The Correspondent: A Novel by Virginia Evans - 52

Felix Stone

℅ Suzanne and Bob Archer

104 Merry Acres Pl.

Verdugo Hills, CA 91042

May 14, 2018

Dearest Felix,

How are you getting on in Los Angeles? How is your work? Are you making points of contact out there? Now that you’ve been in place for nearly five months I have wondered if you will stay. Have you spoken to Stewart, dear? Does he continue to seek you out? Would it not be worth even considering the possibility of at least hearing what the man has to say? Although I miss you and wish you would move closer to me rather than farther away, France is so obviously where you belong.

There have been no additional letters from Hattie, though it’s been her turn for some time. I really can’t blame her, though, can I? It’s a strange situation we’re in. I believe she works a great deal, too, and I’m sure there is an outside notion that this is all still somehow untoward.

While I wait to hear from her I find myself reading everything I can get my hands on regarding Scotland, as well as the Crow tribe of Indians (scratch that, we’re meant to say Native Americans now). There was a lecture at St. John’s College, as a matter of fact, regarding the displacement of native tribes in the Northwest and I attended with Theodore Lübeck. I do enjoy his company, but moreover I was needing a driver. My eyes are giving me some trouble, Felix, so I thought with it being evening it was better not to drive down. And the parking in Annapolis can be a challenge, all the teens wandering into the streets without paying attention.

Additionally (I’ve saved the worst for last) over here on my side of the nation there is a big, fat situation. Mick Watts was in DC again, and this time he didn’t make excuses. He flew across just to take me to dinner in Baltimore, and it was lovely, and at the end of dinner there was a ring and Mick asked me to marry him formally. As I have previously told you, he has mentioned wanting to marry me several times, but rather in an off the cuff manner and I have shoved off the notion each time, but this was a different thing, with him in a suit, the ring, the lights on the harbor all glittering out the window, the steak and the white tablecloth and the nice bottle of cabernet. He was asking seriously. He wants me to move to Texas with him.

I’m certain you’re wondering what I said, and I’ll tell you. I told him I would have to think it over. It isn’t as if I’m in my twenties and just beginning a life, making those choices that become the pavers of a path which you walk. I’ve made my path. It’s difficult to imagine whipping the entire thing around and starting something new. I’m not sure I have the energy for it, and yet it’s such good fun with Mick, and it is a comfort, isn’t it, imagining someone else around a house. Someone to rather, well, I suppose, take care of me. With Mick I laugh such a great deal. It is the version of myself I was when I was working. Whip-smart, clever, well able for the banter and the debating politics.

Now, of course I always welcome your thoughts on every matter, but in this case, I beg you to tread thoughtfully because I fear I’m so perplexed by the matter that anything you say might make tracks I’d be unable to erase.

I do look forward to hearing from you, and of course I welcome you to come spend a bit of time on the East Coast if you please. I haven’t been writing many letters the past few months. I come to the desk and have no energy for the task. But you’re not to worry. I decided I would sit on the panel for the high school career festival. That’s next week.

That is more than enough out of me, and I am sending my very warmest regards,

Your loving sister,

Sybil