Caveat

Elizabeth Blanchard reached into the walnut hope chest for the last of the wedding presents sent to her while she'd been in Paris on business. As she lifted up the small foil-wrapped gift, something fell back into the chest. She glanced in absently. It was a packet of letters held together with a faded green rubber band. She picked it up and stared, a frown forming. She could have sworn she remembered every love letter she'd ever been sent, but these...?

Love letters, she decided, laughing suddenly to herself. No more need to keep them! Not when marriage is around the corner. Not when the bridegroom is Tom!

Thomas T. Nicholas. Just thinking of him sent her heart racing. In ten days, she would be the wife of the youngest lawyer ever to be offered a partnership in the prestigious firm of Holt & Harding. Visions of the life they would be leading danced before her eyes. And the nights! She shivered in their anticipation.

With a deep sigh, Elizabeth turned her attention back to the afternoon's task. She and her mother were in the attic, busily packing the last of the heavy wooden crates to be shipped to Washington, D.C. within the next few days. The Nichols' would be spending their first married year quite some distance from their families in Rochester, New York.

She glanced once more at the packet of letters. The handwriting didn't seem familiar. There was no return address, either, to help her out. Out of curiosity, she slid the top letter out from under the rubber band and flipped it over. The seal was still intact. "That's strange," she murmured.

"What did you say, dear?" asked a muffled voice.

Elizabeth giggled at her mother, who was leaning into the three-foot high crate. "If you aren't careful," Elizabeth warned, "you'll fall in and become part of the shipment." And, she added silently, wouldn't Tom be surprised to find her there. Elizabeth frowned again. He would be surprised, all right. And angry.

For some reason she couldn't understand, Tom and her mother did not get along. If only one of them had been willing to verbalize their dislike, it would have been easier for Elizabeth to deal with it. But their anger was an abyss: deep, bitter cold, inexplicable.

Elizabeth shook her head as she turned the letter over to check the postmark. It was dated June 4th of the following year. "By then," she said with a faint smile, "we'll be celebrating our first anniversary."

Seconds later, the full significance of the postmark penetrated her brain, and the packet dropped from her hands as if it had suddenly caught on fire. The packet split apart on landing, and the letters scattered across the dusty attic floor.

"What's wrong?" asked her mother.

"The postmarks!" she exclaimed, staring down at the letters. “Look at these postmarks!"

Her mother bent down and picked up two. With a quick glance at Elizabeth’s wide blue eye, she brought the letters close enough to read, checking one, then the other. "These dates can't be right," her mother said matter-of-factly. She reached down to pick up the rest of the letters. "Who are they from, dear?"

Elizabeth shivered in spite of the warm, close air of the attic. "I don't know, Mom. I've...never seen them...before."

Her mother looked over at Elizabeth. "Are you sure?"

She nodded. "Absolutely."

"Let's go downstairs," her mother suggested. "I could use some hot tea while we read these."

"Read...them?"

"Of course, dear. How else are we going to find out who they're from?"

Elizabeth hurriedly followed her mother down the grimy attic stairs, switched off the attic light at the bottom, and closed the door firmly behind her.

Five minutes later, they were sitting at the kitchen table. Elizabeth's long, tapered fingers walked through the letters, automatically putting them in chronological order. "We should read them in the order they were written," she said with a firmness she didn't feel.

She took a deep breath, slid a finger under the flap of the first letter, slipped out the contents. There was but a single sheet of paper, filled with words handwritten in black ink.

Elizabeth's soft voice filled the quiet afternoon. Without realizing it, she had made the decision to read the letters out loud.

June 4th

Dear Elizabeth,

Even though I know you might never read this letter, I have to write it. It may be the only chance I have to tell you how I feel - how I've felt for a long time.

I love you.

Oh God, how I love you.

I love you, you're in a coma, and it's all my fault.

Bill

Elizabeth felt herself grow cold. Ice cold. Then fear and anger overwhelmed her. The paper shook in her hands. She looked up and saw tears in her mother's eyes. "Hey," she protested. "Hey, these aren't real, remember? Letters don't come from the future."

"It’s just...,” her mother stammered. “It sounded so real."

Elizabeth reached out quickly to grasp her mother's hand. They were as cold as her own. "I'm here," Elizabeth said. "And I'm okay."

A fleeting smile crossed her mother's face, and she patted her daughter's hand in reassurance. "You're right, of course. Now don't keep us in suspense. Read the next one."

Dread insidiously inched its way into Elizabeth. Nevertheless, she laid down the first letter, and picked up the next envelope. This one wasn't sealed as tightly.

June 6th

Dear Elizabeth,

You're going to live!

Until this morning, the doctors held out little hope for you, but now your condition has stabilized. They said you'll never walk again, and you're still in a coma, but...

You're Going To Live!!!

