of rebirth that's caught my fancy. I'm thinking of starting a simple vegetable patch. It's something Frank and I spoke of often but never quite got round to. Maybe a bit of lettuce, perhaps some beans. I'm not sure. Tomatoes, obviously. Even you could grow those, dear.
Have I told you the Cove has a new doctor? Seth Hazlitt. He's come to us from Portland. I'm not exactly sure why he wants to bury himself here (poor choice of words—forgive me!), but I'm sure I'll be able to report his entire life history in my next letter. I've not been to the beauty shop since he put up his shingle. I'll miss old Doc Wilson, though. One does get used to the way things are. I must learn to accept what is, to float peacefully along the current of life. At least that's what Victoria tells me. I'm sure it's very comforting to all of my nieces to be able to pass along such wisdom to their old widowed auntie.
Don't laugh, dear. It isn't becoming of the newest Reverend Mother. Forgive my delay in congratulating you. My mind has been preoccupied, you might say. That, too, is for another letter. Two "mysteries" for you to look forward to. Perhaps in my next letter I'll reveal more.
As always my love and prayers for your continued good health.
Love,
Jess
Dearest Claire,
I thought perhaps the mention of two possibly tantalizing secrets would have you answering my letter even more promptly than usual. Begging doesn't suit you, my dear, but you know I could never hold out on you.
First, my report on Doctor Seth Hazlitt:
* He is a Harvard-trained physician.
* He is a widower of many years.
* He is the father of a grown but unmarried daughter who seldom visits.
* He is quite a fervent chess player.
* He is three years older than Frank, whom he knew…
* As he is a former resident of Cabot Cove!
I'm sure I'll be able to glean more, but I only chatted for a fair few minutes in the market. I overheard the rest as I concluded my own shopping. You know what a talented eavesdropper I am.
And now, for the more surprising, perhaps even shocking news.
I am going to be a published author.
It's true. You know I told you that I wasn't planning on returning to teaching anytime soon. I could hardly concentrate on anything after Frank died. I couldn't see how I would ever manage a classroom full of rambunctious teenagers, no matter how much I adored them.
I was going mad, with absolutely nothing to do in this old house but rattle around looking at old photographs and rearranging Frank's sock drawer. (It's true. I did this more often than you might suppose. Good thing you didn't know before now, as you might have tried to have me committed. Can't do that to published authors…or can you?) I tried the bridge club, the book club, the knitting circle. Bored. Bored. Bored.
After reading a pile of the silliest murder mysteries whose covers I'd had the misfortune to open, I threw down the gauntlet. I was sure I could write something better. Well, I wrote a little something, then a little more, then it just got to where I couldn't stop. I really enjoyed it. Of course I had no intention of ever sending it off anywhere. It was just something to fill the empty hours. I never expected anyone else to ever read it.
But Grady did. Grady read it, and he submitted it to his newest friend Kit's publishing company. And what do you know? They want to publish it! I wasn't best pleased with Grady when I first found out. Of course he rang me at 6:30 in the morning. I nearly had a heart attack, and my first thought when I heard Grady's voice was that he'd lost another job. I never thought I would say this, but that boy's just a mite too honest for his own good.
Anyway, yours truly will be a published author soon. What's the title of my book, you ask? The Corpse Danced at Midnight. Don't buy a copy. I'll send you one from what I'm sure will be a great pile of remainders. Oh, well. It will give the tongues in the Cove something new to wag about, and that's no small thing, is it?
Much love to you,
Jess or rather J.B. Fletcher, as I've chosen to be known professionally (and rest assured I'm already getting the big head)
Dearest Claire,
This of necessity will be a quick note. I'm in New York visiting Grady and coincidentally "doing publicity," as Kit refers to it, for the book. Kit, you'll remember, is Grady's publishing friend, though I confess to harboring a hope that she will become more than mere friend. Grady needs someone to settle him, something larger than himself to work for. He's a bit of a dreamer, a dear, dear soul, and that's part of why I love him so. I wouldn't want him to change, but I do believe he could benefit from some soul deepening, a phrase I'm unabashedly stealing from you for my own dark arts…or is that too scandalous?
We've been invited to a weekend at my publisher's country home…is that the proper term? I must admit I don't care for New York City. I miss the Cove and its simple pleasures. Speaking of, I forgot to mention in my last letter that I was thoroughly trounced in my inaugural chess match against the good doctor. I must brush up on my chess skills, namely patience!
I'll write more later. I'll send a complete account of our weekend away from the noise and bustle of the city.
Love,
Jess
Dearest Claire,
I hardly know where to begin. At the beginning, I can hear you say, sharp and dry. But at which beginning?
I know you must have wondered why you hadn't heard from me, apart from that one letter as brief as a postcard a few weeks ago.
My thoughts are so disjointed. I feel as though I'm cresting a wave that, at any moment, will plunge me into the trough. I may end up crumpling this sheet and starting again. But I think it's best to just press through. If it all ends up mush, the salient questions you'll pose in your response will focus my thoughts.
I'm avoiding, and I know it.
