More Than Words Can Say Read online

  More Than Words

  Can Say

  Robert Barclay

  Dedication

  For my parents, Harry and Muriel.

  I couldn’t have done it without you.

  Contents

  Cover

  Title Page

  Dedication

  Prologue

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Chapter 41

  A+ AUTHOR INSIGHTS, EXTRAS & MORE . . .

  Reading Group Questions for More Than Words Can Say

  More Than Words Can Say The Story Behind the Book by Robert Barclay

  Addendum: A Small Collection of Brooke Bartlett’s Personal Recipes from World War II

  About the Author

  Also by Robert Barclay

  Credits

  Copyright

  About the Publisher

  Prologue

  As the young woman sat on the front porch of her cabin, her heart ached. Unable to sleep, she had left her bed and come here to gaze out over the moonlit lake she so loved. It had been her hope that the soothing waves might coax the sandman nearer, but so far, that had not been the case.

  A black leather journal lay in her lap, its next empty page waiting to accept her troubled thoughts. To be sure, she had written other journal entries since coming here to spend the summer alone. But to her great dismay, each one had been more heartrending than the last. Worse yet, the one she was about to create would surpass even the sadness of its predecessors.

  At last, she unscrewed the cap from her fountain pen, and she began to write:

  Friday, August 7, 1942, midnight

  This wonderful cabin is quite unused to seeing heartache. Instead, it has always been a place to which I could come and happily forget all about the world. But now a terrible war is raging, the same awful struggle in which so many other countries have been desperately fighting for years but finally engulfed the United States just nine months ago. So now heartache and worry exist even here, instead of the happy and joyous feelings that had heretofore always filled these humble rooms. Even so, the war is but one factor in my grief, rather than the entire cause. Because most of my heartache, I must admit, is a product of my own making . . .

  Before now, I had always loved being here. And for as long as I can remember, I had believed that I always would. But so much has happened to me during my brief summer stay that I can no longer be certain of those long-held sentiments. Part of my anguish is due to the fact that this terrible war has taken my loving husband far from me, so that he might finish his military training. And then he will go on to lead others like him in the killing of our enemies, leaving me alone and causing me to wonder if he will ever return . . .

  Pausing for a moment, she put down her pen and then turned to gaze down the sandy, moonlit shoreline. A recently built cottage stood there in the darkness. Although no lights shined through its windows at this hour, she knew that he was there. She could almost feel his presence, beckoning her to go to him. As tears began filling her eyes, she again bent to her task . . .

  As I look out at the lake, the intense quiet of this place only deepens the sense of guilt that has been growing in my heart since the day I first met him. I should go home, I know; back to Syracuse, where I would not be so easily tempted. But if I did return to my previous life, would it still hold the same meaning for me? Or would the pain of being without him cause me to rush back? Sadly, I fear that it would be the latter . . .

  I know that I should leave here and do my very best to forget him, but I cannot. Because so long as he remains, my heart won’t let me. And so, I sit alone on my porch at midnight, watching the waves and wondering where the fates will eventually lead me. As I look at the sky, the clouds seem unusually bright this night, highlighted as they are by a magnificent full moon. Are all of the world’s lovers like them, I wonder? Are we too just clouds of constantly changing nature, randomly colliding with one another in a turbulent sky?

  On finishing her soul-searching entry, the distraught young woman closed the journal. And this time when she cried, her tears came without end . . .

  Chapter 1

  Early June 1999

  Syracuse, New York

  Congratulations,” Allistaire Reynolds said. “Despite the tragic circumstances, of course.”

  Yet again, Chelsea Enright nodded incredulously. “Thank you,” she answered. “I think . . .”

  Allistaire leaned back in his chair. He was an attractive man in his early sixties, with a full head of gray hair and a matching, neatly trimmed mustache. The sleeves of his white dress shirt were rolled up, and a navy suit jacket hung informally from his chair back. A lifelong antiques hound, he had tastefully decorated his law office with a selection of Americana that gave the room a homey, lived-in look.

  “Your grandmother Brooke had me amend her will on the day that you were born,” Allistaire explained. “Although she never said why, she wanted you to have the cottage rather than your mother. And for other reasons that she never divulged, after her car crash she never went back.”

  “I’m grateful to Gram, but I’m not sure about what to do with a cottage,” Chelsea said. “I was aware that she owned it. But I’ve never seen it, and my inheriting it is a big surprise . . .”

  Allistaire shrugged his shoulders. “I understand,” he answered. “But before you pass judgment on a place that you’ve never even seen, let me explain a few things.”

  His lawyerly persona now surfacing in full, Allistaire leaned forward and laced his fingers atop the desk.

