I waved good-bye, and when I reached the front of the store, I stopped to read the poster propped up against the window: BOOK FESTIVAL. MOBILE. SUNDAY. The festival would be in three days. I smiled.

I carried my bags to the car and threw them in the backseat, avoiding the vegetables. I tried one more time to call Rusty, but once again I got only his voice mail. What saddened me most? That I was relieved to get his voice mail.

Excerpt from Lillian Ashford’s Journal
New Year’s Eve 1961
Twenty-one Years Old

Which means we now come to the worst part of the year—the sorrowful part—the part that butts up right next to the joyful part; one on top of the other.

We said goodbye, promising our love: I vowed to graduate and return to Him. We kept our plans a secret so when my best friend came to me to tell me of His betrayal, of the truth, my heart was torn apart. The sickness that comes with heartbreak is like no other sickness known to man because there is no cure for betrayal.

None.

I took Mama’s car and told no one where I was going or why and I drove to Bayside. It was October and the record-breaking cold temperatures kept the streets empty. When I reached His trailer, I burst through the door and found Him alone, reading. When I confronted Him, he admitted everything Birdie had told me—His betrayal was true. And yet He told me that it was before He loved me, and He’d been with others when He was with me but He said that once he knew He loved me He never touched another. Now He loved only me. It was the first time He said the words “I love you.” And then He added the part that matters most. “And you alone.”

I know these are only six random words said in a row. Just words “I love you and you alone.” Yet they are words that mean everything.

Thirteen

Thirteen

With late afternoon light moving across the bay, I’d taken a swim. Climbing out of the water and onto the dock, I saw Ms. Birdie standing at the back fence, a glass of wine in her hand. I waved and she smiled in return. “Come on over,” she hollered.

I waved at her. “Coming.” My hair dripped like new rain onto a white linen cover-up. “How was your day?” I hugged her.

“Wonderful. How was yours?”

“Amazing. It’s so peaceful and wonderful here.”

“Good.” She poured me a glass of Chardonnay, and we walked out to the screened-in porch. “I only treat myself to wine when I have guests. So you’re just an excuse.” Her voice was hidden underneath laughter.

I smiled. “I’ll be any excuse you need.”