Maybe books do reflect the better versions of us.
I was embarrassed to tell you the truth—that I’m attached to someone who no longer exists. I was embarrassed to admit I’m losing all sense. Like, how could I expect anyone to understand? I don’t even understand. I just feel what I feel, and my feelings say Elias wrote to me. Perhaps I’m wrong. (The logical part of my brain knows I’m mistaken.) But I can’t walk away. My feet seem glued to Atteberry and Cadwallader Manor.
This place supplements all the missing elements of my life. I started work at Sassenach Bakery as a cashier and novice baker. (The pâtissier doesn’t trust me with complicated recipes, so I make scones and biscuits.) I fancy the job, more so the shop. It’s located in the centre of town, has blue windowpanes and a Tudor rose insignia. Quite a lovely place. It smells like fresh bread and coffee, and the owner insists we play singer-songwriter music.
On Wednesdays an elderly woman with pink hair, Lucille, comes to purchase snacks for her knitting club. She wears round glasses and a camouflage parka. Last week I complimented her outfit, and she invited me to visit her group. I’ve yet to give her an answer.
All that to say, I have a life here. I’m part of the community now. People know my name. They pop into the bakery and say hello. (Some of them remember Dad.) On the weekends, Oliver and his grandparents come over for afternoon tea.
They invite me to eat dinner with them at least twice a week. You deserve to be mad at me. I’m mad at myself, not just for my behaviour this past week, but for how I cut you out of my life when Dad got sick. I’ll always regret that. You should’ve been at hospital. You should’ve heard about his passing before everyone else.
Since his death, I’ve felt a bit detached from the world. Living here changes that, connects me to Dad and Elias, lets me feel like I belong somewhere again. I’ve grown used to being alone at Cadwallader. Right now I’m inside the west wing study, nestled on a velvet sofa. Nan lies at my feet, twitching from a dream. Elias watches us from the wall.
And I am perfectly content.
Please keep an open mind for this next part. I won’t go into detail. I’ll just type my bigger news and press Send so I won’t persuade myself otherwise.
I decided to stay in Atteberry until Christmas.
Josie
P.S. I’m happy to hear about your mended relationship with Noah!
From: Josie De Clare <[email protected]>
Sent: Tuesday, July 25, 5:06 PM
To: Faith Moretti <[email protected]>
Subject: Life Updates from Cadwallader
Hi, Faith! Just checking in to see how you’re doing. Are your summer classes treating you well? Any news in the Noah department?
Our last conversation ended poorly, and I hate when we’re on bad terms. I’m usually to blame. (I have a Hulk-sized destructive vein.) We’ll be okay, right? I mean, we survived the Bra Debacle of 2017, among other things. I’m confident we can get through this rough patch.
Some updates: The electrician finished wiring the upstairs floors, so Cadwallader has electricity. Workers came and patched the roof. No more leaks!
Mum phoned yesterday. She has a new boyfriend—a bloke half her age. They met at a charity auction in Brighton. I forgot his name, but it’s something horrible like Ernie or Thad.
Blimey, I hope I don’t end up with a Stepdaddy Thad.
In other news, July brought warmer weather to Atteberry. I ride my bike into town and wear those jumpsuits you gave me, except when I help Oliver with farm chores. (Martha lent me overalls and Wellingtons because I step in sheep dung at least once a week.) Nan stays with me at night. She sleeps at the foot of my bed and snores louder than the manor’s creepy noises.
How can I convince you I’m all right? Remember when I first asked why you left America? You told me sometimes it takes letting go of everything to get something worth having. You detached from your world, and look at what happened.
Elias understood misery better than he realized. That or he just knew how to write about it. His letters prove he wanted someone to guide him through grief, but loss isn’t a textbook process. It’s different for everyone. Yeah, we want advice and steps—anything to shorten the pain. But grief can’t be hurried or pummelled with self-help. It’s just there.
The only way out of it is through it.
I’m getting through my grief, Faith. So what if I need a manuscript and love letters? People have found solace in literature for centuries. I’m no different. I mean, a book is but a stack of paper until someone reads it. And when someone reads it, they build a house within its pages, so whenever they return to that book, they feel right at home.
Let me have this home.
Josie
From: Josie De Clare <[email protected]>
Sent: Wednesday, August 9, 11:09 PM
To: Faith Moretti <[email protected]>
Subject: Re: Life Updates from Cadwallader
Faith, rest assured I’ve taken steps to mend my imagination.
Last night I dreamt I climbed out of bed and wandered into the hallway, where Elias waited for me. He smiled and whispered my name, his tall form traced with candlelight. I collided with his chest. I embraced him while he combed his fingers through my hair and kissed a line across my forehead. For what seemed like hours, we held each other. Then,
