Return to Sender - 1. Chapter 1 - Adam

CHAPTER 1 - Adam

The letter came on a Wednesday. It had an airmail stamp on it and several others, indicating it had come from the US Navy. It was addressed to the former resident of the house I just moved into a week ago, and what stood out to me was the handwriting - Copperplate style - strong - the pen had been deeply pressed on the envelope - the writing even and clearly readable - belonging to one Commander K.R.J. McIntyre. A return address was supplied in the top left corner. It was heavy and thick.

I didn’t open the letter, planning to return it to the sender because I remembered that the people I bought this house from had also been named McIntyre. But as I went about my daily chores - making lunch and doing some cleaning and vacuuming - it sat there on the counter, constantly drawing my gaze. There was something about that letter that somehow excited me. I couldn’t put my finger on it. At one point, I picked it up and held it in the light: the contents also showed that same flowing script from the envelope. Who still writes letters by hand these days? Well, many, but real penmanship is a forgotten art. This Commander McIntyre still had it.

Once my chores were done, I planned on going back to my new study and continuing on my book. It was coming along nicely now. Inspiration had struck when I had moved in.

I liked my new study. It has an old fashioned feel to it with dark heavy oak furniture and a hearth, soft lighting and a view of the lake. The music system would pipe out soft classical background music that helped me with my process, and newly installed sliding doors would allow me access to the wraparound deck, patched up and finished two days ago. A sturdy new wooden staircase led down to the lawn that stretched out and right up to the water's edge where a jetty stretched fifty feet into the lake, at the end, a leaky boat, half-submerged. I didn’t bother having it removed - it called up all sorts of wonderful images from a past I knew nothing about. It allowed me to fantasize.

Taking a sip of water from a bottle I’d gotten from the fridge, I glared at the letter. It was taunting me now and my willpower was slipping. “Be quiet,” I hissed at the letter.

Oh, game on now, is it? It mocked me. Sighing, I knew a lost cause when one presented itself. I caved and went to my study to get a letter opener. A letter like that shouldn’t be opened with a kitchen knife - it needed the correct treatment. That meant my 18th century silver letter opener. Armed with it, I returned to the counter and threatened the letter, standing on the imaginary en-garde line with my dominant foot forward, pointing at my opponent, the letter. The heavy handle of the opener rested comfortably in my hand. “I’ll stick you with the pointy end,” I promised, quoting from GoT. I’d liked that line, waiting for the perfect moment to apply it to something in life. This worked out great.

Ah, but a letter like this, handwritten and about to be opened with an old opener needed correct surroundings. That meant logfire and minimum lighting. Perhaps I should light a candle and kill all the lights in the study… oh, and a glass of wine to go with it. Or no, a brandy.

But that meant waiting for darkness to fall. Could I wait that long?

**********

Time went by. Slowly. Very, very slowly.

I was disappointed in myself for feeling impatient - I normally am not. I’m very patient. In fact, I like taking my time. For instance, I’ll never agree to meetings in the morning. If it absolutely has to happen, out of necessity, I’ll rise at 4am to make sure I’m cleanly shaved, bathed and dressed properly, shoes shined.

Normally, the morning is for me. It’s me-time. I rise at 7am, put on my bathrobe. Go outside, get the paper out of the yard, slowly reading it as I walk back to the house (if it’s not raining, of course). I can easily take fifteen minutes doing that. Then I’ll have breakfast, which will be in the dining room, a fully set out table; none of that rushed eat-at-the-counter insanity. I’ll easily take an hour eating and reading, then clear the table, do the dishes (by hand, I don’t like dishwashers), throw out the paper, then go upstairs and wash, get dressed. I’ll do my chores then: vacuum every day, clean surfaces, and once done, award myself with my one of two cups of coffee of the day. Depending on the day, I'll go into town for groceries (Monday, Wednesday, Friday, to make sure my pantry is stocked and my freezer full), prep lunch afterward, read the mail while I eat (again in the dining room, and yes, fully laid out accouterments), do the dishes again. And then I go to work, answering mail, writing and researching until 4pm, prepare dinner, lay out the table, change and have a cocktail before I have that dinner, and yes, again fully laid out. My second cup of coffee afterwards, in the study/library. I may work some more then, if the juices flow, or just read research material or the occasional good book. I’ll have a glass of wine (two at most) with it - sometimes a stronger liquor (only the one).

