Boys in the Valley(29)
As I climbed atop the wagon, Grace’s eyes popped open wide and she yelled at her father to make sure we didn’t drive away. She turned and ran for the house in a dead sprint.
That might have been the moment I fell in love with her. Hard to say.
John and Andrew, bemused, had a good laugh at our expense, but I didn’t much mind, and I know Grace certainly didn’t.
When she came back, she held a small package wrapped in brown paper and tied with string. I looked over to Andrew for approval, and although his brows were furrowed—whether in confusion or disapproval I didn’t know—he nodded.
“Just to borrow,” she said, holding my eyes with her own; a sparkling, brilliant green. “You need to bring it back, you understand? I expect you will comply, Peter Barlow.”
The wording was so odd and her gaze so strong I was momentarily flummoxed. Girls certainly were peculiar, I realized. But I nodded and said, “Of course” and “Thank you.”
Minutes later, we were back on the road and I was waving behind us at Grace and John, the former running after the wagon for a few yards. As she ran out of breath, she yelled out: “Don’t forget!”
Once they were out of sight, I could wait no longer.
I opened up the package.
It was Alice.
I showed it to Andrew, who raised his eyebrows, but smiled. “I suppose that’s all right.”
I stared at the book, mesmerized. “Have you read it?”
“I have. It’s a strange story, but not a harmful one.”
Gratefulness and relief swept through me, and I thanked him repeatedly for letting me hold onto the prize.
He nodded and waved his hand at me, charmed at my exuberance. “Yes, all right.” He gave me a serious look then. “Still, it might be best if you didn’t let the others see it, Peter. Not that I want you to be selfish, but if it causes a stir, Poole might take it away. And we want to make sure Grace gets her book back, don’t we?”
I looked at him and nodded, hoping the inference meant what I hoped it did.
That I’d return with him. That I’d see Grace Hill again.
It wasn’t until I was alone in the chapel later that evening, having escaped from the others under the pretense of a tutoring session with Andrew, that I finally realized what Grace was inferring with her odd behavior while giving me the book.
Stuck within the pages, neatly folded, was a handwritten letter.
Dearest Peter,
I’m writing this quickly while you and Papa load the wagon, so my apologies for being brief, or for any misspellings.
It was nice meeting you today. I already know we are going to be best friends. I’m glad you liked my house and my books. It made me happy to share them with you. I’m also glad you liked my papa, who is a wonderful person. I’m sorry, though, that our dog drooled on your shirt and got it muddy. Those dogs are messy creatures. I hope you enjoy reading the book. As I said, it’s probably my favorite, though there are others I enjoy equally. When you return, I will give you another to borrow, if it’s okay with Father Francis.
It would make me very happy if you could write me back. I never get letters and have always wanted a Pen Pal. I want to hear more about Saint Vincent’s, and about your life. I’ve enclosed another page of paper, in case you don’t have any at the orphanage.
Let’s keep it a secret, okay? Our secret. It will be more fun that way.
I look forward to seeing you again, Peter Barlow. I’m glad we met.
God Bless You,
Grace
I read the letter over and over. Read it through so many times I almost completely forgot to use some of that rare solitude to read the book itself.
Over the weeks and months, however, I did find the time. Andrew allowed me a portion of our tutoring sessions to read a book of my choosing, and I was able to read by candlelight at night, when the others were asleep.
The letters remained our secret, one we would keep for many years, and after many return visits to the farm.
As the years passed, the letters between Grace and I became more eager, more open. I suppose an outsider might call them love letters, although they were less about passion, and more about our respective thoughts of an uncertain future.
I never told her, or anyone, about my other, darker thoughts. As open as I became with Grace, I worried those parts of me would alarm her, perhaps cause her to question her feelings toward me. So, even with my secret letters, I stayed silent about my greatest fear: the knowledge that something dark and alive lived deep inside of me. Hidden in the folded shadows of my soul. A poisonous barb stuck through my heart that tainted my thoughts, turned my dreams into terror-strewn nightmares.
This hidden part of who I am will sometimes make me see things that don’t exist, think things no priest-bound young man should think. It is a black seed waiting to take root, twine itself into my bones, my flesh, my mind. It is my constant, silent adversary. A slow poison that I feel will forever be my secret burden, and one that I would never inflict upon another.
So, instead, we discussed different things . . . more pleasant considerations. My decision to train for priesthood, for example. Or Grace’s desire to travel, to have a family. Neither of us broached the parallel nature of these respective paths, the impossibility of our exclusive journeys intersecting.
What was left unspoken, however, was that we would discuss such things one day.