Sitting at the end of his berth, he reached for the envelope and carefully tore open the end before slipping the single sheet from inside.
Dear Brand:
I pray I’m doing the right thing by writing you. You’ve been gone several weeks now, and I thought, I hoped, I’d stop thinking about you.
What’s troubling me most is the way our last conversation went. I’m feeling terribly guilty about the way I behaved. I was heartless and unnecessarily cruel when I didn’t mean to be. Your proposal came as a shock. My only excuse is that it caught me unaware, and I didn’t know what to say or how to act and so I pretended it was all a big joke. I’ve regretted that countless times and can only ask your forgiveness.
I bought a grand piano. I’ve never had lessons and can barely play a single note. Everyone who knows me tells me I’m crazy. It wasn’t until after it was delivered that I realized why I’d done anything so foolish. It was an expensive but valuable lesson. I’m taking classes now on Saturday mornings. Me and about five preteens. I strongly suspect I’m older than my teacher, but frankly I haven’t gotten up enough gumption to ask. I don’t know if my ego could handle that.
The others seem to find me something of a weirdo. None of them would be there if their parents weren’t forcing them to take lessons. I, on the other hand, want to learn badly enough to actually pay to do so. The kids don’t understand that. In four months, when you return, I should be well into book 2, and I hope to impress the hell out of you with my rendition of "Country Garden" or something swanky from Mozart. At the rate I’m progressing, I might end up playing in a cocktail lounge by age forty. Can’t you just see me pounding out "Feelings" to a group of men attending an American Legion convention?
Oh, before I forget, you’ll be pleased to know Margo is coming along nicely. She has her own apartment now and found a full-time job selling drapes at the J.C. Penney store. The difference in her from the first time she walked into the class until now is dramatic. She’s still struggling with the pain and an occasional bout of anger, but for the most part she’s doing so well. We’re all proud of her. I thought you might like to hear how she’s doing.
Although I’ve written far more than I thought I would, the real purpose of this letter is to apologize for the way our last conversation went. I can’t be your wife, Brand, but I’d like to be your friend. If you can accept my friendship, then I’ll be waiting to hear from you. If not, I’ll understand.
Warm wishes, Erin
Brand read through the letter twice before neatly folding it and replacing it inside the envelope. So she wanted to be friends.
He didn’t. Not in the least.
He wasn’t looking for a pal, a buddy, a sidekick. He wanted a wife, a woman who would stand at his side for the rest of his life. Someone to double the joy of the good times and divide the burden of the bad. When his ship pulled into port, he wanted her standing on the dock with the other wives and families, so eager to see him she’d be jumping up and down, hoping for a glimpse of him. When he walked down the gangplank, he wanted her to come rushing to his arms, unable to wait a second longer.
Erin wasn’t offering him any of that. She had some milquetoast idea about them being pals. Well, he wanted no part of it. If she wanted a buddy, then she could look elsewhere.
Disgusted with the whole idea, Brand tossed her letter on his bunk. Erin MacNamera was going to have to offer him a whole lot more than friendship if she wanted any kind of relationship with him.
For a solid week, Erin rushed home from work to check her mail. She didn’t try to fool herself by pretending she didn’t care if Brand answered her letter or not. She did care, more than she wanted to admit. The way she figured it, he’d received her letter a week earlier. He’d take a few days to think matters over, and if everything went according to schedule, she’d have a letter back by the end of the following week.
No letter had arrived. At least not from Brand. Junk mail. Bills. Bank statements. They’d all made their way to Erin’s address, but nothing from the one who mattered most.
"You might as well face it," she admonished herself. "He has no intention of answering your letter."
"What did you expect?" she asked herself a few minutes later. She knew what she’d expected. Letters. Hordes of them, filled, as they had been before, with humorous bits of wisdom that warmed her heart.
No such letters arrived. Not even a postcard.
Erin had never felt more melancholy in her life.
Erin’s one-page letter had arrived exactly one month before. And for precisely thirty days Brand had been taking the letter out and reading it over again. Then he would methodically fold it and slip it back inside the envelope. After reading it so many times, he’d memorized every line.
At first keeping the letter was a show of strength on his part. He could hold it and touch a part of Erin. It felt good to be strong enough to stand his ground. He was unwilling to settle for second best with her. He wanted her heart… All right, he was willing to admit he needed more… He wanted her love for him to be so strong she was willing to relinquish everything. Frankly, he wasn’t about to settle for anything less.
It was all or nothing, and that was the way it was meant to be. He was tired of going to her on bended knee. Tired of always being the one to compromise and give in. If anyone was going to make an effort to settle their differences, it would have to be Erin.
Besides, the way Brand figured it, Erin needed this time apart to realize they were meant for each other. She’d had two months to forget they’d ever met, and apparently that hadn’t worked. Hadn’t she said she’d been trying to forget him? She’d also claimed it wasn’t working. Brand figured he’d let time enhance his chances with his brown-eyed beauty. She was his, all right; she just had to figure that much out for herself.