Ex-partners have all had their opinions and choice words about my routine, finding it charming and even refreshing at first, then souring quickly when actually living with it, with me. ‘Autistic weirdo’ was a sample of those choice words when one relationship ended; ‘Stuck in the past’ from yet another one on his way to becoming an ex; Slow. Anal. Stupid. Dumb. Idiotic. Silly. Think of any word that is meant to point out something is wrong with you, I’ve heard it and I’ve resigned myself to the knowledge that a longtime partner was probably not in the cards for me. So be it. One can hope for a life partner, but I’ll settle for a friend. Of those, I have numerous. Well, acquaintances would be a better description. Real friends, those that really know you? Of those I have none. Unfortunately.

But I think there is nothing wrong with me. If anything, I’d call myself possibly a little quirky - something funny or at least positive.

It’s how I was brought up, being raised by my nan from the age of 7. That was her routine, I liked it and it stuck. The slow life - enjoy the day …. take your time …. stop and smell the roses …. finish a conversation (even if you’re not especially liking it or the person you’re having that conversation with) … listen and learn … live every moment - it happens for a reason.

I dunno; perhaps I was born in the wrong time. But it’s my time. Mine. I’ll do with it as I please, and I will not change my ways just because society wants it sped up.

Not that I’m fully stuck in the dark ages, definitely not. I do my writing on a state-of-the-art laptop, I have WiFi installed all over the house. The audio system is remotely controlled, mobile phones are wonderful, (Spotify is a must for me), my TV is top of the line; the digital age - I’m fine with. It’s just the pace that I dislike in current times. Social media I steer clear of - I have no online presence except one page at my publisher’s website, and even there, I have minimal exposure. Why my books do as well as they do is a mystery to both them and me, but rather than questioning that, I enjoy my calm, comfortable life.

All the exes were met at functions, parties, live and in the flesh, not swiped to the left. And I don’t go out to clubs. Never have. Never seen the inside of one, except on TV.

I’m not a recluse, either: I do enjoy social interaction with friends met throughout the years. I just like quiet and I don’t like unannounced visitors. I will answer the door, though, and I also entertain, quite frequently. Never more than seven people, though; my dinner table doesn’t seat more than that. Which is deliberate; at least one person comes alone and might turn out to be a new soon-to-be ex. You never know.

**********

I held my breath as I slipped the opener through the seam of the envelope. I was going to do a bad thing, opening someone else's mail, but my excitement only grew as I carefully sliced through the paper, ever so slowly. I spent a minute listening to the paper tearing. Lovely.

The candle flickered.

The logfire crackled.

The brandy sat beside me on the table beside the Chesterfield chair.

I carefully placed the opener next to the glass, then proceeded to pull out the letter.

Three pieces of paper, neatly folded with precision. I would bet this K.R.J. McIntyre had used his index fingernail to make that crisp, sharp fold.

I assumed it was a man that had written it - the writing style seemed male to me.

Opening the letter was like opening a forbidden fruit. Reams of copperplate lines covered all sides. The writing was beautiful as I glanced over it, riveted by the precise style. The paper was plain, yet he’d written in such straight lines as if he had used a ruler. I held the paper to the light of the candle.
Yes. There. Very thin lines of a soft pencil, barely visible. Turning the paper and holding it to the light, I saw the tiny raised fibers; he erased the lines after he was done writing. I smiled at that. Commander McIntyre was meticulous. And definitely old school. I appreciated that.

As I turned the paper, I glanced at the bottom of the last page. His name was Kai.

My assumption had been correct. Male.

