“I wish I had an admirer as devoted as you.” She smiles.
Shut the fuck up.
That’s it, tomorrow I find a new post office.
KATE
I struggle up the road with my new canvas, which is huge. Like the ones I used to paint when I was just a girl.
I’m addicted to my new hobby and every day is better than the last.
The sun, the sea, my life here . . . Edgar’s letters.
I have a new thirst for life, my old self is returning day by day.
There’s no pressure, no grief . . . only happy memories and freedom. I’m going to call Elliot soon; his quirky letters have made me feel closer to him. I read them constantly and may even sleep with the box I keep them all in.
I want to fix this; he’s worth trying for.
I come around the corner to see Richard’s van parked out the front and I wave and smile. “Hi, you’re early today?”
He holds up three red envelopes. “It’s Monday, three letters today.”
My broad smile nearly splits my face. Elliot writes to me every day.
And I know we didn’t have a romantic beginning, but he’s definitely making up for it. Not that his letters are romantic, they’re weird and funny little stories from his day. He sends me photos and clippings. Each one makes me smile, each one makes my day that much brighter.
“Wow, that’s a big canvas. You paint?” Richard asks.
“Oh.” I shrug, slightly embarrassed. “Abysmally, but it relaxes me . . . so that’s the main thing, right?”
Richard chuckles. “Paint a picture of me delivering your letters every day.”
I laugh. “Okay, although you wouldn’t be able to tell what it was.”
“I’m sure you’re underestimating yourself.” He smiles, I sign for my letters and bounce up the stairs.
I read through the envelopes to find Saturday’s letter, as I like to read them in order.
My dearest Pinkie,
In light of my inability to call you, and not wanting to stalk you, serial-killer style, I have decided to go old school and write you a letter.
To receive a total package experience, please spray this letter with the spray that is enclosed in the envelope.
I smile as I imagine Elliot pouring his aftershave into these tiny bottles. I wonder, does he use a funnel? And who makes these tiny labels?
I notice a photograph wrapped in white paper and I tear it open.
It’s a picture of an open hand, palm facing up. It has terrible huge blisters all over it.
What the hell? What’s he done?
I read on.
Actual footage of my right hand.
I burst out laughing. “Are you serious?”
My love, things are grim.
My body needs you.
It’s been eight weeks since you touched me, it feels like forever.
I waited thirty-five years to find you.
How much longer must I wait to hold you again?
Forever yours,
Elliot.
xo
Emotion overwhelms me and I blink through tears.
I walk outside and put my canvas on the easel and pour myself a glass of wine, turn up Taylor Swift’s song “Style” on repeat, and begin to fill my canvas with paint. I smile as I listen to the words.