know.” She looks past me, out the window. “Probably stay here for a while. Your aunt Katie wants to come down. And”—she shrugs—“I like it. It feels good. There’s work to be done.”
“The island has a way of giving you what you need. Like the sunrise. When the world starts over. Miah’s friend Shirley calls it dayclean.”
“Dayclean.” She smiles her best Mom smile. “That’s lovely.”
I say, “I love you more than bike riding and Rosecroft at dusk and words. I love you more than words.”
“I love you more than words too.” She sits back, both hands around the mug, sunlight catching the gold in her hair. “You know, you get that from him—I love you more than.”
“No I don’t. Saz and I made it up when we were little.”
“You and Saz may have made it your own, but you got it from your dad.”
* * *
—
A knock on the door, and it’s Jared. He hands me a note with an apologetic smile, and immediately my heart sinks. This is it. Miah’s goodbye. I almost hand the paper back to Jared, but instead I open it.
Captain, putting out fires everywhere. (Not actual ones, thank God.)
I’m taking a later boat so we can have some time. I’ll meet you at Addy’s tonight at 5 p.m.
Love,
Miah
* * *
—
Jared and I bike to the old airfield for a picnic lunch. A horse and her foal graze nearby. Afterward we lie in the grass and watch them. My eyes are heavy from the heat and the meal.
He goes, “Claude?”
I turn my head and he’s looking at me, hand shading his eyes.
“Yeah?” I raise my own hand to my eyes so I can see him.
“What does it feel like to be in love?”
I stretch my arms over my head and turn my eyes and face skyward. I take my time answering because I’m not sure how to answer. It’s more emotion than words, and I’ve never really thought about how to describe it. I think of the fear and doubt and worry that come with all this feeling. The questioning and the opening up about every little thing until you feel like a frog on a dissection table, completely exposed. The caring too much, or maybe just enough, and the scariness that comes with that. The fact that there is one person on this earth who has the ability to hurt you more than any other because that’s how much you love them. The having to trust that they won’t and that maybe, just maybe, they mean what they say and that, at least for a while, they can be your floor.
Finally I say, “When it’s with the right person, you feel invincible and seen and at home, no matter where you are in the world.”
He sighs. “I’d like to feel invincible.”
Afterward we bike back to the inn and he sneaks me into the Blackwood Suite, where the Secret Drawer Society letters live. The room is airy and bright, and the desk takes up one entire wall. It looks as if it’s sleeping, a great hulking giant. Two suitcases sit by the dresser. Clothes hang in the closet.
“Someone’s staying in here?”
Jared says, “It’s okay. I asked permission.”
I’m not sure if I believe him, but it’s too late—he’s reaching his hand deep inside the giant’s mouth, the recesses of the desk drawer, and pulling out a fistful of letters. He hands them to me and together we read.
Father to son, mother to daughter, husband to wife, sister to brother, friend to friend. Words of wisdom and longing and love. Apologies, poems, a marriage proposal, an epitaph. Sometimes the notes are anonymous. Some are just a sentence or two; others are pages long.
I say, “What’s the oldest letter you’ve read?”
“Uh…1994, I think.”
“Is that as far back as they go?”
“We clean them out now and then to make room for new ones. There are boxes of them up in the attic here.”
“So there could be some in there from the Blackwoods.”
“There are for sure some Blackwood letters in there. One of the Blackwoods actually started the SDS.”
“Claudine?”
“Her mother.”
And he points to the wall above the desk, where a simple gold frame hangs. Inside the frame is a note, the size of a postcard, written in black ink on light blue paper, edges yellowed. The handwriting is neat and elegant and perfectly slanted, as if it’s bowing.
Dear Friend,
Welcome to the Secret Drawer Society. You’re invited to leave letters, notes, souvenirs. Write it down, whatever it