Be My Valentine: Short Story Collection. Brigid Coady

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       The Love Letter

       By Nikki Moore

      He couldn't do this any more. Couldn't be with Lila like this - it was wrong. It was time they had The Talk.

      Jake clutched the tattered heavy cream paper of the letter, fighting back the lump in his throat as he gazed at the setting sun casting shimmering rays on the turquoise sea. When it had first happened, time and again he’d unfolded and refolded the pages, repeatedly reading his wife’s words. Soaked them up as if to absorb them into himself. As if keeping her voice tangible would somehow keep her alive.

      Guilt scorched through him. The letter had been tucked away for almost three years now, neglected. The grief counsellor had advised that at some point he must move forward, not linger on it. So after eighteen months he'd finally taken the advice. And it felt like her voice had faded. That he'd forgotten.

      He ran a hand through his short blond hair. The truth was, he felt guilty about everything. Why couldn't he have helped Shelley, done more? Why should he be here, when she wasn't? Why should he get to breathe in the briny air, turn his face toward the warmth and light of the sun, appreciate the vibrant blue and red hues of the flowers spilling from balconies in the narrow paved streets of the sleepy Greek village his grandfather's villa nestled in? Why should he get to feel love and hold hands and laugh with someone?

      He let out a slow breath, broad chest expanding beneath the black polo shirt Lila said suited him, made him look sexy. Only twenty-seven years old, he felt at least a hundred with the regret that weighed him down. Still, at least Shelley's letter had always been in his wallet, her words carried against his heart.

      But now it was time; the right moment to face his wife's slanting script and large loops again, the generous lines of hearts and kisses. The right moment to crystallise her voice.

      Jake glanced self-consciously at the apartment behind him. Lila was showering and dressing for dinner after their day on the small sandy beach, aware that he needed to discuss something serious with her. It'd take her at least another ten minutes to get ready.

      The crashing of waves on the pebbled beach sounded like a heartbeat as he raised the wine glass – full of Shelley's favourite Chardonnay ‒ to toast it at the sunset. He shook open the letter, a sad smile curling his mouth.

       Dear Jake,

       To me, happiness is powdery white sand sloping down into endless blue sea, waves lapping on the shore. Happiness is the bright sun heating our faces and tanning our bodies, the air heavy with humidity that makes a midday nap seem like the best idea in the world.

       Happiness is pineapple-scented sun cream that makes our skin glide and slide as we spoon together in a hammock under the coconut trees that provide welcome shade.

       Happiness is our honeymoon, no matter what may come next.

       And to think that I almost gave it all up …

       We’d been together for what felt like a lifetime when you proposed, though in real terms it had only been six years. I suppose it felt longer because we’d met at the start of secondary school and had been friends for most of the intervening time, until discovering each other in an entirely different way on my fifteenth birthday.

       I still remember that first day when you introduced yourself as I helped my mum and new step-dad unload another bulky box from the van, sullen at being transplanted three hundred miles across the country. I’d been torn away from everything and everyone I loved and was in no hurry to meet anyone new. I needed time to brood and to mope. Of course I didn’t think of it that way then but looking back that was the truth of it.

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