The Wedding Letters Read online

  They knew that every inn from Virginia to Vancouver had months when the proprietors wonder if it is really worth it anymore. But then a couple on their honeymoon, or a dying man on his last adventure before leaving the world, or a mother and daughter reconnecting after far too long, find their way to one of the many B&Bs still standing and make all of those slow patches worth it.

  Domus Jefferson, situated so perfectly at the feet of the famed Skyline Drive, Luray Caverns, and all the history of the Shenandoah Valley, had sustained and outlasted, even thrived, through many economic droughts. But this one, they feared, they could not survive.

  They thanked God daily that they had a security blanket: a series of inherited investments Malcolm’s older brother, Matthew, had managed since their parents’ deaths. It wouldn’t make anyone wealthy, but it was enough to patch the occasional holes in the profit-and-loss statement. Malcolm and Matthew had not always been best-of-friend-brothers, but when it came to money, Malcolm trusted him with every last penny.

  On just another of many quiet mornings, Rain made herself comfortable in her favorite place on earth, a small garden on the south side of the Inn. A fence that few animals respected marked the twenty-by-forty-foot plot. Every time a deer or rabbit enjoyed breakfast at Rain’s expense, Malcolm suggested an electric fence, but she only pretended to consider it.

  Rain worked in the garden until her fingers were sore. During one of the dips in business, Rain decided the Inn could set itself apart in some small way from their competition by offering natural, locally grown foods every morning at the breakfast table. The small garden hadn’t attracted much new business, but it had turned into something even more important for Rain. It was her very own temple, a spot of complete peace, a place to feel God’s love and to be reminded she—and the Inn—were never alone.

  If Malcolm needed her and she couldn’t be found inside, there was only one other place he ever checked.

  Malcolm watched her from the kitchen window. He thought it ironic he couldn’t tell from where he stood whether she was weeding or praying. He sipped his orange juice and smiled at the sight.

  This moment and this view, he thought. This is what I’ll miss most about Domus Jefferson.

  The two would only admit to one another that it wasn’t just about the economy. Their passion for the Inn seemed to be dipping with the markets. They wondered if it was worth the stress, worth the routine of checking people in and out for twenty years. The mixture of it all had them thinking a change might be due.

  Rain and their only child, Noah, frequently nudged Malcolm about the novel that everyone knew wasn’t going to publish itself. Malcolm’s book, set primarily in Brazil, was two decades in the making. The story advanced a chapter or two now and then, a few hundred words here, a few hundred more there, but the story he wanted to tell was still much longer than the actual manuscript.

  Rain enjoyed poking him in a loving tease, “Your hundred-and-fifty-page manuscript is the longest short story in the history of literature.”

  Ever since Noah was a child, he’d told his parents that his dream was to take over the bed-and-breakfast. He would tell the guests as they left that they should come back someday, because when he was in charge, he would do things better. “Not just different,” he said, “but better.”

  Through the years Noah had coached his parents in the art of customer service, and they took it in good-natured stride. Most of the guests enjoyed the precocious boy and rewarded him with pats on the back, firm handshakes, the occasional tip, and even a gift or two that return visitors had hauled across the country. A handful of couples had become so close to Noah that they sent Christmas and birthday cards even many years after their most recent visit.

  Noah had been twelve and in the sixth grade at Peter Muhlenberg Middle School when he realized that running the Inn was no longer his dream. As is the case with many young men and young women, something happens during their teenaged years. Just as they start noticing cute boys and attractive girls, they realize how much smarter they are than their teachers, parents, and pastors, and they begin to yearn for more. They discover a desire to see the rest of the world. Many return to their homes, to familiar streets, churches, and the small-town shops that took their money and made their memories as children.

  But many do not.

  Noah was noncommittal on whether the Shenandoah Valley would be home again after college, but he was certain his professional future held more than just running the Inn. His constant doodling during school had uncovered an undeniable talent. There was nothing he couldn’t draw, and his imagination played out impressively on whatever canvas he chose. His drawings and paintings through the years found their way into antique-looking frames, and not a single room at the Inn was decorated without at least one piece of Noah’s art.

