Poppy shook her head slowly at him.
“That sounds complicated,” Carl said.
Liza leaned in closer, ignoring Mitchell. “What do you want to say to your friend?”
Carl thought for a while. “Just that she’s a beautiful person. I’d tell her I won’t be a concierge forever and that my uncle is helping me out with this job, because I get really nervous when I apply for other ones. And I know there are lots of people with more qualifications and experience than me, but I try hard. I want to ask her if she wants to go on a date with me, and if she’d prefer the cinema, or a picnic in the park.”
“Well, that sounds ideal. Just write that.”
Carl dubiously picked up his pen. “I’m not confident with these things.”
Mitchell thought about Annie’s letter about Douglas, and Yvette’s letter to Liza. He pictured the drawer in his bedside cabinet, stuffed with his own letters to Anita, and her sealed lilac envelope to him.
“It doesn’t have to be perfect,” he said. “You taking the time to write something is sometimes as important as the words you use.”
“That makes more sense,” Carl said. “I’ll take my time and, when I finish it, will one of you read it for me? I want to get it right.”
“Sure,” Liza said. “Anytime.”
“Give me a shout when you’re ready,” Mitchell added.
After they’d drank their tea together, Liza picked up her bag. “I should go. I’m a busy person, you know.”
“You haven’t read any of Dad’s letters,” Poppy said.
“He has lots more now. Maybe I can look at his favorite ones after he’s looked at them. And I have to get ready for my night out.”
Mitchell felt a strange prickle on the back of his neck that he couldn’t identify. “Going anywhere nice?” he asked.
“I think Henry has got us tickets for the Comedy Store. I’m a bit tired and groggy, but a shower should wake me up.”
Mitchell stood still. Henry, he thought to himself. Who’s he? But he didn’t like to ask. He didn’t know Liza that well and it was none of his business. “Great. Well, have a good time,” he said as casually as he could.
“Thanks. We always do.”
* * *
The Dala café was supposed to resemble a Swedish log cabin. The menu had a wooden cover and its contents consisted of mainly pickled things or fish.
When Mitchell and Poppy met Susan at four o’clock, they found her at a table sipping from a tiny coffee cup and nibbling on a piece of rye bread.
After sitting down opposite her, Mitchell made a show of giving the plastic bag full of letters a chair of its own.
Susan eyed it nervously. “I know there’s a lot of them, so I wanted to explain face-to-face,” she said. “I spoke to another journo from the channel and he told me that some stories attract just a few responses, but others really capture people’s imaginations. This is quite unusual.”
“They’re probably just interested in the prize money,” Mitchell said with a snort.
“Why not read them and see?” she said hopefully.
“Because that will take forever.”
“Can’t you just read them a few at a time?”
Mitchell stared at the letters. “Surely, other stuff must be going on in the city? The story of me and the woman on the bridge must have died down by now.”
She glanced at him over the top of her coffee cup. “Unless you want it to keep going...?”
“Why on earth would I want to do that?”
“That’s why I wanted to meet you in person, to ask you the question.”
“Absolutely not,” he said.
Susan placed her satchel on her knee, as if using it as a shield against him. “People love stories about other people, especially if they’ve done something heroic, or different, or lovely. The bridges are a hot topic, too, because of Word Up, and the new bridge opening soon. Add the prize money into the mix and it’s sparked some kind of synergy.” She clicked her fingers together. “I’d like to write a piece about how your act of bravery influenced people in the city to write letters. In the computerized age, it’s a dying art.”
“But they’ve only written them because of a mistake, because you didn’t publish an email address,” he protested.
“Every cloud has a silver lining.”
Poppy had remained quiet throughout their conversation. “I’m doing a school project about the padlocks on the bridges,” she said.
Mitchell stared at her. “You were going to change it.”
“I didn’t say that.”
Susan nodded at the bag on the chair. “A few envelopes were open, and I read the letters. They were from people who hung padlocks, saying why they did it.”
Poppy’s eyes shone. “Dad, can I read them?”
“I want to give them back,” Mitchell said firmly. “I didn’t ask to be part of this. People don’t even know my name.”
Susan pursed her lips. “Um, I might have updated my article to, um, include it.”
“What?” Mitchell’s pulse shot up. “Don’t you need my permission to do that? Don’t I have to sign something?”
She gave him a small smile and shook her head. “Nope.”
A frosty silence descended between them, and Mitchell briefly snatched a postcard from the top of the bag.
I hope this card brings you an eternity of joy and that your life is sweetened with the richness you give others. Rejoice in the beauty of today and forever.
He showed it to Susan. “What does this even mean?”
“There are better ones,” she admitted.
Their conversation was broken when a set of cowbells jingled over the door as it opened. Carl dug his hands into his overall pockets and walked up to the counter. He studied the blackboard menu for a long time before requesting, “Just a white coffee, please.” His gaze fell upon Mitchell, Poppy and Susan and, after getting his drink, he walked over to join them.
“Hello. We meet again.” He shook Susan’s hand. “Are you talking about all the letters? It’s usually all bills and fast-food menus in the mailbox of Angel House. Isn’t it wonderful to see so many people writing like that?”
Susan smiled triumphantly at Mitchell. “Join us,” she said. She picked up the bag of letters off the chair and held it out toward Mitchell.