I smile as I mix the paint in my palette; who knew I would love this so much.
It’s taken me back to a time when I was happy and carefree . . . I also have to admit, Elliot’s letter yesterday has lifted my spirits.
He gets it.
He could have come here and talked me around and dragged me home . . . but he’s letting me work this out for myself.
I hear a car pull up and I go and look out of the window. It’s the van. I smile.
I open the door in a rush to see the delivery driver get out of his van with another red envelope.
“Pinkie?” he calls.
“That’s me.” I beam.
“Two letters in two days, someone’s getting spoilt. Sign here please.”
I sign with a smile on my face. “What was your name?” I ask.
“Richard.”
“Thanks, Richard.” I take my letter and breeze up my steps and, once inside, I tear it open. Just like the last letter, I tip the envelope up and the little bottle falls out.
I read the label and giggle.
Elliot Miles—Love Potion.
My dearest Pinkie,
In light of my inability to call you, and not wanting to stalk you, serial-killer style, I have decided to go old school and write you a letter.
To receive a total package experience, please spray this letter with the spray that is enclosed in the envelope.
In light of your various fetishes, I will oblige you.
Enclosed is a picture for your personal spank bank, use it willingly and often.
I frown. What?
I search in the envelope and, inside, there’s a photograph wrapped in white paper.
I tear it open and laugh. It’s a picture of Elliot’s bare feet, crossed at the ankles and resting up on an ottoman. He’s sitting on his deck with the lake and his beautiful Enchanted rolling green hills in the background.
There’s a glass of Scotch on the side table and he’s wearing grey sweatpants.
I frown as I stare at it. Maybe he’s onto something. This picture makes me want to be there. I keep reading.
I hope you are well, my days are long, my nights are longer.
You are missed, my love.
Forever yours,
Elliot.
xo
P.S. have you started knitting collars for your grandkids yet?
Apparently, twins are common. I’m not nervous at all.
I smile as my eyes linger on the letter; I pick up the little bottle and spray the paper.
I hold it to my nose and inhale deeply, and Elliot Miles in all his glory swims around me.
These quirky little letters that are so him, mean a lot.
I smile. It’s a good day.
ELLIOT
Christopher pops his head around the door. “You want to grab some lunch?”
I glance up. “Umm . . .” I do, but I don’t want him to see where I have to go on the way.
“I’m good, thanks anyway.”
“You have to eat.”
“I know that, I just . . .” I pause as I think of an excuse. “I have to go to the post office later, I’ll grab something on the way there.”
Christopher frowns as he walks in. “Why would you go to the post office?”
“To have an eight-course banquet, what do you think?” I mutter dryly as I turn back to my computer.
He sits on the edge of my desk. “Heard from Kate?”
“No.” I hit my keys. “What makes you say that?”
“You haven’t been out, you haven’t seen anyone else. You’ve barely left your property other than to come to work.”
“So?”
“She’s been gone nearly six weeks, Elliot.”
“And your point is?” I snap, exasperated.
“She’s not coming back, man.”
“Listen,” I bark. “Kate is my business, and what happens between us is none of yours. I fucked up, and come hell or high water, I’m going to fix it.”
“Then go to her and bring her home. You know where she is, what are you waiting for? This isn’t like you.”
“You don’t know her. She’s too stubborn and if I push her, I’ll lose her in the end anyway. I’m giving her the time she deserves.”
“Or the time to get over you.”
My eyes rise to meet his.
“Come on, lunch. We can go send your love letter on the way.”
I exhale heavily. “Fine.” I open the top drawer of my desk and pull out a red envelope. He snatches it off me and reads who it is addressed to and he frowns.
Miss Pinkie Leroo
98 Grosvenor Street
Mayweather, Oahu.
“Why the hell do you call her Pinkie Leroo?”
“Long story.”
He turns the letter over and reads who it’s from.
Edgar Moffatt
Garbologist Extraordinaire
Enchanted Kingdom
“Huh? Who the hell is Edgar Moffatt?”
I snatch the letter from him. “I’ll explain on the way.” I put the envelope safely inside my suit jacket pocket. “Let’s go.”
Twenty minutes later I stand in line at the post office, Christopher next to me on his phone.
“Next,” the cashier calls, and she looks up. “Oh, hello Mr. Moffatt.”
I cringe. She knows me by name now. “Hello.” I slide my letter over the counter.
“Same as always? International tracked and signed to Oahu.”
“Thank you.” I take out my wallet.
“I hope these are love letters.” She smiles dreamily as she puts it through her computer.
Just ring it up, stupid.
“I mean, it’s so romantic, you sending a letter to Pinkie every day for a month.”
