Page 65 of P.S. It’s Always Been You
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Until then, I will be thinking of you.
January 1923
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My Dearest Greta,
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I will see you next month. To say I cannot wait would be an understatement. I feel like a soldier must when returning home after years away. You are my home, and I’m returning for you. Wait for me.
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It’s you. It’s always been you.
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P.S. It’s always been you.
Dear Children,
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We knew you could do it. We knew you’d know exactly what was near the boards. Of course you know how close we are to the Caribaldis. We are like a family, all of us. But the life debt? It’s so silly. Who believes in life debts? You see a friend drowning, you help him. Jack always thought there was more to it—to your father saving his life when they were only children. But you don’t save a life to extract a debt. You save a life because it’s the right thing to do.
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Jack, though, was determined to give back. To repay a debt that was not due to the dearest of friends. Ah, to have friends like that . . .
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Well, you know the ending. We were all eventually reunited and remained the best of friends.
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Along with a certain someone else. Your Aunt Claudia.
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Can you believe my sister married my husband’s best friend? It was like a dream, the four of us, together.
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But dreams are not won easily.
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Love is not merely for the plucking, like flowers in a field.
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Love must be worked for.
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Like the night your father came for me. I want to tell you it was easy. But nothing worth having is.
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Do you want to know the final chapter of the story? If you do, then you must go to the site of our last show together. You will find it there, but it’s not what you think. It might seem like a grand chronicle, but it’s not a tale of our ride by the silvery light of midnight, nor the story of our daring great escape.
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It’s something else entirely.
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Love,
E & G, most affectionately known as Mom and Dad
29
Presley
“Well. Looks like you found something you want to buy.”
My skin prickles as I gulp, caught red-handed.
“Yes,” I say, my voice strong, masking the holy shit underneath. Because, hello, I’m holding a letter that was tucked into the hairbrush.
Tucked into the hairbrush.
A wave of understanding sloshes over me, and I reach for the shelf to steady myself as it hits.
I’m not holding just any hairbrush.
This is Greta’s hairbrush. She used it the night she wrote one of these letters. Wonder surges through me like sunlight. This is the brush she was using when she was prepping to perform. This very object tells their history.
This is why I do what I do. I’m like an archaeologist, uncovering the stories of people long past, and I’ve never felt so connected to a thing before. My heart expands, aching to tell the tale of this object. Longing to write about the precious artifacts of their love.
But right now, I’m in a shop in the theater district, with something in my hands that shouldn’t be there.
Pat Caribaldi stares at me over chunky glasses, narrowing his eyes. “Huh. Seems you found something. What have you got?”
Hunter clears his throat, squares his shoulders. “We found some letters in the hairbrush.”
Pat chuckles loudly, like that’s the height of tomfoolery, like we can’t possibly have said that. He reaches for the letters. “Let me see that.”
“They’re very old.” A motherly protectiveness tears through me, and I clutch them close to my chest. These feel like mine. I must keep them safe.
He sighs, rolling his blue eyes. “Miss, I’m very old. You think I don’t know how to handle something ancient?”
“I didn’t mean anything impudent by it,” I say, but I still don’t want to relinquish them.
He pats one of his shoulders, then the other. “Every day, I handle this here old body. Every day, I go to work. Every day, I know exactly how to treat things with care. Now let me see.” He thrusts out his hand, waggling his fingers, making it clear I need to give up the booty.
Uncurling my fingers feels a Herculean task.
Somehow I find the will, and I let go, handing the letters to him like a child forced to relinquish her favorite Princess Leia figure.
He sets the letters on a shelf, mumbling to Martha as he gingerly folds them up like precious origami art. “Damn young people. Bet they can’t fold a map either.” He chuckles to himself, smiles at the skull. “Bet you knew how to fold a map. But these days? Everyone relies on GPS and texts. No one even sends a letter.” Once he finishes, he tucks the pages away in the brush again, clicking it shut, a cupboard sealed once more.
