I pulled out the quilt first, setting it aside, then lifted the pile of papers. My hands shook only a bit as I sat on my bed with the stack of letters. Slowly, as if unwrapping a precious gift, I began to read through them.
His lilting voice sang in my head with each word. The memory of his scent rose to my nostrils, as if imprinted on the crinkled paper. But it was always his eyes that haunted me—dark and sooty, full of warmth and a love that had always been fully for me.
I wondered if he was married with children. If he’d stayed in his father’s house and took over the business. If he was well and happy.
I didn’t plan to begin writing the letter. I reached for the familiar stationery that sat in my bedside drawer along with my favorite pen, and the words poured out of me, the scratch of the ink flowing over sheer crisp white.
I signed my name and paused, rereading the note.
Odd, if I had an actual cell phone number, I’d be able to text him. If I had an email, I could make sure it was delivered right to his inbox. Technology had changed everything. My girls laughed at me when I needed their help with remotes and phones and the damn computer that kept me a perpetual student. But we’d been right to stick to letters. It was more personal than a voice over the phone. It was an outpouring of the heart, unedited, raw, and unfiltered.
It was what Rafe deserved from me.
I sealed it up, wrote out the familiar address, and put it aside to bring to the post office later. I didn’t expect him to write back, but I needed to put the connection out there. Just writing to him gave my insides space and light, and I got dressed with a smile on my face.
He was out there, hopefully happy, hopefully living a great big beautiful life. It felt right to reach out now, after all these years, to let him know I’d never stopped loving him. Age changed perspective. I saw things so clearly now, the good and bad, the wrong and right, and everything in between. It was too late for any regrets, and I refused to have them.
Now I could only sit back and watch my daughters choose their paths. If only I could help heal the breaks within their relationships. Dev had frozen Bailey out of her life because of a fight over a boy—but I knew it was bigger than that. A betrayal between sisters cut deep, and no matter how much I tried, they refused to mend the break. Pris had given up her career for love and given me my first grandchild, but something in her eyes haunted me, a regret that seemed so awfully familiar. When I tried to talk to her about it, she always waved it off with a laugh. But I still wondered.
Is this the fate of a mother? To worry and wonder about her children no matter the age? To beg and borrow and steal from God in order to give them everything? To help them make the right choices when I knew myself it would be impossible—because without pain there isn’t real joy?
I sat with the questions while I got dressed, went to the post office, and mailed the letter.
I got no response to either my questions or my letter, until years later.
* * *
• • •
When the letter arrived, I didn’t open it for a long, long time.
I carried it with me in my pocket, occasionally running my fingers over the sharp edges to remind myself it was real. I had written to Rafe off and on for the past few years. The letters were never returned, so I had no idea if he was throwing them out unread or choosing not to respond.
It didn’t matter. He’d become my confidant, a friend to reach out to in the middle of the night. I shared everything with him, holding nothing back, as I had those summers we spent together. Writing to him gave me hope and breath. I was happier than I’d been in a while, even if our connection was only imaginary.
Finally, I sat down that evening, poured myself some hot tea, and read the letter.
Dearest Livia,
For too long, I was unable to accept your letters. It was best for both of us—to finally let go of a past that was too beautiful, it may have ended up destroying us both. I had done my best to keep those summers locked away. Even that one precious week when I believed you’d come back to me is a memory best not to revisit. I convinced myself our time together was a dream, but when I saw my name on those envelopes, I realized I alone could ruin a life that I’d rebuilt after you left. I couldn’t do that, dolcezza. Not even for you.
But now, I find myself at a crossroads. I still think about you. I still wonder what could have been. I still want to gaze upon your face one more time.
So, yes, I will meet you here for your 65th birthday.
R
A mix of emotions slammed through me, so tumultuous I could only hang on until my breathing steadied.
He was agreeing to see me.
Something about my sixty-fifth birthday called to me. I’d begun dreaming I’d spend it in Positano, at Aunt Silvia’s house, close to the memory of Rafe’s presence. I’d written to him and asked if he’d be willing to meet me, never expecting a response. But now it was going to happen.
I’d see Rafe on May 25. My birthday.
Tears sprang to my eyes, and I threw back my head and laughed. I wished I could call Aunt Silvia or my mother to share my secret. I wished I could gather my daughters and tell them about my past, and beg them for forgiveness if I wasn’t enough because a piece of me had always belonged to him.
Instead, I cradled his letter to my heart. I had plans to make. Tickets. Arrangements to have the house ready when I arrived. And get better from this blasted cold that I couldn’t seem to get rid of. I had to be healthy for the trip.
I was going to see Rafe.
chapter forty-three
Dev
Rafael sat down on the couch. Pris was doing her elegant pacing again, and Bailey perched on the opposite side of him. Dev decided to stand, arms crossed in front of her chest. Her insides were jittery with nerves and excitement.
They’d found him.
Or, he’d found them. She couldn’t stop her greedy gaze from cataloguing each one of his features. A canvas bag lay beside him he was holding tight, his fingers in a deathlike grip.
She wondered what was in there he cared about so fiercely.
Dev cleared her throat and took control. Pris and Bailey seemed a bit struck mute, so she did what she did best. Ask questions.
“We’ve been looking for you since we arrived,” Dev began. “We never knew about this house, or Mom’s relationship with you, until we found your letters. We wanted to come to experience the place where she spent her summers. A place she really loved.”
“Ah, she kept my letters.” He nodded. “I always wondered. Your mother loves this place very much.”
“How did you find us?”
He blinked and Dev was struck by his beautiful dark eyes, framed by lush lashes. “You met my son, Paolo. He gave you a tour of the grotto.”