I glance back at Christopher and he gives a subtle shake of his head in disgust. “Loser,” he mouths.
I twist my lips in disapproval as I turn back to her. Why don’t you tell the whole post office, bitch?
“I wish I had an admirer as devoted as you.” She smiles.
Shut the fuck up.
That’s it, tomorrow I find a new post office.
KATE
I struggle up the road with my new canvas, which is huge. Like the ones I used to paint when I was just a girl.
I’m addicted to my new hobby and every day is better than the last.
The sun, the sea, my life here . . . Edgar’s letters.
I have a new thirst for life, my old self is returning day by day.
There’s no pressure, no grief . . . only happy memories and freedom. I’m going to call Elliot soon; his quirky letters have made me feel closer to him. I read them constantly and may even sleep with the box I keep them all in.
I want to fix this; he’s worth trying for.
I come around the corner to see Richard’s van parked out the front and I wave and smile. “Hi, you’re early today?”
He holds up three red envelopes. “It’s Monday, three letters today.”
My broad smile nearly splits my face. Elliot writes to me every day.
And I know we didn’t have a romantic beginning, but he’s definitely making up for it. Not that his letters are romantic, they’re weird and funny little stories from his day. He sends me photos and clippings. Each one makes me smile, each one makes my day that much brighter.
“Wow, that’s a big canvas. You paint?” Richard asks.
“Oh.” I shrug, slightly embarrassed. “Abysmally, but it relaxes me . . . so that’s the main thing, right?”
Richard chuckles. “Paint a picture of me delivering your letters every day.”
I laugh. “Okay, although you wouldn’t be able to tell what it was.”
“I’m sure you’re underestimating yourself.” He smiles, I sign for my letters and bounce up the stairs.
I read through the envelopes to find Saturday’s letter, as I like to read them in order.
My dearest Pinkie,
In light of my inability to call you, and not wanting to stalk you, serial-killer style, I have decided to go old school and write you a letter.
To receive a total package experience, please spray this letter with the spray that is enclosed in the envelope.
I smile as I imagine Elliot pouring his aftershave into these tiny bottles. I wonder, does he use a funnel? And who makes these tiny labels?
I notice a photograph wrapped in white paper and I tear it open.
It’s a picture of an open hand, palm facing up. It has terrible huge blisters all over it.
What the hell? What’s he done?
I read on.
Actual footage of my right hand.
I burst out laughing. “Are you serious?”
My love, things are grim.
My body needs you.
It’s been eight weeks since you touched me, it feels like forever.
I waited thirty-five years to find you.
How much longer must I wait to hold you again?
Forever yours,
Elliot.
xo
Emotion overwhelms me and I blink through tears.
I walk outside and put my canvas on the easel and pour myself a glass of wine, turn up Taylor Swift’s song “Style” on repeat, and begin to fill my canvas with paint. I smile as I listen to the words.
ELLIOT
I sit on my deck and stare out over Enchanted. It’s late, near midnight . . . but I can’t sleep.
I haven’t been able to relax in what feels like weeks.
I’m mentally drained.
Kate’s in Hawaii . . . and all I want to do is go to her and make her come back with me, but her brother’s words keep rolling around in my head.
I know I could go to her, talk her around, and bring her home . . . but she needs to want to be here.
She knows how I feel and yet, she still left me.
How could I have fucked this up so bad?
I think over the events of that first week after she left and, to be honest, I’m glad Kate didn’t have to suffer it. I’ve had to lodge court proceedings to silence the gossip about the love triangle; it’s been a media-circus nightmare.
I lift my Scotch to my lips and sip it slowly, and the heat burns my throat as it goes down.
I’ve been sending Pinkie letters, and baring my soul, but something’s not sitting right.
I’m missing something in this puzzle.
I have no idea what it is, but as the days go by and still no word from Kate, my agitation grows.
I refill my glass of Scotch and light a cigar, blow out a thin stream of smoke into the crisp night air.
My mind goes back to the picture she had framed for me for my birthday and I smile. I go and retrieve it from inside and stare at it in my hands.
It’s a photograph of me taken from behind, in a navy suit, staring out over the lake with the ducks around my feet. It’s early morning and the mist is rolling on the paddocks in the background.
Such a simple image and yet somehow it feels so intimate—her secret view of me when I wasn’t looking.
I turn it over and look at the back of the frame, and I wonder what the photo looks like without the glass on it.
I retrieve a knife and undo the frame and I take the image out, turn it over and see her handwriting.
Happy Birthday my darling,
I love you.
Always, Kate.
My chest constricts and I read it again . . . and again . . . and again.
