Page 82 of P.S. It’s Always Been You
“Subliminal messaging,” Presley muses.
“In a way.” Corinne takes up the story. “But from the way they were set up, we were sure you’d find the first letters. And once you did, I played dumb when you asked about them. But I knew everything. And they wanted you to find them.” She gestures to Vikas.
“Wait,” Presley cuts in with a hint of worry. “Was I hired just for this reason? So you could play matchmaker?”
Corinne laughs, shaking her head. “No, darling. That was legitimate. We wanted Highsmith from the start. And once Highsmith was on board, and I happened to mention to my dear friend Vikas what we were working on, that brings us full circle to Vikas’s plan for Hunter. He suggested we find a way to get Hunter involved. He thought it would be the perfect opportunity to introduce him, and you, to a love story you needed to experience.”
Vikas holds his hands out wide. “Welcome to the Secret Society of the Valentine’s Night Love Letters.”
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Presley
This I have to sit for. We head into the ballroom and grab an empty table in the back as guests mingle after the awards ceremony.
“I want to know everything about this secret society. But first, I need to know this—are the letters fake?” I clench my fists, desperately praying they’ll say no. I need that no so damn badly that I’m holding my breath. Edward and Greta are thoroughly real to me, and I can’t bear to learn their love was a mirage. “Have we been chasing a make-believe love story as part of an elaborate matchmaking ruse?”
“They’re real. Incredibly real,” Corinne offers, fingering a silver chain around her neck, tugging it from her cleavage. A locket hangs on the chain, and she clicks it open.
I freeze.
I’m back in time.
I’ve traveled into their story.
There in black-and-white is the couple whose images were in the Exploration Society.
Whose images are in books.
But not this image.
This is from before they reinvented themselves. Pre–Folklore Ride.
In it, a dark-haired man stands tall and proud, dressed in all black, his hand poised by his head, his fist tight.
A beautiful blonde in a silver-sequined leotard stands against a wheel. Arms spread. Legs wide. A knife lodged through a ribbon in her hair.
The knife he just threw at her.
I. Have. Chills.
Hunter shakes his head in disbelief. Or maybe in belief.
Because holy hell. “That’s them,” I whisper to him.
“The Silver Blade and His Pink Ribbon Girl,” Hunter says.
“My grandparents,” Corinne says reverently. “If they hadn’t written those letters, if he hadn’t found his way back to her, I wouldn’t be here.”
My throat tightens, clogging with emotion, flooding with the prospect of tears. I bite them back. “They’re beautiful.”
Corinne shows us the other side of the locket, and it’s another photo of Edward and Greta, smiling and leaning against each other next to a big top.
“The place where they met,” I say.
“Their friend Beanie took these photos.”
“Beanie,” I say in awe. “Even she seems real to me.”
“They’re all real,” Corinne says with a happy sigh. “Including the letters to my parents—their children.”
“Did they find them? Did they go on the last adventure Edward and Greta crafted for them?” I ask, hoping she says yes. “The story is too beautiful to be hidden.”
Corinne nods proudly. “They did. They found all the letters.”
I sigh with relief, surprisingly grateful that we weren’t the first to discover them. This story is meant to be told, meant to be shared.
I press on. “And then what happened? How old were they?”
“Teenagers, and they loved it. My grandparents loved treasure hunts, and so did my parents, who had a gas finding the letters. Back then, they couldn’t share their story with the world. They didn’t know what Baron might do to them or the others. So the letters became a game and my parents formed a secret society. They didn’t know how long the society would last.”
“Or who’d be involved,” Pat puts in. “But sometimes a man needs a kick in the pants.”
I raise a brow in question. “Did you? Did you need one?”
He chuckles. “I wasn’t always this easygoing. I was stubborn as a mule back in the day. My dad tried to get me to see the light about my high school sweetheart, but I had blinders on. So he had me find the letters.”
“And your mom, Claudia?” I ask eagerly.
Pat scoffs. “Mom? Of course. She was a total romantic. She was as crazy about him as he was about her. God bless ’em. Glad they set me on the right path, and those letters were all I needed to get my head out of my rear end. I married my high school sweetheart, Janice.”
“Is she here tonight?” I ask. “You said you had a date with her.”
“She’s out there with Jesse. They’re having a grand old time chatting. We didn’t want to overwhelm you two with too many people. But to your point, after I married Janice, I became one of the keepers of the Valentine’s Night love letters. And I’ve known a few pigheaded turkeys over the years who needed reminding of the power of love. So we picked them to experience the letters.”
