Fisher's Light

I take them from her, handing the basket over to Trip as she sits next to him on the couch. Trip and Seth begin assembling the flashlights while Mary Beth and Grace make their introductions.

Pacing around the room, I flip through the stack of mail to give myself something to do. When I come to a large, white envelope with Fisher’s handwriting on the front, my heart plummets to my feet. There is no return address and no postage, so he didn’t mail the envelope. It looks like he just stuck it in my mailbox at some point after I got the mail yesterday. It looks so much like the envelope that the divorce papers came in that I’m afraid to open it. Had I finally pushed him too far? Is he tired of waiting around for me to get my shit together? I move away from everyone else while they are busy chatting about the storm and force myself to tear open the envelope and pull out the single sheet of paper inside.

Dear Lucy –

I’m sorry for so many things. I don’t even know why I’m saying it to you again, because saying the words isn’t the same as showing you. Right now, I’m showing you how sorry I am. I’m sorry for never sending you a letter before now. You deserve a thousand letters telling you a thousand different ways how much I love you and how much you mean to me. I know you’re afraid and I know you’re worried, but everything will be okay. We were meant to be together. We were meant to fall in love on this island and to spend the rest of our lives together… it was fate. The photo inside proves that.

There’s a light that guides all of us to where we’re meant to be. You’re meant to be with me, Lucy. Please… be with me.

I love you. Always.

Fisher

My eyes fill and I’m honestly surprised that I have tears left in me to shed at this point. Reaching back inside the envelope, I pull out the photo he mentioned. My hand flies to my mouth and I gasp, the letter and the envelope falling from my hand. Staring at the photo in my hand, I almost can’t believe what I’m looking at.

Both Trip and Grace walk over to me when they realize I’m crying. Trip pats me on the back and Grace wraps her arm around me, looking over my shoulder to see what has gotten me so upset.

“I was wondering if he’d give that to you,” she tells me softly. “I found it in one of my photo albums a few months ago.”

Trip looks over my opposite shoulder and chuckles.

“Well, Goddamn, would you look at that? I forgot all about that. Wasn’t that the year of the big hurricane?” he asks Grace.

Grace nods. “It was. You took Fisher with you that day to make sure none of the residents needed help with their storm shutters. I was worried sick when you guys never came back.”

“Got way too bad out there for us to try and make it back to your end of the island,” Trip muses. “We ended up stopping right here at the inn and hunkering down with everyone else.”

I finally find my voice and tear my gaze away from the photo.

“What the hell is this? Will someone please explain this to me?” I ask in a shaky voice, waving the photo back and forth in front of them.

Trip guides me over to the couch and I sit between him and Grace. He takes the photo from my hand and stares at it for a few seconds before handing it back to me.

“Fisher was eleven the year of that hurricane, so that would have put you around nine, right?” he asks.

I nod silently, urging him to continue.

“It was the last year you came to visit your grandparents here at the inn. As soon as we pulled into the driveway, that huge weeping willow uprooted and fell right behind my truck. By that time, the drainage system was overloaded and the water in the street was about shin-deep, so Fisher and I ran up to the porch and your grandparents ushered us inside and brought us right in here to this library,” he explains.

I stare down at the picture in my hand and trace my fingers over the two children sitting in front of the fire with big smiles on their faces. Me and Fisher, ages nine and eleven. It’s almost too hard to believe. I don’t remember this picture being taken and I barely remember being here during that hurricane.

“The electricity went out shortly after we got here. Your grandparents kept the adults occupied by stuffing them full of food and passing out board games. You were upset and scared about the storm and no one could get you to calm down,” Trip tells me. He pauses to cough and runs his hand over his chest. His forehead is dotted with sweat and I don’t like the look on his face.

“Trip? Are you okay?”

He bats my hand away when I try to press it to his forehead to see if he has a fever.

“Stop fussing over me, Lucy girl, and let me finish this story,” he complains. “Where was I? Oh, right, so Fisher had this piece of wood he was carrying everywhere with him at the time, trying to carve something out of it. I had my toolbox with me in case anyone had any problems, so he took out what he needed, grabbed your hand and sat the two of you down over there in the corner by the fireplace with that big piece of wood.”

Trip points over to the corner and we both stare for a few seconds in silence as I try to remember before Trip continues.

“Fisher started whittling away at that wood and you calmed right down. You curled up next to him and watched him work for hours. He explained everything he was doing like you were his student and he was teaching you how to whittle. Your grandmother even fetched him some paint and he let you help him paint it when he was finished.”

I sniffle and wipe the tears from my eyes as Trip speaks and a quick flash of a memory from that day skates through my mind. I remember being sad because I was leaving the island the next day and I wanted the boy to make me something I could take home with me. ns class="adsbygoogle" style="display:block" data-ad-client="ca-pub-7451196230453695" data-ad-slot="9930101810" data-ad-format="auto" data-full-width-responsive="true">