  A&P Prestwich appeared in the distance through the kitchen window and Malcolm smiled. She was walking Putin, her newest cat, on the same leash she’d walked Castro, the first cat she’d adopted. There had been many world leader cats in between. As was her custom, A&P took her sweet, slow time, making her path toward Rain and the garden.

  Twenty years after the funeral of Malcolm’s parents, Jack and Laurel Cooper, A&P continued to live in a fabulous Southern mansion on an adjacent lot with several unused guesthouses. She’d discovered the valley, and the property, not long after her husband was killed in 1984 in a plane crash near their home in the Florida Everglades.

  Not much had changed since her first stay at Domus Jefferson. She had continued being extraordinarily kind to Jack’s brother, Joe, until his death at a nursing home in Strasburg. She even insisted on paying for his funeral and burial at the same cemetery that held Laurel and Jack.

  A&P also continued leaving ridiculously generous tips every time she visited the Inn or any of the local restaurants around town. It was her way of spreading her husband’s wealth, and she’d committed to leave nothing behind when she met him again in heaven. Of course she was now well aware that her tips at the Inn went to a number of charities of interest to the Coopers. Some were in the valley, some as far away as Washington, DC. But the game pleased her, and her happiness pleased Malcolm and Rain even more.

  A&P also knew about and had finally embraced the fact that a small children’s shelter in the city bore the name of her and her husband. She’d only been there in person once, but she knew she’d never forget sitting in her car in front of a building her husband’s wealth had built and knowing that, save for an early exit from life, he would have done the same thing himself. The tears and longing for the only man she’d ever loved made it difficult to return.

  Malcolm took a seat at the kitchen table. He finished his juice and looked at his watch: 8:30 a.m. He looked at the seven empty chairs pushed in carefully around the table and the seven place settings besides his. He admired the place mats Rain had purchased at a craft fair in Petersburg, West Virginia. She had purchased dozens of matching place mats and napkins through the years, forever concerned a guest might return to the Inn to the same place setting they’d used on their last visit.

  Malcolm couldn’t remember the last time every seat at the table had been filled at 8:15 in the morning. There had been many mornings in the Inn’s history, both when his parents ran it and after he and Rain took over, that not only had every seat been filled, but someone would be lingering in the kitchen or in the doorway. Another couple might have been reading the paper in the oversized chairs in the living room, patiently waiting for seats to open up.

  Those were memorable mornings. They came after nights when every room was full and when some last-minute, tired travelers had to be turned away with directions to another nearby inn or highway hotel. It had been quite some time since Malcolm had watched Rain scurry about in the morning, hair and flour flying as she readied breakfast for as many as sixteen people.

  I will miss this, Malcolm thought.

  But as the words passed from one side of his mind to the other, he realized he didn’t know exa
ctly what he’d miss. Was it the quiet moments, the guests, the land around them, the fulfillment of knowing that the Inn was full of good people passing through for good reasons? Was it the thank-you notes? Was it the romantic notion that guests were allowed to take a pocketful of the Inn’s magic with them, leaving plenty behind for the next guests to absorb and enjoy?

  I will miss it all, he thought.

  Chapter 3

  “How long has it been since we slept until 8:30?”

  “Too long,” Shawn said. “But enjoy it while it lasts, because a grandchild isn’t going to let you sleep in past 6:00, never mind 8:30.”

  Samantha knew he was right, but didn’t mind a sleepless wink. Her daughter, Angela, was a mother for the first time at age thirty-five and was headed for an extended stay in Woodstock. Samantha had wanted nothing more than to be there when Angela’s baby had arrived in a small, suburban hospital in Florissant, Missouri. But there were simply too few officers and too many man-hours to fill in the county sheriff’s office for her to escape to Missouri for the big day. With her grandbaby just two weeks old and cleared to fly, Samantha convinced herself it was nearly as good as having been there herself for the delivery.

