The Letter

“But they dated all through college, didn’t they?” Cassie asked.

“I assume so, although they didn’t see each other often. You have to understand, young people then didn’t jet across the country at the drop of a hat like you do. Lydia took the train home once a year, at Christmas. That was the only time we saw her. During the summers, she stayed in New York and worked so she could help with the tuition. I always assumed she and Henry had an understanding.”

“You mean they were engaged?”

“Oh, not exactly,” said Nell. “She didn’t wear a ring or anything like that. It’s just—well, I simply knew she’d marry Henry. Not that I wasn’t surprised when they came home from Europe as Mr. and Mrs. Armstrong! I suspect they eloped to avoid any family awkwardness. But as much as Mother didn’t want to see Lydia married to the local farmer’s son, I know she felt cheated out of the experience of planning a wedding. She meddled far too much in mine a few years later to make up for it!”

“I always thought it was so romantic, getting married in France,” Cassie said.

“Well, she was there for that study-abroad program. They had some sort of fight before she left—I’m sure he didn’t want her to leave, and Lydia made her grand statement by going off anyway—but it was only a temporary spat. Henry went over there and swept her off her feet and that was that. It was during my freshman year at Northwestern and I was quite resentful that Lydia’s drama completely overshadowed my first year of college!”

Something Nell said stuck in Cassie’s mind.

“That would have been Grandma’s senior year, right?” Cassie asked. “Don’t students usually spend their junior year abroad?”

“Well, I don’t know,” said Nell. “Perhaps art schools do things differently.”

Cassie thought back to the letter. The lines about Lydia leaving suddenly, unexpectedly. Creating a new life. Words that might have been written after Lydia sailed off to Europe. Or perhaps the answer lay farther away, during those months Lydia lived on her own in France.

“Are you sure she never dated anyone else in college?” Cassie asked.

“She never mentioned it,” Nell replied. But now her voice sounded doubtful. “I suppose she could have. But why keep in contact with Henry all that time? Surely she would have broken it off with him?”

“I don’t know.” Cassie yawned. Almost eleven o’clock. Only a few more hours until Cooper left for London. She should get up to see him off, but right now, sleep was far more tempting.

“I’m sorry I don’t have all the answers,” Nell said. “But honestly, Cassie, does it really matter? Whoever this letter was from, it was written a long time ago. We all like to keep things around for sentimental reasons. It may not mean anything.”

Cassie pictured her grandparents as she’d seen them so often over the years: sitting companionably at the dining room table after breakfast, one glancing up over a section of newspaper to start a sentence that the other quickly finished. Whatever had happened in the past, Lydia and Henry now shared an unbreakable bond. Any romance might have long since faded from their lives, but Cassie had no doubt they were happy together.

“You’re right,” she said. “I don’t know why I got so obsessed with it.”

“We all have our secrets,” Nell told her. “If I ever have the courage to write my memoirs, then you’ll get some real stories.”

“I’d love to read your memoirs,” Cassie said. “And thank you—I mean it.”

“It’s been a joy,” Nell said. “Do call more often, won’t you?”

“Yes, I will.”

After hanging up, Cassie tiptoed into the bedroom, passing Cooper’s snoring body on her way to the bathroom. She stopped for a moment, struck by the way his arms were flung haphazardly above his head, the way one knee protruded from the top of the comforter. Awake Cooper always stayed firmly in control, priding himself on remaining cool under pressure. It was one of the qualities she admired most about him. But now, seeing him so unguarded and loose, like a little boy, she was hit by an unexpected wave of tenderness.

As Cassie brushed her teeth, she thought about her grandparents at lunch the day before, comfortable in their shared silences, practically reading each other’s minds. What would it be like to have that kind of history with someone? To be with a person who’d known you through all the stages of your life? She’d spent ten years with Cooper, which had once seemed like an eternity. They had grown from teenagers into adults together. But she couldn’t shake the feeling that she still didn’t know him. Had he really shed the shyness that had been so obvious during their freshman year of college, or had he merely covered it up? Did he ever long to simply be the way he was now, relaxed and unguarded, without worrying about the next step on the corporate ladder? And if he did let his guard slip, would she even recognize him?

Cassie had always considered herself lucky that she’d met her soul mate—thereby avoiding the dating disasters of her friends—but now she wasn’t so sure. Perhaps dating other people would have given her more perspective on how a relationship worked. Instead, like her grandmother, she was marrying the first boy she’d ever fallen for. Aunt Nell seemed convinced that Lydia had never dated anyone other than Henry. But the more Cassie thought about it, the more she felt that the secret of the letter lay buried in Lydia’s college years. Far from putting Cassie at peace, her conversation with Aunt Nell had only raised more questions.

Chapter 4

Lydia

Senior year of high school was supposed to be fun, but to Lydia it was torture. Everyone seemed to be anticipating the release of graduation—everyone except her. Because rather than heading toward freedom, she faced a future determined by the dreams and expectations of others.