A strong name. Short, to the point, yet...exotic. I didn’t know the exact ethnicity of his family - I only met one of them, once - the daughter of the man who had passed away here. When I purchased the property, their name had been on the papers of course, and she’d signed by proxy for her brother. At a guess, that would be this man. Their surname implied Scottish origin, but Kai was not a Scottish name. I should look it up. Perhaps his mother had chosen it? Had she been an exotic woman? Hmm. A nice task to investigate. I like finding things out. It’s part of my job, if one can call being a writer of some renown and success (though under a pseudonym) a job, and one I enjoy thoroughly. It has sent me all over the world.

I didn’t remember the name of the daughter. I’d have to check the documents in the safe. I made a mental note to do so.

I wondered what the other letters of his name stood for and put down the page, taking a small sip of my brandy, then letting it roll around my mouth. On evenings like this, I wished I smoked. The room needed that slight haze of lingering cigar smoke. Not cigarettes. Too sharp. Possibly a pipe? Ah, I’m not a smoker. Don’t mind them though; visitors are allowed to smoke indoors. It makes me think of long winter evenings, studying at the dinner table while nan was knitting away in her chair, one of her thin cigars forgotten in the ashtray. Perhaps Kai smoked? Someone in this household had smoked; the painters had told me. I hadn’t smelled it on the walkthrough with the realtor. So it had been a long time ago - they just hadn’t painted the place for a long time.

Ah! Incense. I had that. It would do.

**********

I let the incense do its thing for about half an hour, windows closed. Drapes drawn. Then, opening the door, I smiled. Perfect, definitely worth the aggravating wait: trails of light smoke hung in the study, making it hazy. It didn’t smell of cigars, but this was all about mood and I’d done the best with it. I could read now. Even the candle had begun dripping wax down its sides, making it even more perfect. I’d clipped the wick and kept it long on purpose for a high flame, to have more light to read by. I also had gotten a pad and pen, to make notes. I’d already written down to check the name of the daughter on the documents in the safe.

I sighed contentedly as I sat down and picked up the first page, then began to read.

**********

His greeting was warm and familiar. Dear Dad. I liked that. He then proceeded to expand on an apparent promise to give more details as to what had happened to him, because it’d been so hard to do on the phone, due to his father being hard of hearing. By the end of the first page, my heart was thumping wildly. Good lord, he was a Navy Seal. He couldn’t divulge details as to exactly what had happened, as far as dates or locations, but he did say he’d experienced serious trauma to his head and spine when his helicopter had been shot down and crashed. The first few weeks he’d spent in the military hospital in Germany, having been airlifted out from the warzone. He’d been unconscious and they’d kept him in an induced coma to minimize the risk of movements by himself, as he slept and healed from surgery to his spine. He’d woken up quite some time later and, at first, didn’t remember anything from the crash or what exactly happened. All he’d known was his name and that had been told to him.

Turning the page, I kept reading.

His memory had slowly returned. Flashes, images. According to his doctors, it wasn’t uncommon after the injury he sustained to his head but that with time, it should return and it did. He’d had another surgery to his spine, expressing relief and gratitude to his doctors, and being grateful that he still had his life, all his limbs and motor functions. Some of his unit on the helicopter had not survived and two of them would have to learn to live with loss of limbs - one an arm, the other both legs.

I stopped reading there, blinking rapidly and needing to calm down. I’ve always been an empathic person: I couldn’t make it through those Nicholas Sparks novels without shedding a boatload of tears. I rarely watch movies, but I did watch The Notebook. I wished I hadn’t - I was a mess for hours afterward because I became far too invested in the characters. This letter had the same quality: it read easily and descriptively, placing you there, right beside him as he was telling his father all his news.

From Germany, when he was up and about again, he’d been transferred back stateside, to San Antonio. He was there now, rehabilitating, learning to walk again, he said, and his motor functions were getting better by the day. It had been touch and go for a while though, but he’d been really lucky. He’d been trying for days to write, having wasted a lot of paper in the beginning, before he’d finally gotten the hang of it again and wrote this one. It had cost him a week of writing it, each day a short piece.

He expressed hope that he would soon come home or at least a lot closer - Texas was far away. They were trying to get him to Walter Reed, and he was optimistic about that. He’d be able to move home and stay with his old man, help out around the house and patch things up, like the boards on the jetty, when he was able to do so again. That wouldn’t be anytime soon though, and he joked about getting a live-in nurse to help them both wash their asses.