  Samantha rolled toward Shawn and pulled the covers up to her chin. “Why do I feel like I’m not really a grandma?”

  “Because you slept on the warm side of the pillow?”

  Samantha pulled a hand from under the comforter and gave him a thumbs-down. “It just doesn’t feel real yet,” she said. “Seeing Ang get married took enough adjustment. But now my baby has a baby? It’s hard to digest. Suddenly I’m so, so old.”

  Shawn put his hands under his head and looked up at the ceiling. “No comment on being old. But there’s no escaping that you, my dear, are indeed a grandmother. And in a few hours when Angela makes her way through that front door with her baby, you’ll be no more grandmother than you were two weeks ago when she was born. And, if I might add, you’ll be the cutest grandma sheriff in the state.”

  “You’re just saying that because there’s a gun on the nightstand.”

  “True.”

  Samantha admired a wedding picture of Angela and her new husband on the nightstand. “I wish Jake could be here, too. Sort of a bummer.”

  “Bummer indeed.”

  Samantha offered a few words in a silent, thankful prayer that after what felt like two dozen close calls, her daughter had finally found a man who treated her as if she wore a crown. As much as she wished Jake were coming for the visit, she knew his job in St. Louis kept food on the table and she also knew that there had been weekly rumors of layoffs. Samantha was grateful that Jake was the first man who’d told Angela if she wanted to stay home and raise children, he’d move heaven and earth—and pallets in a warehouse—to make it happen. And so far he had.

  Shawn noticed Samantha lost in the photo. He, too, gazed into the memory, and his eyes settled on the thick book Angela held in her hands in the photograph.

  “I wonder if she’s read all the letters yet,” Samantha said.

  “How long have they been married? A year and a half now?”

  “Uh-huh,” Samantha said.

  “Probably so then. Probably so.”

  The long, smooth quiet that came next was broken by Samantha’s loud yawn. “I wish I didn’t have court today.”

  “Me too,” Shawn said and kissed her on the end of the nose.

  “I could play hooky,” Samantha said.

  “I don’t think they call it that when you’re in charge. Shoot, you could probably skip work all week—isn’t that one of the perks of being the sheriff?”

  Another smile. “I think you’re one of the perks of being the sheriff.” Another yawn. She made a gun with her thumb and index finger. He did the same and they touched gun barrels, the tips of their fingers in the space between their two pillows in their king-size bed.

  “I’d take a bullet for you,” Samantha whispered.

  Shawn whispered the same.

  The two had met on September 12, 2001. Shawn was working in the Pentagon when American Airlines Flight 77 crashed into the west block of the building. Shawn was nowhere near the impact zone, had never been in any danger that day, but he had struggled with the memories.

  Shawn was a contractor for a defense corporation based in an office in North Carolina. He was staying in a hotel near the Pentagon the week of 9/11. After the attack, he wandered the area in shock, feeling guilt that he hadn’t been in the right place at the right time to do anything for anyone but himself.

  He spent the evening of 9/11 at a hotel in Arlington, glued to the news coverage like millions of other people around the world. The next morning he got as close as he could to the crash site, which wasn’t close at all. Later in the day he checked out of his hotel and began the trek back to North Carolina. He drove west and then picked up 81 South. He listened to nonstop coverage on WTOP radio until the static and scratches overtook the weary announcers.

  When he reached Shenandoah County, he was emotionally and physically drained. He was desperate to crawl into bed—any bed—and turn off his anxiety and let the night drape his concerns about what the world would look like in the days and weeks ahead.

  He exited in Woodstock and asked at a Handy Mart about local lodging. The two hotels near the freeway were booked but the young woman behind the counter gave him directions to Domus Jefferson. “Don’t know if they’ve got room, but it’s peaceful there.”

  Shawn could tell she’d been crying.