  “As you probably know, your great-grandfather James first owned the cottage,” Allistaire said. “He was the one who had it built, back in the 1930s. Then, in 1943, while your grandmother was still in her in her midtwenties, she had her car accident. Because of the war and having to care for your grandmother, your great-grandparents became too busy to get up there very often. When they died, your grandmother of course inherited the place, but she never returned there. Because of her handicap, she requested that this firm serve as her property manager. The first lawyer who handled it arranged for all of the cottage expenses to be sent here, where they were paid from Brooke’s escrow account. That remains the case today.”

  Pausing for a moment, Allistaire took a sip of coffee and collected his thoughts.

  He soon continued. “Anyway, sometime around 1946 or 1947, your great-grandparents thought it prudent to hire a young handyman to help look after the place. He’s of French origin and quite ancient now, but believe it or not, he still does a pretty good job. Knows the property like the back of his hand. He oversees any needed repairs, keeps me updated, things like that. When the first attorney retired, your grandmother became my client, and I’v
e taken care of all her affairs since then. Even though they never met, the caretaker served your grandmother steadfastly for all that time.

  “Also,” he added, “before her recent death, Brooke had the cottage’s appliances and electrical service upgraded, along with the phone service. She realized that she wasn’t getting any younger, and she wanted to know that when you inherited the place, it would be livable—or sellable, should you wish. She even had a dishwasher installed, but otherwise, nothing about the property has changed. It must be an antique-hunter’s dream! Long story short, the place has been uninhabited for over sixty years, and now it’s yours.”

  Allistaire gestured toward a thick file that lay atop his desk.

  “Everything’s in there,” he said. “Repair bills, Brooke’s will, tax receipts, deed, escrow account statements, your codicil—the works.”

  While staring blankly at the folder, Chelsea shook her head. “I still don’t get it,” she said. “That cottage should have gone to my mother.”

  Allistaire smiled again. “Perhaps,” he answered. “But Brooke was a sharp old gal. She must have had some good reason for willing it to you, rather than to Lucy.”

  “But I’m not sure that I can afford to keep it,” Chelsea answered. “The taxes, the maintenance . . .”

  “Don’t worry about all that,” Allistaire answered. “There’s enough escrow money—which, by the way, is now also under your control—to cover the expenses for a long time. And there are additional funds set aside in Brooke’s will, should you need them. Plus, the property is completely unencumbered.”

  “So I can sell it, if I want?” Chelsea asked.

  As Allistaire leaned back again, his chair hinges squeaked pleasantly. “Sure,” he answered. “But you should at least go and look at it. Who knows? You might like it.”

  Chelsea doubted that, because she had never been the outdoors type. She didn’t particularly like hiking or boating, the only place she had ever caught a fish was in her supermarket basket, and her most adventurous experience with wildlife had been raising Dolly, her beloved golden retriever.

  While Chelsea considered his advice, Allistaire admired her. She was a tall, single, and attractive woman of thirty-three. Chelsea was a respected and tenured art teacher at a local Syracuse high school, and she loved her work. Though he was a confirmed bachelor, whenever Allistaire saw Chelsea, he sharply lamented their insurmountable age difference.

  For his part, Allistaire Reynolds had long been a partner at Grayson & Stone, LLC, and he had handled the Enright family’s affairs for decades. The Enrights were wealthy by Syracuse standards, and as is so often the case with people of substance, they had suffered their share of thorny legal issues.

  “Okay,” Chelsea said. “So I’ve inherited Gram’s cottage. I know that it’s somewhere up in the Adirondacks, but that’s about all.”

  Allistaire opened the folder on his desk and took from it a weathered envelope, which he handed to Chelsea.

  “Maybe this will help,” he said. “Provided you had reached the age of thirty, your grandmother stipulated that immediately after her death, you should be given this letter in private. That’s largely why I asked you to come here today. I wasn’t made privy to what the letter says, but perhaps it will provide some answers about all this. It’s been in this firm’s possession for a long time.”

  As Chelsea stared at the yellowed envelope, she correctly surmised that it was a product of a different era. In her unmistakable penmanship, Brooke had addressed it with an old-fashioned fountain pen. Curiously, it read, “To My New Granddaughter.”

  “I suggest that you read it now,” Allistaire said. “And with your permission, I should probably read it too. There might be something in there that affects my duties in all this.” Smiling, he produced a letter opener and handed it to her.

  Her grief suddenly returning in full, Chelsea slit open the yellowed envelope. Inside she found two sharply folded sheets of her grandmother’s personal stationery and a small, nickel-plated key. Like the envelope, the pages had been written upon with a fountain pen:

  My Dearest Child,

  Forgive me for how I address you in this missive, but you were born just today, and your parents have yet to christen you. If you are reading this, I am at last gone from this world. Do not mourn me unduly, for my life was full—far more so, in fact, than you ever knew.