I suppose the best place to start is the dreadful start to my trip, not to be confused by its dreadful end, but I'll get to that. After four days of nonstop interviews, appearances, book signings, well, I'd had my fill of New Yorkers. As a population, they lived down to every stereotype. With the exception of Kit and Daniel, though I'm not sure he counts as a New Yorker. Oh, and one knight in shining armor who came to my rescue at a very low point. A very kind young man who went out of his way to help me. Encountering him was the only bright spot in an otherwise murky time.
At any rate, I'd decided I'd had enough of New York City. I was at the train station about to embark when Preston Giles, my publisher, former publisher I should say, was waiting on the platform with flowers and a heartfelt apology for his rudeness. Of course I was flattered. I'm a widow, not a stone. And yes, before you ask, he's a very distinguished-looking man. He gave an appearance of elegance and refinement, of safety and yet something…exciting. I was pleased and flattered and accepted his invitation for Grady, Kit and I to spend the weekend at his home in the country.
As soon as I arrived, I found he'd arranged a costume party for that night but had neglected to mention that to me. Was it on purpose or mere oversight? At the time it seemed harmless enough. With the help of a lovely woman, Mrs. McCallum, I was able to procure a costume: Cinderella's Fairy Godmother. And who was Mr. Giles? The Count of Monte Cristo…a clue I was tardy in recognizing.
A disagreeable incident involving a private detective snooping in Grady's room, of all places, was an awkward event in an otherwise thoroughly delightful evening.
But the next morning, Kit discovered a body in the swimming pool dressed as Sherlock Holmes. We all thought it was Caleb McCallum (of Captain Caleb's "restaurant" fame—count your unfamiliarity with it as one of your life's many blessings), as he'd dressed as Holmes for the party. After frightening his lovely wife out of her wits (and very nearly getting her charged with first-degree murder), he turned up an hour or so later alive and well.
The murdered man was the private investigator, and Grady was held on suspicion of murder. Preposterous! And of course I couldn't leave town with Grady in trouble like that. I know you always fussed about my inquisitive nature, but this time it came in very useful indeed. Grady wouldn't murder anyone, but I had to make sure the police understood that many more people had a motive for murdering that poor man.
My letter is already going to be twice as long as usual, so I'll skip over the unimportant details. Suffice it to say the police released Grady, and we discovered that Captain Caleb had hired the investigator to find out who was leaking confidential information regarding proposed locations for his fish restaurants. Grady, due to his position as accountant, was one of the natural suspects, but of course he wouldn't be involved in anything unethical or criminal.
Tragically, Captain Caleb was murdered as well. Two murders. Ghastly. And I was certain I'd seen something, heard something. It was banging away at the back of my brain, and I couldn't let it go.
I couldn't seem to let Preston go, either. He kissed me, Claire, and I let him. I was beginning to feel something for him. Something I thought I'd never feel again. And, I'm ashamed to write this, I wanted that feeling. I wanted him. You don't imagine you'll be 56 years old and still mooning over boys, but I suppose your inside doesn't age in the same way your outside does.
I was running back to Cabot Cove, to safety, and yet arguing with myself in favor of staying. And then I saw it…that niggling detail that had been troubling me so. A journalist named Chris was supposed to interview me on the train back to Cabot Cove. Preston had said it was a man, but I opened the paper and there was her byline. Her byline. Well, I changed trains and went back to New Holvang.
Oh, Claire. If only you'd heard him. It chilled my blood to hear how casually he treated the murder of two people. And to murder Caleb! Only to protect himself. And when I challenged him about it, he said Caleb wasn't a very nice man. I've never fainted in my life, but I do believe I came close to it that vision narrowed and I felt just…sick.
For one brief moment, I thought he might actually hurt me. He came up behind me as I stood. I was afraid, but something in me wouldn't let me shrink from him. In the end he merely put his hands on my shoulders and asked me to accompany him to the police station. I don't think I ever held my breath for so long.
I thought I knew people. I believed I was a good judge of character. What's worse…I felt myself falling in love with this man. I let him kiss me. I wanted him to kiss me again. My God in Heaven, Claire, this hurts so deeply. I feel as though I've betrayed Frank. How could I let that man near me? How could I have had no suspicions? How could I have let myself care for him? I've agonized and the nights…oh the nights are simply awful. I never know whom I'll dream about when I close my eyes: Frank or Preston. It's broken my heart anew.
I've read back over my words. Disjointed, yes, but I think I'll send it along anyway. I need your good counsel, Claire. I'm adrift.
Love,
Jess
A/N: This is a new multi-chapter fic that takes place largely from Jessica's POV, but Seth manages to get a few thoughts in as well. This follows a similar timeline to How Long, but I've tried for a bit more conflict/angst. I hope you'll let me know what you think. I'll continue to post on Sundays.
Note: Rereading this, I noticed that it's an unusually long chapter for me. I think I tend to see these events as scenes, and sometimes it feels natural to stop, even if it's only around 1K words. All that to say, this might be the longest chapter in the whole story! I really hope you like this story. I'm a little nervous about it, for whatever reason.