“Bet you can’t do it.”
“Do what?” I asked Sherrie. She had had a few rattlesnakes and was feeling the effects. My single shot of Maker’s on top of Reno’s prime rib was settling nicely.
“Write a love letter that will have Colin drooling and racing to your side.”
“Oh,” I replied.
We had discussed numerous things throughout the afternoon and evening, before, during and after Christmas shopping, which, thankfully, I had finished.
Along the way love letters had been a topic of conversation and when I told Sherrie I had never received one, nor sent one for that matter, she didn’t believe me.
“You’re a writer. How come you’ve never written a love letter?” she wanted to know as we pulled into Reno’s parking lot two hours ago.
“Guess I never thought about it. Whirlwind romances and all that, you know.”
She did know, and had laughed. Now she was remembering that topic of conversation.
“‘Oh.’ Is that the best answer you can come up with?” she taunted. “The closest you’ve ever come to betting is playing the lottery. What would you put up ?”
“Put up? What are you talking about?”
“You know, something you’d give to me if you lose.” She stared at me for a minute. I wasn’t sure I liked where this conversation was going, especially when she started tapping her fingernails on the tabletop. “Hmmm . . . I know. I have the complete fifty-year Peanuts collection. I’ll put that up.” She gave me a smirk. “Your turn.”
“I . . .” started and stopped. “I don’t think I can write a love letter, Sherrie, so why bother betting?”
“’Cause I want to see if you can. Come on, what will you put up?”
Oh, boy. Drunk and insistent. Not a good combination. Good thing we were in my truck.
I turned the empty shot glass around a time or two. Sherrie knew I loved Peanuts comic strip and was baiting me with that. What did I have that she might like to have? And that I was willing to give up? It had to be of similar dollar or sentimental value. This was a tough one.
After some thought I came up with one thing. “How about the bowfront china cabinet?” I asked. It was full of dishes but I had another one in storage that was roomier.
“That thing’s heavy,” she replied. “I’d have to find someone to move it.”
“Shouldn’t be hard for you with all your cousins, then they could get the larger one out of storage and I’d pay them to put it in my kitchen.”
“That’d work and I could use that china cabinet.”
Damn. I thought she’d balk at having another heavy piece of furniture to clean around.
“Okay. I’ll work on a love letter when I finish what I’m working on.”
“Oh, no. I want to see one New Year’s.”
Double dammit. If there’s one thing writers despise it is deadlines. Especially arbitrary ones made for no particular reason.
“New Year’s?” That meant I was going to have to come up with some romantic bullshit quickly. Today was the nineteenth of December.
“New Year’s. And a real love letter, not some mushy mishmash any ten-year-old could come up with by visiting a Hallmark store.”
Apparently Sherrie had become a mind-reader. Dammit in droves.
“Okay. New Year’s. A real love letter. Now let’s get ourselves home so we can unload the truck and I can start thinking about love.”
Sherrie laughed, stood up, wobbled a bit, then slung her purse strap over her shoulder and said “To the keyboard!” entirely too merrily.
December 26. I’m staring at my computer screen. So far the only thing I have written and left in the love letter is “Dear Colin” and even that wasn’t suiting me. I might as well just call some movers myself and have them come over and pick up the china cabinet. I was getting nowhere slower than molasses on a thirty below zero January day.
I tried again. I deleted the “Dear Colin” that was eying me condescendingly, and started typing again. “Dear Colin.” Dammit! Was that all I was going to be able to come up with? “Dear Colin”?
I told Sherrie I couldn’t write a love letter and I sure was proving it to myself. Think! What do I love about Colin? Easy. Everything. That would be a very short love letter: Dear Colin, I love everything about you. Love, Cassandra.
Ugh!
One more try. How much of a mishmash of romantic poetry from three hundred years ago could I include? All the breathless comparing of breasts to the lilies of the fields. Nope. Wouldn’t be manly enough, and Colin was definitely, no doubt about it, manly. In every way imaginable. How could I put that into a love letter? And keep the letter PG-13?
I looked at the clock. Eight-thirty p.m. I decided to call it an early night and went to bed.
December 27. December 28. December 29. December 30. “Dear Colin” was all I was managing to type.
Dammit.
December 31. I know, I know. New Year’s is tomorrow. Sherrie said by New Year’s and this is New Year’s Eve. At least she hasn’t asked for progress updates. She’s probably rearranging the furniture in her house to accommodate the china cabinet.
Nine p.m. December 31. Yes, I am at home, not attending any New Year’s Eve parties; I rarely do. I am at the computer, considering shooting it and the keyboard and Colin since he’s not contacted me since Thanksgiving. And now I’m wondering why I would be considering writing him a love letter, even if Sherrie hadn’t insisted on this bet. Oh, yeah. Because I do love him, even though we seldom meet or converse. Now to get how I feel about him into a love letter.
I return to typing. Type a line or two. Read. Delete. Type some more. Think. Delete. Repeat. Type some words I like. Keep them.
My great-grandmother’s mantle clock strikes the half hour and I check the time. Eleven-thirty p.m. I look at the computer screen. I have it filled with words, but are they a love letter . . .
My sweet Colin,
In the morning it will be a new year. A day for resolutions and new beginnings. A day I wish I could spend with you. A day I will spend thinking about you.
You are my everything. My heart. My strength. My courage. My future. My all.
You came into my life suddenly, when I was not looking for, nor expecting, love in my life. Just knowing you are there brings smiles, even on a dreary day at work. Your existence gives me reason to look to the future, a future I want to share with you.
I want to daydream with you, walk with you on beaches that are lonely without our footprints, feel your warmth beside me and the strength of your arms around me. I want the sweetness of your kiss on sunlit days and moonlit nights. I want to hear the tenderness in your voice when you whisper, “I love you.”
I want to grow old with you, my sweet Colin, older than I am now. Old enough that our grandchildren wonder if we are going to live forever. Old enough that neither of us will ever be alone again.
My sweet Colin. You are in my heart. You are in the things I do throughout the day. You are in the things I wish to do. You are my wish.
My sweet Colin. You have my love.
Your angel,
Cassandra
I read the letter one more time, then printed it. And read it again. Yes, it was short. Too short? I didn’t know. All I was certain of was that I had written a love letter, and hoped Sherrie considered it one. Tomorrow I would learn the answer to that.