College was nonnegotiable, of course. Mother had a degree from a small but well-regarded women’s college in Ohio; Father a medical degree. They expected both their daughters to go on to higher education, even if—as in Mother’s case—it was only seen as an opportunity to meet eligible, ambitious young men. College meant a ticket out of Knox Junction. But as the time to submit applications came closer, Lydia became paralyzed with indecision.

Mother took charge, in her usual way, writing to request applications from Wellesley and Smith. Meanwhile, Henry had his own assumption about where Lydia would go, as he casually revealed one day at school.

They were sitting in their regular spot in the high school cafeteria, the same place they always sat and ate their bag lunches, in a corner near the window overlooking the football field. Sometimes classmates would join them, but more often they ate alone, their close connection blocking others out.

“How did your parents take it?” Lydia asked him. Henry had already sent in his paperwork for the agriculture program at the University of Illinois, a huge milestone for him, given that no one else in his family had gone to college.

Henry shook his head. “Not well. You know how Pop is about the farm.” Lydia didn’t really know, not firsthand. In their years of dating she’d only met Henry’s father a few times and had never been invited to the house. Henry’s home was no doubt smaller and shabbier than hers, but Lydia suspected that wasn’t the reason he kept her away. More likely it was his mother, who had become a recluse in the two years since Timothy’s death.

“I told him the classes would teach me how to make the farm more efficient,” Henry said, “but he won’t listen.”

“So what are you going to do?”

“Go anyway. Pay my own tuition. That’s why I’m sticking with U of I. It won’t cost that much. I can get a job on weekends.”

Hovering unspoken between them was the knowledge that Lydia’s college choices were not restricted by price. She could go anywhere she wanted.

“If I can save up enough, I want to get a car,” Henry said. “That way we could drive back and forth together. That would be great, wouldn’t it?”

“What do you mean?” Lydia asked.

“When we leave for school, or during Christmas vacation. We could come home together. No more sitting around waiting for the train.”

He assumed she was going to U of I, too. Of course. He had made the decision for both of them.

Lydia tried to find words that wouldn’t hurt him. But it wasn’t the right time or place—a crowded cafeteria at lunchtime wasn’t the ideal spot for a heart-to-heart conversation. Besides, she told herself, she hadn’t made up her mind yet. She very well might decide to go to U of I. So she simply reached across the table and put her hand over Henry’s. “I wouldn’t worry about a car just yet,” she said. “The train’s fine by me.”

Henry blushed, his mouth twisting into a shy smile. They were careful not to show affection in school, always conscious of being watched and gossiped about. To classmates who didn’t know they were dating, they could have been mistaken for brother and sister, so casual were their interactions. This clasping of hands was the first time they’d openly expressed any physical affection at school. The fact that the first move had been Lydia’s made it all the more surprising.

Away from curious eyes, it was another matter. On those very rare occasions when they found themselves alone—walking down a back road in search of a landscape for Lydia to sketch, or sitting in the deserted school library in the late afternoon—they couldn’t keep their hands off each other. Still, they never proceeded further than kissing or holding hands. The ground rules were understood. Lydia was a good girl, Henry was a good boy, and any exploring underneath clothes was strictly off limits.

But lately they’d been bending the rules. It started off with accidents that weren’t quite accidents—Lydia pulling her lips away from Henry’s and moving them toward the spot where his shirt strained open above his top button. Henry’s hand brushing against the tight fabric of Lydia’s sweater, fleetingly touching her breasts. If they were to be at college together, living under far less supervision, Lydia wondered if these same unspoken boundaries would hold. Would they be tempted to go further? Because when she was pressed up against Henry, kissing him in a shadowy corner of a high school hallway, she wanted to go further. And she was frightened of what would happen if she got the chance.

“I put the Wellesley information on your bed,” Mother said at dinner that night.

“All right.” Lydia was less than enthusiastic.

“Have you been reading the brochures? Chosen a favorite?”

Lydia shook her head. “I’m still thinking.” Then, looking straight at her parents to gauge their reaction, she added, “It would cost a lot less money if I went to the University of Illinois.”

Mother’s fingers gripped her fork tightly. “I didn’t know you were considering it.”

“They say it’s a fine school,” Father said.

Mother kept her eyes focused on her plate. “Is that where Henry will be going?”

“I think so,” Lydia said.

A silence settled over the table. The only sound was of forks and knives gently clinking against the china plates. Mother wouldn’t look at Lydia.

“Of course, I’d hate to see you waste your potential,” Mother said. “A girl like you, who could go anywhere.”

“Shouldn’t you go the same place as Henry?” Nell put in from across the table. “You are getting married, right?”

Lydia shot her younger sister a furious glare. That was typical of Nell, drawing attention to herself by making a dramatic pronouncement.

Mother’s head snapped around toward Lydia. “What?” she demanded. “Have you and Henry—”

“No, Mother,” Lydia interrupted. “Of course not.”

“I hope you won’t waste your future because of a youthful…understanding,” Mother said. “No matter how fine a young man Henry may be.”

“I do think eighteen is rather young to consider marriage.” Father flashed Lydia a sympathetic smile.

