Chapter Text
Therese reached behind her and pulled out a thick sheaf of what appeared to be folded sheets of writing paper, tied in a ribbon. “These are for you, finally.”
Carol pushed herself up by her elbows until she was sitting, then took the packet from Therese. “Are these…?”
“All my letters to you, yes. So they are yours now, as they should be.”
“Therese…I’m…” she pressed the letters to her face, inhaling, speechless.
Therese shifted off Carol’s hips, shifting around beside her and handing her the second key. “Tomorrow, come home from work, let yourself in to our apartment here, pour yourself a drink, and read them. You can tell me what you think when I get home.”
* * *
Carol hopped out of the cab and walked up to the door of the building…their building, their apartment, the “Blue Place.” She stopped in front of the entry door, savoring the moment as she pulled the freshly-cut keys Therese had given her the evening prior out of her bag. She ran her thumb along the cool metal, smiling to herself as she unlocked the street-level door and let herself in for the first time. Our place now, for real, she thought to herself as she climbed the three flights up to the apartment. Together, ours. Carol felt somewhat overwhelmed when she reached the apartment door.
She inhaled, slid the key into the lock and turned it, beaming as the door swung smoothly open. Setting her bags on the floor, she meandered a bit through the rooms, still clinging to the keys and humming to herself. The possibilities now that Therese had fully let her in seemed endless. In the living room, she spotted a new, unopened bottle of Bushmills on the coffee table, along with a clean glass and the packet of Therese’s letters. A folded note stood on top of the packet. Always full of surprises, that one, grinned Carol as she knelt at the table, picking up the note and unfolding it with the flick of a finger.
Dear Carol ~
I hated letting you out of my arms so early this morning. I look forward to the weekend, when our schedules are our own. My plan is to have no plan other than holding you. In the meantime, as I said last night, pour yourself a drink and read my letters. I’ll be home as soon as I can.
All my love,
~ T
P.S. Save me some of that Bushmills.
Carol rose to her feet in a smooth motion, still holding the note, pressing it to her chest as she walked into the bedroom to change into more comfortable clothes. She placed the note carefully on the bedside table and began to take off her suit. The anticipation of reading the letters was a fluttering trill in her chest, making her want to rush and slow down time all at once. Once changed into her satin pajamas (what could be more comfortable?) and freshened up a bit from the work day, she put her things away, heading to the kitchen with the bouquet of roses she had picked up on the way home: a dozen rich crimson, and two in the center, bright yellow. She arranged the flowers in a vase, careful to keep the two yellow roses in the center. The two of us. Now this is what roses are for, inhaling their scent as she carried the arrangement to the table by the living room window, for celebration, for joy, for beauty. Returning to the kitchen, she made herself a plate of buttered bread, and finally, at last, settled onto the couch.
As she said, Carol thought, reaching for the Bushmills bottle and pouring herself a few fingers worth of whiskey into the glass. She took a sip, letting the warmth fill her and calm the flutter, if only slightly. Setting down the glass, she picked up the packet of letters and held it cradled in her hands in her lap for a moment, gazing down at it tenderly, a sacred text to be read with care. What a gift. What will I find here? With a contented sigh, she gently pulled the ribbon holding the packet together until the knot slid apart. She took the first letter, several pages of plain letter paper folded together, and unfolded it carefully. She caressed a finger along the date at the top, her eyes burning with tears; the date of their first lunch was one she knew by heart. Taking a deep breath, she began to read Therese’s careful, rounded script.