  By now, you realize that you have inherited my property on Lake Evergreen. You may trust in everything that Allistaire tells you, but for reasons that will eventually become clear, you must not allow him—or anyone else—to read this letter. For now, all I can tell you is that I have willed the cottage to you, rather than to your mother, because I am hoping that when you grow older, your capacity for forgiveness will be the greater one. Your mother knows that this is to happen, but she is unaware of the true reasons.

  Because you are reading these words in the distant future, I cannot possibly know what twists and turns your life has taken or in what manner you have chosen to live it. Should you wish to sell the cottage, you have my blessing. Nevertheless, you must not relinquish ownership before you follow the instructions that I am about to describe. Only then, my dear, should you decide whether to keep it or to let it go. Please also know that as the years go by, I will do my very best to be there every step of the way, watching you, guiding you, and mentoring you.

  Although it will be many years before you become a woman, I already sense that there will grow a strong bond between us—perhaps even greater than the one I already share with your mother. Regardless of what you may have heard, be assured that Lake Evergreen is a wonderful place. Because of personal reasons, I have not visited my cabin for many years, nor will I ever do so again. But that is all right, because it has now become yours. And, as you will soon learn, it was best that the cottage has lain undisturbed until this day, when you are at last old enough to understand.

  Travel to Lake Evergreen soon, my dear granddaughter, and be sure to go there alone. When you arrive, go to the guest bedroom and move the bed aside. You will notice three certain floorboards, easily identifiable because their joints are scratched and worn. When you remove them, you will find an old tin box; its lock can be opened with the key you now possess. Inside the box are some additional things that I wish to bequeath to you. And like the cottage, only after much consideration should you decide what to do with them.

  Whatever decision you choose to make, I’m sure it will be the right one. My soul has been bothered these many years, but I hope that placing this letter and my beloved cottage in your care will finally grant me a measure of peace. Lastly, my child, know that my thoughts and prayers go with you.

  Your loving grandmother,

  Brooke Bartlett

  Stunned, Chelsea refolded the pages. Despite her overpowering grief, she knew one thing. She would trust in her grandmother’s instructions and follow them to the letter. After collecting herself, she placed the letter and the mysterious key back in the envelope.

  “May I also read it?” Allistaire asked compassionately.

  Her grandmother’s written warning still fresh in her mind, Chelsea shook her head. “No,” she answered.

  “Are you sure?” he asked. “There might be something in it that—”

  “No,” Chelsea said insistently.

  Although taken aback, Allistaire relented. “Very well,” he said. “Do you have any instructions for me?”

  Chelsea looked down at the envelope for a time, thinking. “Leave things as they are for now,” she said. “After the funeral, I’m going to Lake Evergreen. When I get back, we’ll talk again.”

  “Please inform me before you go,” Allistaire requested, “because Jacques and Margot will want to greet you. You’ll need their help at first.”

  “Who?” Chelsea asked.

  “Jacques Fabienne and his wife, Margot,” Reynolds answered. “They’re your grandmother’s—or should I now say your—caretakers.”

  Chelsea placed the prec
ious envelope inside her purse and stood to go.

  As Allistaire shook her hand, he said, “I hope that you find your answers.”

  “So do I,” Chelsea answered. Whatever they might be . . .

  Chapter 2

  On leaving Reynolds’s law office, Chelsea got into her Mustang convertible and lowered the top. She then headed away from downtown and toward Fayetteville, one of Syracuse’s most upscale suburbs. As she drove, her hands started shaking again. This time, however, it was less a result of her grandmother’s passing and more because of the mysterious letter and key that lay inside her handbag. In an attempt to calm down, she took a deep breath and eased her death grip on the steering wheel. Doing so helped a little, but nothing could fully stem the sense of unrest that had come with Brooke’s unexpected message from the past.

  Her grandmother’s death had hit Chelsea harder than she could have ever imagined. The funeral was scheduled for tomorrow, and she dreaded it. Chelsea’s other three grandparents had also passed, but the death of “Gram” had been especially devastating. The tragedy had rattled Chelsea to her very core, causing her to finally shed the youthful sense of immortality that everyone seems to harbor for a time.

  Today was June 1, but as far as the weather was concerned, summer had officially arrived. As with most upstate winters, the previous one had been harsh and uncompromising, causing Syracusans to emerge from their hibernations like sleepy bears, stretching and blinking in the sun’s unfamiliar warmth. The trees were at last showing their leaves, softball leagues were forming, and it seemed that everyone was smiling again. It was a lovely time of year, and had it not been for her grandmother Brooke’s death, Chelsea would have been happy too.