  He said good-bye, easily found his way to the Inn on Route 11 between Woodstock and Edinburg, and was relieved to find they had a room for him. He set his things down and fell on the bed. Tired of being in the car and tired of being alone, he returned downstairs to the living room and introduced himself to two women, Samantha and Rain, and a young man, Noah. The three Coopers invited Shawn to join them in a game of Uno. “We needed a break from the news,” Rain said as she dealt the cards.

  Rain played until retiring for the evening.

  Noah wandered off an hour later to the same guesthouse behind the Inn where Samantha and Malcolm had grown up.

  Samantha and Shawn played until 2:00 a.m.

  Later that morning, Shawn checked out, drove home to North Carolina, and thought about Samantha with every passing mile.

  He returned one week later.

  They married the next spring.

  The couple settled into life in Woodstock and into a new home they purchased on Eagle Street. Samantha was on her second marriage; Shawn was on his first. A few years later, Samantha was elected in a tight race against Sheriff Carter. Shawn worked from home as a consultant for a new defense contractor. Twice a month he spent the day in meetings at a corporate office in Herndon.

  Simple life. Simple town. Simply ideal.

  Chapter 4

  May 7, 2011

  “You know I really don’t have time for this, right?” Rachel pulled her long, dark chocolate brown hair behind her and tied it into a loose knot behind her head.

  Noah had kidnapped Rachel Kaplan for a day-trip to the valley less than a month after sending her flying across the sidewalk in the opposite direction from the university and her appointment to defend her thesis.

  “Rachel, if we wait for you to have time to meet my family, you’ll be meeting them at a funeral. Their funeral.”

  “Ha,” she mocked.

  “Not two ha’s?”

  “Be lucky you got one.”

  “I’ll take it.” Noah merged into traffic onto 66 West. “Look, you know I’ve been talking a lot about you to my parents. So before they send me to a shrink for having an imaginary girlfriend, I thought it would be nice if they actually laid eyes on the real thing.”

  Rachel groaned. “Please tell me you didn’t actually use the word girlfriend.”

  “Is that a question?”

  “Yes, that was a question—did the rise of my voice at the end not give it away?”

  “Just checking. And no
, not exactly, I don’t think I used the word girlfriend. I’m pretty sure I said we were seeing each other. Yes, that’s what I told them. That we’re seeing each other. That’s cool, right?”

  Rachel grinned. “Yes. You know I just hate the word girlfriend. Always have. Don’t really know why, it just creeps me out.”

  “I know, I know. Just humor me for the day, OK? Make me look cool to my folks?”

  “I suppose,” Rachel answered. She leaned her arm on the fat cloth armrest between them and took his hand. “It won’t be easy, but I’ll try.”

  Noah squeezed her hand back and drove them westward. “Honestly, Rach, I think this will do us good. Don’t think of it as meeting my family, think of it as a mental health day for us both. My finals are over, and you’re still waiting for a phone call, right?”

  Rachel crossed her fingers. “I hope so. It’s time to put all those Rachel Kaplan business cards to use.”

  “It’ll happen,” said Noah. “Come on, if the honchos at the Department of Justice don’t hire you, they’re insane. Plus, you can count today as an educational adventure. You wouldn’t believe how many people think there’s nothing west of northern Virginia.”

  “You mean we won’t fall off the face of the earth once we clear the beltway?”

  Noah set the cruise control on his truck as they passed under the Haymarket exit and traffic thinned. He’d shared with Rachel more than once the details of his deep love of the valley, and as the miles rolled by, Rachel saw Noah’s face relax and a smile begin to grow.

  As they drove in quiet, Rachel noticed the exits appearing farther apart. She enjoyed watching the trees become taller and the groves denser. She smiled that even the hills were taller and more distinctive. And everything, everything, was green. She’d always appreciated the color of the East Coast, but as they put more and more distance between themselves and the city, she felt as if they were driving into a jungle.