Always, Kate.
Always means forever . . . until it didn’t.
I lift the cigar to my lips and inhale deeply. I’m sad and forlorn, full of regret.
My hands are tied, I can’t contact her. I can’t make her come home, no matter how much I want to. I have to do this on her terms and respect her decision.
She has to want to come home to me.
And I hate it.
I tip my head back and drain the glass, then I fill it again so fast that it sloshes over the sides.
Patience isn’t my strong point.
Two months.
I write to her every day . . . and yet, no word back.
Does she even get my letters?
“Thank you,” Christopher says to the waitress as she puts a plate of fortune cookies down in front of us.
It’s Friday night and Christopher has dragged me out for dinner.
I want to be anywhere else but here.
He passes the plate over to me. “Take one.”
“Pass.”
He shoves the plate in my face. “Fucking take one, you love this shit.”
I roll my eyes and take one, crack it open.
There is no such thing as a coincidence.
I raise my eyebrow. Ha . . . once upon a time I would have believed that.
“What did you get?” Christopher asks.
I throw my note over and he smiles. “Well, if that was the case, your life is one massive fucking web.”
I stare at him.
“You’ve got to admit, it’s pretty fucking freaky that you’ve been chasing this artist for years . . . and she turns up just when you found a girl you fell for. And you and Kate meeting online . . . out of all the people in the world, you met her. The woman you were already seeing.”
I frown as I listen. “It is weird . . . isn’t it?”
“I mean, what are the chances of that actually happening?”
“Next to none.” My mind begins to tick as I read the little fortune cookie note again.
There is no such thing as a coincidence.
I always believed in it, that everything happens for a reason. No event or person in your life happens by accident and yet, here I am.
I think hard . . . for a long time.
Why does it feel off, what am I missing?
But what if falling for Kate wasn’t a coincidence at all?
What if this is all the grand plan?
I read it again.
There is no such thing as a coincidence.
Hmm.
The next day I knock on Brad’s door. He opens it in a rush and his face falls as he sees me. “Hi.”
I smile. “Hi. I was wondering if you had a minute? I have a pressing question and you are the only one who I think will know the answer.”
“Umm.”
My eyes search his. “Please.”
He steps aside and I walk in and take a seat on the couch.
He sits down. “What’s up?”
“So . . .” I pause as I try to articulate my thoughts. “I have a feeling that I’m missing something.”
“What do you mean?”
“I believe I was meant to meet Kate.”
He listens.
“And I also believe that I was meant to meet the artist, but for what reason I don’t know.”
He frowns as if confused.
“Do you believe in fate, Brad?” I ask.
“Maybe.” He sits back in his chair. “Didn’t think you would be the kind of man who would, though.”
“Hmm.” I think for a moment. “Is there something I’m missing?”
“What do you mean?”
“I don’t know, I keep getting the feeling I’m missing something, but I don’t know what it is.”
Brad exhales. “She reads your letters.”
“She does? What did she say?”
“Nothing, only that you write to her every day and that it makes her happy.”
I smile as hope fills me.
“You know, for the first time since Mum and Dad died, she sounds back to herself.”
“What do you mean?”
“She’s working nights and learning how to cross-stitch like Mum used to do. She even started painting again.”
What?
“She paints?”
“Oh, just mucking around, she definitely doesn’t see herself as an artist. But she used to love it as a teenager.”
“I never knew this about her,” I whisper, fascinated.
“I think she’d forgotten all about it. Oahu and time alone has been good for her.”
I smile as I imagine her painting at an easel . . . hmm. “She reads my letters, hey?” I should go. I pause, thinking of what else I can say. “Well, if you think of anything, can you call me?” I ask.
“I will.”
I exhale heavily as I stand.
“I thought you would have given up on her by now,” Brad says.
I turn to him in surprise. “I’m in love with her, why would I give up?”
“You did before.”
“I never gave up. I had to meet that artist and I don’t regret it; I never touched her and returned to Kate. Given, I did take too long to return . . . but still, my intention never wavered.” I shrug. “I guess I just needed some time to get my head around it too.”
He walks me to the door, and I hold out my hand to shake his. “Well, you’ve made my day, knowing she reads my letters means a lot.”
“No worries.”
“And if you think of anything . . .”
“Sure.”
I turn toward the door and glance up and see a photo on the sideboard.
I walk over and pick it up, stare at it, my mind a clusterfuck of confusion.
What?
It’s a picture of Brad and Kate, with Harriet Boucher.
My eyes meet his. “How do you know this woman?”
“Who?” He frowns.
I point to Harriet. “How do you know her?” I demand.
“She’s our sister, Elanor.”