I tried to visit you today, but only close relatives are allowed into the surgical intensive care unit. I won't give up, though. I'll keep trying until I find a way to see you. Above all else, I'm patient and persistent.

Bill

"Oh, my," whispered her mother.

Elizabeth's head shot up, but before she could say a word, her mother spoke. "No, don't stop," she said. "Just keep reading. When we've finished with all of them, we'll talk."

"But who is...?" demanded Elizabeth.

"Finish them first."

Elizabeth ripped open the third envelope, her trembling fingers almost tearing it in half.

June 10th

Dear Beth,

I hope you don't mind - I never did ask you if that nickname was all right with you. But it's what I've always called you in my mind.

It's been six days, Beth. And you remain in a coma. How much longer will it last? It seems not even the doctors know the answer to that question. But they say the longer it lasts, the less your chances are for a "full and complete recovery". When I ask them to elaborate, they shrug their shoulders and walk away.

I have finally managed to see you. Last night I tricked a new nurse. She thinks I'm an out-of-town relative who just got the news.

Oh, Beth. It can't be you in that bed - hooked up to all those machines. It just can't be. You look like a tiny doll with that huge bandage wrapped around your head. A large plastic tube forces you to breathe; others carry fluids into and out of your body. Wires snake their way all around you.

I'm sorry I had to leave the George Street Pub so soon after you and Tom arrived. But seeing you two together that night overwhelmed me, and I just couldn't be in the same room with you one minute longer. If I'd stayed at the Pub, I would have stopped him. I would have. Everything seemed under control when I left. What happened?

Bill

The fourth letter:

June 15th

Dear Beth,

Yesterday I was thinking about last year's Village Christmas Dance. It was the first time you'd been back home since the wedding, and you were ecstatic with the knowledge you would be moving back here at Easter. Your face beamed with happiness as you walked into the ballroom. And your clear, gentle laughter rings in my ears. Even now.

That was also the first time I'd seen Tom, and instantly I was reminded of my father. It didn't take me long to realize why. The actions of an alcoholic speak louder and more eloquently than his words. Especially to someone who has lived with one.

I watched you watch him. I counted with you the number of times he went to the bar. I saw the effect his drinking was having on you, but I also saw that while you knew what he was, you weren't willing to face it.

I'm so sorry, Beth. I knew what your future would be like, and I should have had the courage to talk with you that night. But I also knew what your reaction would be: I went through the same thing many years ago. Even at the ripe old age of 31, I didn't have the courage to face your indignant anger.

Please forgive me.

Bill

The fifth letter:

June 18th

Dearest Beth,

I talked with your mother at the hospital this morning. She told me the details of the car accident. All I'd heard was that Tom was "stinking drunk" and ended up in a fierce argument with the bartender. Your mother said he was raging mad - angrier than she'd ever seen him.

He stormed out to the car, and you followed, trying to convince him to let you drive. Everyone heard him scream at you. Nevertheless, you got in beside him, hoping to change his mind.

According to witnesses, Tom was still screaming at you ten minutes later when he raced through a stop sign and hit a delivery truck head on. He died instantly. It took the firemen 45 minutes to free you of the wreckage that mangled your body.

Your mother and I talked for a long time. She's quite a woman, Beth. She also knows who I am. And she forgave me. She said sometimes even the innocent need to be pardoned.

Your Bill

The sixth letter:

June 25th

Beth darling,

It's been three weeks since the accident. The doctors say you might remain in the coma indefinitely. They have told your mother to start checking out long-term care facilities.

I know you loved Tom in spite of everything. I could see it in your eyes. I loved my father, too.

But I also saw the frightened, haunted look you wore those other times. On those days, not only did I ache to comfort you, I ached from the inability to do so.

Now I am overwhelmed with a sorrow that knows no boundaries. And a guilt that will never end.

Bill

The seventh letter:

June 28th

My Beth,

You're dead.

When I left you yesterday, you were alive.

Tonight you're not.

They said you suffered a sudden massive cardiac arrest. That your heart simply stopped beating. SIMPLE? There is nothing simple about death.

Oh my darling, how am I going to live without you?

Yours forever,

Bill

The last letter:

July 31st

Beth,

This will be my last letter. It's been a month since your funeral, and I can't live here any longer. Everywhere I go, I see reminders of you. Reminders that are breaking my heart. Just like today.

I was doing my early morning run through the village, and I saw a woman ahead of me. She had the same pale blonde hair as yours. My stomach lurched, and I spoke your name out loud before I realized it couldn't be you. You're...dead.

I run a lot now, Beth. Especially when thoughts of you overwhelm me. Maybe I'm trying to run away from the reality of your death. I don't know.

But I can't stay here. I don't know where I'll move, but it will have to be somewhere far away from here. Far, far away.

Would you like to hear something funny? Even though I used to see you almost every day, I can't remember the day we first met. My whole life has changed because of you.

How could I have forgotten that day?

