Her pulse quickened as she put the three pages in order, smoothed out the creases, and began to read.

My Darling Burke,

The rains have come early. This afternoon, while I was mulching the hydrangeas, I noticed a cloud bank creeping in over the lake. Now it’s lying out there like a big, shaggy, wet dog, with no plans to leave. I’ve opened the French doors to let in the breeze. A few minutes ago, when I looked out beyond the balcony, I saw the first flash of lightning.

Earlier tonight I tried to sleep. But the house is too quiet, the bed too wide and empty without you, so I’m curled in your big leather chair, wearing your ratty old plaid bathrobe over my pajamas. The robe smells like you, which is why I stop myself every time I get the urge to throw it in the laundry. Wearing it is the closest I can come to feeling your arms around me.

Brianna’s off at a slumber party and Captain is snoozing in his favorite spot under your desk. From the way his arthritic old legs keep twitching, I’d say he’s dreaming about chasing seagulls on the wharf, or maybe treeing that snooty Siamese next door.

A few minutes ago I almost picked up the phone and dialed your hotel. Don’t worry, I came to my senses in time. It’s after midnight here and God knows how late it is in Miami—sorry, you know I never bother to keep track of such trivialities as time zones. Whatever the hour, I’m aware that you’ve had a hectic day and need your rest. Besides, the ringing of a phone in the dark hours is a nightmare sound. Even when it’s a wrong number, your pulse doesn’t stop jerking till dawn. I wouldn’t inflict that on you for the world. But I wish I could hear your voice right now—or better yet, I wish I could fly across the country on the wings of night and creep between your sheets. We wouldn’t even have to make love. Just holding you would be enough.

Since that isn’t possible, I’ve decided to write you a letter. Oh, yes, I know it’s the twenty-first century, and email is the way to go. It’s fast and efficient and won’t wake you up in the night. But I hate the sterile look of those words on the screen. A letter is more intimate—the paper I’ve touched, the curves, dots, and lines of words that I’ve formed with my own hand, the envelope I’ve sealed with my tongue, to be opened by no one but you. I realize I’m hopelessly out of date. But I’ve always enjoyed writing letters to people I love.