Lydia dropped her utensils onto her plate. “I’m not getting married,” she said firmly, trying to keep her voice level. “So don’t worry.” Then, giving Nell one last angry scowl, she rose from the table and strode out the doorway, stamping her feet as she fled upstairs to her room. She blinked hard to keep back the tears. The people she loved most in the world were pushing her in opposite directions, causing her almost physical pain. Her real dream for the future seemed so unlikely and impractical that she was embarrassed to share it with them. Her parents would find it laughable, and Henry would be devastated at the thought of her leaving. If she couldn’t count on the support of her family or Henry, she must truly be alone.

It had begun with a story in Life magazine, a photo essay about the G.I. bill that showed former soldiers going to colleges across the country. Amid the pictures of grinning young men playing baseball and posing with their fraternity rings, one in particular caught her eye:

Former lieutenant Roy S. Hartigan saw fierce fighting along the Italian peninsula, but he also gained an appreciation for Renaissance painting. Today, he has put aside his rifle in favor of a paintbrush, pursuing a degree at the New York Institute of Art.

It wasn’t Roy S. Hartigan who grabbed her attention; he appeared to be a rather bland, expressionless young man. It was the scene captured in that photograph: young men and women standing seriously in front of easels, brushes in hand, surrounded by walls covered with brightly colored canvases. All those people, together in one room, doing something she loved.

The idea that she could actually study art opened up a world of possibilities she’d never considered. College could be more than a dutiful obligation to her parents. It could be a chance to follow her passion. She wanted to be one of the people in that room. Wanted it more than anything. More, even, than Henry.

At first, the Institute of Art was an elaborate fantasy constructed when she lay in bed at night, trying to sleep. She pictured herself riding the train to New York—how long would it take? Days? Alighting with suitcase in hand at a glamorous, bustling train station; standing in class while a professor with a European accent showed her the proper way to sculpt marble or draw a still life. It was nothing more than a daydream, with no relation to her real life.

But as the college pressure from her parents grew more intense, so did Lydia’s urge to escape. She wrote to the most sophisticated person she knew—her distant cousin Eleanor, with whom she had spent time during summers in Lake Geneva—and asked her to find out what she could about the New York Institute of Art, without saying anything to Mother.

Eleanor’s reply came a few weeks later, in a large brown envelope.

Having too often made the safe choice rather than the desired one, I am all in favor of you pursuing your dreams. If I can be of any help in bringing your mother ’round to your side, you need simply ask.

Inside the envelope, Eleanor had enclosed a large, glossy booklet about the Institute, along with the school’s application packet for next year.

Lydia examined each page until she had it memorized. She read and reread the passages that might bolster her case with Mother: “The Institute strongly upholds the belief that a wide-ranging, liberal arts education is crucial to the development of any future artist…” “At the Lucille B. Davison women’s dormitory, female students live in a safe, companionable setting with the warmth of home, supervised by a live-in matron…” “Among our distinguished alumni are the assistant director of the Metropolitan Museum of Art, the owners of numerous prestigious New York and European art galleries, the noted artist Paul Thewlins…”

All of this was guaranteed to appeal to her mother’s snobbery and reassure her protective father. But art school—let alone art school in New York City—seemed like a far-off, unattainable dream. A vast world away from Knox Junction, where three couples in her senior class were already engaged, including her closest friend, Melanie. Henry hadn’t yet popped the question—despite Mother’s suspicions—but Lydia knew it was coming. College would be a four-year reprieve, at most.

Lydia still wasn’t sure she wanted to marry Henry. The disloyalty of that truth filled her with shame, since Henry had been her emotional support for so many years. He even encouraged her artistic leanings, buying her an oil-paint set last Christmas that she’d unwrapped with stunned joy. She’d no doubt she could live happily with Henry for the rest of her life. It was all the other trappings of marriage that left her feeling cold and afraid—moving into a farmhouse at the end of a dirt road; rising with the dawn to feed chickens and milk cows; being expected to produce children at regular two-or three-year intervals. Staying in Knox Junction when there were cities like New York waiting to be explored.

Alone in her room now, Lydia pulled the Institute of Art package from its hiding place under her bed. The application was surprisingly simple: a half page of personal information, a request for a reference from a high school teacher or principal and three samples of artwork. It was nowhere near as demanding as the application from Wellesley, which was sitting neatly on her pillow. For that one, she’d have to write an essay entitled “Why Wellesley?,” a seemingly straightforward but fiendishly difficult assignment. The Smith application required something similar. Already, she knew far more about the New York Institute of Art than she knew about either of those more prestigious schools. She could already picture herself unpacking at the Lucille B. Davison women’s dormitory, having late-night discussions with her fellow students about painting versus sculpture. Instead, she’d be filling out applications for schools she didn’t want to attend.

Lydia glanced again at the Wellesley application. “Why Wellesley?” Good question. One that, if she was honest, she’d answer: “Because my mother wants me to go.”

Lydia smiled, despite her frustration. Just imagine what the Wellesley administrators would say if they read that!

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