Page 17 of Fifty First Times (Sharing You 0.40)
Audrey,
Everything that’s mine is now yours, too. There’s nothing I want more in the world than to come home to you, but as you know, I can’t promise anything except that you will be on my mind. Always. Forever.
Love,
Jack
I glance at the items in the box—bank books, slips of paper with account numbers, a gold cross necklace with a diamond embedded in the tip, keys to his truck, which makes me crane my neck to see out the window, and sure enough, the truck is still there. I remove the bank statement pressed to the bottom.
A bank with a Long Island address, Mr. Jack Sanders and Mrs. Audrey Sanders typed in the top left corner.
And a balance showing several zeros with a number that is definitely not a zero in front.
I nearly fall off the bed. I don’t even want to know how Jack got ahold of this much money. Even holding the statement scares me to death, and I quickly release it and allow it to fall onto the mattress. But no . . . he said the people he works for are good. He promised. And I believed him. I still believe him. This is not tainted money. Jack wouldn’t do that to me. I have to hold on to that trust. If not, what else do I have?
Then I remember his words from the day he proposed: If you got in, and you had everything you needed to go away, would you do it?
He wants me to go to that musical theater school. Wait . . . is that why he married me? So he could leave things to me?
I shake all the doubt from my head. If he wanted to leave me money, he could have found a way to do that without bonding us in marriage, without involving my mother’s dress and my father’s church. Or his grandmother’s ring.
It’s time for me to shuck all these bad feelings and be grateful for everything. For Jack.
I snatch his robe from the bathroom door and walk outside, standing on the landing, letting the crisp fall morning sun hit me. From across the fields, I can see my mother, plucking vegetables from the garden.
I head back inside, choose one of Jack’s favorite records—Frank Sinatra. Then I lie on the carpet, my arms spread wide, the sun from the window hitting my face. I squeeze my eyes shut and let life from Jack’s absent body bleed back into me. I will always have this piece of us.
Love is forever.
Two years later
THE COLD DECEMBER wind hits me the second I step outside. I button the top buttons of my long coat and tighten my scarf. There is nothing quite like New York City during the holidays, especially after dark. The long cold walk from the theater to my Manhattan apartment is something I’m willing to deal with when it comes with such beautiful scenery.
But tonight, walking past all the store windows and holiday shoppers leaves me wishing I’d made plans to go home for Christmas, to see my parents. My schedule doesn’t allow for more than a three-day break until March and it hadn’t seemed worth the travel efforts for only one full day at home. Now I’m regretting that. I should know better. I should know that one day is better than none. Two years later and I still don’t regret marrying him—not for a single second—if only to have that one night together. But that doesn’t mean I can move on. That doesn’t mean I haven’t spent nights crying and feeling a lonely emptiness that can only com
e from losing your soul mate.
Now, all I can do is hope that he accomplished what he’d set out to do. That he didn’t die in vain. That he became the hero to others that he’d always been to me.
I stop and stare into the window of a shop. Resting up on a platform is a record player identical to Jack’s. My heart speeds up, sadness sweeping over me. I’d left his record player unmoved in his old apartment, and a year ago, my father’s church had suffered a terrible fire. We were able to rebuild, but there’s nothing left of his records or the player. My heart had broken into a million pieces all over again when my mother had told me the news.
I tug the glove from my left hand and place it against the window of the closed shop. I shut my eyes and draw in a deep breath, remembering what I felt lying on the floor with Jack so many times, listening to Frank Sinatra. A wave of heat envelopes me from behind and I have to choke back tears—my imagination is wild sometimes.
“That’s a beautiful ring.”
My entire body stiffens, but my eyes remain closed—you’re imagining him again, Audrey. No more champagne for you at the cast parties.
And then I feel a warm hand land on top of mine. I jolt back to reality and spin around quickly, hoping I’m not alone on this block. It is New York City and I do have to be careful on these walks home late at night. Just as I prepare to dive under the intruder’s arm, my eyes are met with a very familiar face.
I hold my breath, my mouth falling open. I take a couple steps backward until I’m leaning against the window. I can’t breathe. I can’t think or move.
His hair looks longer, his face tanned. I watch his hand lift and then grasp the fingers of my left hand. “I think it’s a good sign that you’re still wearing this,” he says so quietly I’m certain I’ve imagined him speaking, too.
“How . . . why . . . when . . . ?” I sputter. “Jack?”
“Yes, it’s me.” Tears are shining in his eyes, but he’s hesitant to move closer. “But you should be sure, right? Ask me something only your Jack would know.”
My Jack.
