Page 63 of P.S. It’s Always Been You
* * *
Yours is the face I’d rather see. Yours is the one I imagine every night, every show, every time.
* * *
And you—I am so proud of you!
* * *
You’ve finished your schooling! How exciting. How thrilling! Speaking of thrills, Beanie teaches me trapeze in the evenings when we have time. I’m learning new skills, and when I fly through the sky, I imagine a future for us, chasing adventures, exploring the world, getting far, far away from all the troubles we face here.
* * *
Soon the troubles must end.
* * *
Until then, I am ever and always yours.
* * *
Yours,
Greta Drumansky
(Someday I will indeed be your Pink Ribbon Girl again. I dream of that day every single night.)
27
Hunter
“The plot thickens,” I say, adding up the clues. “A shady ringmaster who was holding performers hostage.”
“Who kept most of their money.” Presley assembles the pieces too, animated first by indignation, then by a myriad of emotions as this part of the puzzle takes shape. “It’s like a three-ring soap opera. So, the circus where they met, The Most Amazing Big Top under the Sun, was sold to some jerk ringmaster who apparently treated the performers like indentured servants.”
Like she can’t contain herself, she paces among the skulls and bugs as she conjectures. “But he couldn’t keep Edward under his thumb, so he let him go and kept the performers who were strapped and had few options. Greta’s parents had died, and she had to take care of her sister financially. Tommy and Beanie seemed to be in similar situations.” Her shoulders curl in with such an evocative shudder, I can almost see her skin crawl. “I hate him already. Plus, that name. Baron Z.” She looks ready to spit on the dark hardwood floors of the curio shop.
I’m with her on that. “It seems self-fulfilling. You can’t have a name like Baron Z and not be a dick.” I gesture to the letters in her hand. “But I want more. I want to know how Edward Wilkinson became Edward Valentina the banker.”
Her voice falls to a whisper. “When did he change his name? Why?” She leans over, glancing around the corner. “Also, is Pat ever coming out again?”
I chuckle. “I have no idea. I think he retreated to his lair.”
“Almost like he wanted us to find the letters. Like he wanted us to have time to read them.”
“Maybe he did.” I’m so jazzed about what’s next, about uncovering this romance for the ages with her, that I’m giddy. There’s a lightness in my chest I only get when I’m closing in on a summit, a much-anticipated destination. My fingers itch to touch the sky; my feet move ceaselessly. I stop for nothing, relentless. “Read. More.”
“You’re like a kid with a bedtime story,” she says softly, as she unfolds the next letter.
“And you like reading them out loud.”
“You like reading out loud too. Might I remind you of your predilections?”
I smile. “They were yours too, honey.”
It occurs to me that we have so much more to discuss. We have us, and last night, and the absolutely insistent way my heart beats for this woman.
But right now, we have this.
A story told on delicate centuries-old paper, written by young lovers torn apart. A love story hidden away in nooks and crannies, tucked into secret compartments, and offered somehow to those seeking it in the same way you chase after a dream.
28
May 1922
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My Dearest Greta,
* * *
It is amazing how much money you can save when you have a good friend like Jack. I’ve been staying at his place in New York City, tucking away all my salary so I can help your family. I’m quickly rising through the ranks at the Savings & Loan, making wise investments on the side for us, earning good returns, and saving it.
* * *
Jack says he is happy to help me with free rent, and he feels he owes me after what happened when we were younger. But anyone would have done the same. When you see your best friend fall into a frozen lake, you go after him, right? You save him. No matter what.
* * *
He says giving me an extra cot to sleep on is nothing. “It is nothing to repay a life debt.”
* * *
I tell him there is no debt among friends, and he laughs at me. He is laughing at me right now. In fact, he is reading this letter as I write it under the green lamp at his desk overlooking Wall Street.
* * *
Hiya Greta! It’s Jack here. Tell him I do owe a life debt and that is fine by me. I would have been a frozen chunk of boy underwater with the fishes, but now look at me! I’m here, alive and well, and determined to make the best of everything.
