“At first, I wanted to.”
“Then why didn’t you?”
“I showed Mary’s letter to a friend.”
“He told me people changed in college.”
“He said our yearly meeting was romantic but unrealistic.”
“He said you were probably building a life with somebody else.”
I stared.
“And you believed him?”
Thomas lowered his head.
“I believed what frightened me most.”
Then he admitted the rest.
He dropped out.
Cut himself off from his parents.
Years later, he contacted Ruth and Alan to tell them he was alive—
but asked them not to tell me where he was.
“You could have discovered the truth at any time.”
“I know.”
“Why didn’t you?”
His eyes met mine.
“Because I was a coward.”
The answer was plain.
“If I searched and found out you really had chosen somebody else, the hope disappeared.”
“As long as I never knew…”
He swallowed.
“…I could pretend I had been right to leave.”
“THEN WHY DID YOU FINALLY COME BACK?”
“The night before August 15 last year, I couldn’t sleep.”
Thomas looked toward me.
“I kept thinking about Maplewood Café.”
“I thought…”
He hesitated.
“…if there was even one chance you still went there, I needed to know.”
“And if I hadn’t?”
A sad smile crossed his face.
“Then I would’ve deserved the empty booth.”
I took his hand.
“I’m still angry.”
“You should be.”
“You lost fifty years because you were afraid to ask one question.”
“Yes.”
“And then you lied about the accident.”
“Yes.”
I squeezed his fingers.
“But you’re here.”
“I am.”
“And from now on?”
“No more stories.”
“The truth?”
“Even when it makes me look terrible.”
I raised an eyebrow.
“Especially then.”
ONE YEAR LATER
Thomas and I drove from Bellmere to Westhaven on August 15.
When Maplewood Café appeared ahead, Thomas slowed.
“We don’t have to go inside.”
I looked through the window.
Our booth was still there.
For fifty years, that table had belonged to my grief.
I opened the car door.
“Yes, we do.”
“Eleanor—”
“Maplewood Café belongs to me too.”
I walked inside first.
Thomas followed.
I sat in the booth.
He automatically moved toward the chair across from me.
I patted the seat beside mine.
“Not over there.”
He smiled.
Then sat beside me.
The waitress came over.
“Two coffees?”
I looked at Thomas.
Then smiled.
“Two coffees.”
“And…”
I glanced toward the dessert case.
“…two slices of the sweetest pie you have.”
Thomas laughed.
For fifty years, August 15 had been the day I waited for him.
The day I counted hours.
The day an empty chair reminded me what I had lost.
But that year—
there was no empty chair.
No forged letter.
No story about accidents.
No one between us.
Just Eleanor Bennett and Thomas Whitmore sitting side by side at Maplewood Café in Westhaven—