You taught me to enjoy Rochester's infamous six-month long winters. You'd walk into my store, your eyes filled with all the zest and wonder of a child. "What a beautiful day!" you'd shout, and then laugh at my inevitable grimace. "It is," you'd insist. "It is!"

You loved snow almost as much as you loved books. It didn't matter if it was a mystery or an instruction manual. If it had words, you said, you'd read it.

Most importantly, you taught me to care for others. To dare to become involved. I learned that one the hard way.

I wanted to know you so much better, my Beth. But when I finally got up the courage, you were already engaged to Tom. Just as well, I thought. Then.

Next time, Beth. The next time I meet someone special, I'll brace myself. Although I'll never find another woman as wonderful and extraordinary as you, I'll take a chance and reach out.

I promise.

Bill

Two months later, Elizabeth was busy with the wedding presents. She pressed down on the piece of strapping tape on the last of the presents to be returned. Hot tears rushed to her eyes. Damn those letters, she thought with a vengeance. Damn them! And damn whoever really sent them!

"Are you all right?" asked her mother.

She sniffed back the tears, and shook her head vehemently. "No!" she snapped, and slammed down the roll of tape. "No, I'm not all right!"

"Oh, honey...."

Elizabeth reached into her brown leather purse and took out the packet of letters. Since the day she'd found them, she'd carried them everywhere she went. She gazed at them for one last time, then systematically began to tear them to shreds. "When I finally realized the letters were right... when I confronted Tom with his alcohol problem, I thought the worst was over. I assumed he would face up to his problem. I assumed he would want to get help."

"I...."

Elizabeth ignored her mother. "But I never assumed Tom would say he likes himself just the way he is."

"I'm really..."

Elizabeth's angry retort cut her off. "Don't day you're sorry," she said, spitting out the words. "You never liked him. You should be relieved I'm not marrying him."

"I am," her mother said slowly. "But regardless of the reasons I don't like Tom, I tried very hard not to let my opinion interfere with your plans. After all, you're grown up now, dear. You have to make your own decisions. And you're the one who has to live with their results." Her mother paused. "I never guessed he was an alcoholic. I would have told you something like that."

Elizabeth stared at her mother. The last strips of the letters fluttered to the floor. "You… didn't write the letters?"

Her mother's eyes widened in amazement. "No! I wouldn't. I couldn't...!"

"Then who did?"

"I don't know," said her mother quietly.

"You don't think they're really...?"

"From the future?" Her mother shook her head and gave Elizabeth a small smile. "No, I don't think so. I'm sure it can't be too hard to forge postmarks these days, not with all the graphics programs available."

"Then who...?"

"Someone who cared for you, dear. Someone who cared enough to warn you."

"But how did they get in my hope chest?"

Her mother pursed her lips together. "I don't know," she said, "and it doesn't really matter, does it? The letters saved you." She reached out to Elizabeth, pulled her close, and wrapped her arms tightly around her daughter.

"I love you, too, Mom."

An hour later, Elizabeth walked into the village to mail the last two packages. On her way back, she stopped at the Village Wine Shop to buy a bottle of Pinot Grigio. As always, she chatted with Mr. Thompson while he rang up the bill.

"Is there anything else, Milady?" he asked with a slowly growing smile.

She laughed. They had started this game of 'knights and ladies' three years ago, when they'd both admitted to a love of Kind Arthur's times. "Yes, Sir Thompson. Thank you."

He bowed slightly. "The pleasure is all mine, Milady."

She took the book and turned to leave. A cough stopped her. She looked over her left shoulder at Mr. Thompson. "Did I forget something?"

"No. I was, ah-h, just wondering.... Your ring?"

Elizabeth inspected the naked place on her left ring finger, and her mouth turned to cotton. "Oh," she said faintly, "I'm...I'm not getting married...anymore."

"I’m so sorry," he mumbled in embarrassment. "Really."

Tears glistened in her bright blue eyes. "Thank you," she said, and turned to walk out of the store. Just as she reached out to pull open the door, his voice stopped her. "Milady...?"

"...yes?"

"Would you like to join me for some coffee? Or chai tea, perhaps?"

Seconds passed. "You're asking me out, Mr. Thompson?" she said, blinking back tears.

A slow grin spread across his face. "Why, yes, Ms. Blanchard. Yes, I am."

"I'd like that." Her quick decision surprised her. As did the next. "And please, call me...Beth."

"Beth," he said quietly. "I like that." Without taking his eyes off her, he asked his assistant to watch the store while he took a break. He came out from behind the counter, still smiling, bowed deeply, and held out his left arm to her. "Ready, Milady?"

A warmth she hadn't felt in a long time rushed through her. She grinned back at him, curtsied in return, and without a second thought, slipped her arm through his. "Ready, Sir Thompson."

"Milady Beth," he said as he held open the door, "please call me Sir William."

END