Because for him, his Navy Seal career was over. He expressed some sadness about that, but also understanding his limits. Psychologically he was fine. He spoke to a therapist regularly. It helped him, he said, and was man enough to admit that he had needed it and still did.

He sounded very stable for someone having gone through such a thing, and all alone at that. My heart ached for him.

“Poor man,” I whispered. I felt like a voyeur, eating up the words he’d put on paper and, at the time of writing, he clearly hadn’t known his father had died. Maybe he still didn’t - he spoke to him as if he were still alive. I felt so sorry for him, knowing that he wouldn’t get to say goodbye.

It was expected to take at least a year for a full recovery, but he just longed to be home. He said he couldn’t wait to see his two nephews and his niece, children of his sister Megan (his niece) and older brother Kellan (his nephews).

Ah, there was the name of his sister. I nodded, remembering now. Hmm...the names of her and his brother implied European descent.

He thanked his family for the care package they’d sent the last time - he’d enjoyed the cookies. He’d felt guilty about not sharing, but he suspected he wasn’t the only one holding back certain items. I chuckled there and could almost hear him doing the same at that point of writing it. And, if they would, thank Megan for that video message at Christmas and the one from his brother at new year’s.

Christmas? Wait…that’d been over two months ago…

I looked for the date on the first page and it was dated 7th of January. It was now the 19th of March. I hadn’t consciously picked up on that yet. Why had this letter not come sooner? It would have been returned to him. There was, of course, the possibility of it having been misplaced. No idea how mail was handled in the Navy. Or maybe he’d taken longer to write the whole thing, having started at that date? I thought about that, putting down the letter.

That would be possible. I didn’t know much about regular mail pickup in the Navy or its hospitals. I’d have to look into that. And I was sure they had email. Phones. Yet he chose to write old school.

And gosh, how he wrote. He conveyed what was in his heart so easily. He told anecdotes of the nurses - more than once did I chuckle at their antics, vividly described by him. They’d surprised him on his birthday, his 48th, with a party. His birthday was January 4th.

He wasn’t that much older than me; just three years and he came across as quite in touch with his emotions. Not at all what I’d expect from a Navy man, but then again, that would be all me, stereotyping; I knew no one in the Army, Navy or Air Force. My knowledge ended with fiction. In movies I’d seen long ago or books I read, they were usually strict and linear, somewhat tunnel visioned and stoic. This man was anything but that. He spoke of missing his family, God and prayer, Costco and power tools, casseroles and vegetables.

I tried to imagine his voice, trying several as I re-read lines he wrote. “Power tools,” I said in a deep, clipped voice. Then tried a rougher version. I liked the rougher version. “Power tools.”
Yeah, definitely the rougher voice.

Then, on the fifth page (I counted it as the fifth side, on the third actual page), I read something and kept going back, reading it over and over.

As for Ryan, and yes Dad, I know you don’t want to talk about this, but I do, so bear with me: l hold no ill will towards him, breaking off our relationship. I know you’re angry with him, doing that while I was away, thinking it was a cowardly thing to do. Yes, it was. And yes, I was angry and hurt, I won’t deny that. But he was honest. We couldn’t be open and he felt restricted by that. The long stretches from home certainly didn’t help either and in the end, I guess we were just not meant to be. I understand. But look on the bright side - no need to keep quiet anymore. I’m still young and I will meet someone new and, as far as I’m concerned, I can’t wait to meet him.

My first thought was – idiot! Ryan was a complete idiot, letting go of this man. Absolute moron. Who, in his right mind, let go of someone like this - someone so easy to love. I was halfway there already, gobbling up his words hungrily, starving for more of his words. Someone who could write this way, convey his feelings? That would be someone worth meeting, getting to know. And if he loved you, you’d be a complete fool to let him go. You wait for him to come back to you. You write to him, send little fun things to let him know you are there, and always will be there, waiting. So he knows what he’s fighting for.

And then came my second thought, almost an after: Commander McIntyre was gay.