Read Online My Very Best Friend by Cathy Lamb - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Cathy Lamb
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clenched his jaw, and groaned. “I’m sorry. Their part in this is still painful—it infuriates me, they infuriate me—and Bridget’s letters are an open door to atrocious things that happened to her.”
I put a hand to my forehead. “In our letters back and forth she talked only about normal things . . . her garden, a boyfriend now and then, going to university . . . her friends here, her travels. . . sometimes she would talk about being lonely, or alone, but I would, too. It was normal life. . . .”
“Charlotte, the only men she has ever been with have hurt her. She never went to university. She traveled, but it wasn’t for pleasure. She was wandering, she was often in trouble. She wasn’t lying about her love of gardening. In some of the letters she talks about the garden here. She loved working in our garden. She told me what she wanted and I did it. I built the trellises to her exact specifications. I used a rototiller on the ground so she could plant her roses and bulbs. She bought plants, and together we got out the shovels. The garden was Bridget’s haven. Then she would take off again, her nightmares chasing her down.”
Toran stood up and stalked across the deck, then leaned against the post of his trellis, arms crossed over his huge chest. “You were her one island. The truth, Charlotte, of her life is in those letters.”
“But . . .”
“Read them.” He ran a hand through his brown curls. “It’ll take a while. Ask me anything when questions come up. If you hate me by the end of it, I’ll understand.”
“Why would I hate you? I could never hate you, Toran.”
“You might. I did not protect my sister. That was my job as her older brother. That’s reason enough. I have looked for Bridget many times when I don’t hear from her. I have been to eight different countries, countless cities—three different trips in the last three years. I have paid people to go and find her. Now and then I find her and bring her home, get her help. Then she leaves again. It’s up to her to come home this time.”
I picked up the stack of letters.
“Start from the beginning, Charlotte,” he said, so gentle.
I nodded my head, pushed my hair out of my eyes. “Okay.”
In the guest room that night, the yellow comforter around me, I opened up the first letter.
November 30, 1973
Dear Charlotte,
Do you know? Do you know what happened? No. How could you. You weren’t there. You were gone.
I am alone.
The bluebells are blooming.
Love,
Bridget
I opened up a second letter, then a third. First came shock, then horror, then the tears. Endless tears.
Toran saw my swollen face the next morning when he returned from working on his farm and hugged me close. I looked like a pale gargoyle. I cried on his shoulder, a blubbery mess. Tears slipped out of his eyes, too.
“I couldn’t read all of them.” I pushed my hair back, as some had slipped out of my clip. “Only a few.”
“Pains my heart, that it does.”
“Mine too, Toran.” My voice broke, aching for Bridget. I was furious, too. Furious at what had happened to her.
We talked and talked.
Toran wiped my tears away, so gentle. He clenched his jaw, but his eyes kept watering on up, like mine. Bridget, Queen Bridget, dragon slayer, artist, kid scientist. Poor Bridget.
I would read more letters.
But not now. I couldn’t.
I made a call, then another call. I wrote a check and mailed it. I hoped.
That afternoon Toran handed me the keys to one of his trucks. It was black. “Please return the rental, Charlotte. You’re losing money. Drive my truck.”
“No, thank you. I couldn’t take advantage of you like that.”
“Please. I want you to take advantage.” He winked at me.
Baby, I want to take advantage of your body. Thank heavens I did not say that out loud.
“I will rent.”
“I’m afraid I can’t allow that, as it’s a waste of money, luv.”
“You need the truck.”
“I don’t. It’s now yours. And you have
I put a hand to my forehead. “In our letters back and forth she talked only about normal things . . . her garden, a boyfriend now and then, going to university . . . her friends here, her travels. . . sometimes she would talk about being lonely, or alone, but I would, too. It was normal life. . . .”
“Charlotte, the only men she has ever been with have hurt her. She never went to university. She traveled, but it wasn’t for pleasure. She was wandering, she was often in trouble. She wasn’t lying about her love of gardening. In some of the letters she talks about the garden here. She loved working in our garden. She told me what she wanted and I did it. I built the trellises to her exact specifications. I used a rototiller on the ground so she could plant her roses and bulbs. She bought plants, and together we got out the shovels. The garden was Bridget’s haven. Then she would take off again, her nightmares chasing her down.”
Toran stood up and stalked across the deck, then leaned against the post of his trellis, arms crossed over his huge chest. “You were her one island. The truth, Charlotte, of her life is in those letters.”
“But . . .”
“Read them.” He ran a hand through his brown curls. “It’ll take a while. Ask me anything when questions come up. If you hate me by the end of it, I’ll understand.”
“Why would I hate you? I could never hate you, Toran.”
“You might. I did not protect my sister. That was my job as her older brother. That’s reason enough. I have looked for Bridget many times when I don’t hear from her. I have been to eight different countries, countless cities—three different trips in the last three years. I have paid people to go and find her. Now and then I find her and bring her home, get her help. Then she leaves again. It’s up to her to come home this time.”
I picked up the stack of letters.
“Start from the beginning, Charlotte,” he said, so gentle.
I nodded my head, pushed my hair out of my eyes. “Okay.”
In the guest room that night, the yellow comforter around me, I opened up the first letter.
November 30, 1973
Dear Charlotte,
Do you know? Do you know what happened? No. How could you. You weren’t there. You were gone.
I am alone.
The bluebells are blooming.
Love,
Bridget
I opened up a second letter, then a third. First came shock, then horror, then the tears. Endless tears.
Toran saw my swollen face the next morning when he returned from working on his farm and hugged me close. I looked like a pale gargoyle. I cried on his shoulder, a blubbery mess. Tears slipped out of his eyes, too.
“I couldn’t read all of them.” I pushed my hair back, as some had slipped out of my clip. “Only a few.”
“Pains my heart, that it does.”
“Mine too, Toran.” My voice broke, aching for Bridget. I was furious, too. Furious at what had happened to her.
We talked and talked.
Toran wiped my tears away, so gentle. He clenched his jaw, but his eyes kept watering on up, like mine. Bridget, Queen Bridget, dragon slayer, artist, kid scientist. Poor Bridget.
I would read more letters.
But not now. I couldn’t.
I made a call, then another call. I wrote a check and mailed it. I hoped.
That afternoon Toran handed me the keys to one of his trucks. It was black. “Please return the rental, Charlotte. You’re losing money. Drive my truck.”
“No, thank you. I couldn’t take advantage of you like that.”
“Please. I want you to take advantage.” He winked at me.
Baby, I want to take advantage of your body. Thank heavens I did not say that out loud.
“I will rent.”
“I’m afraid I can’t allow that, as it’s a waste of money, luv.”
“You need the truck.”
“I don’t. It’s now yours. And you have
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