“How do you know that?”
“Adam told me about it in his letter.”
“Can we go and watch?”
“Oh, no. It's too far away, but Adam might go.”
“Is Adam going to be in a race?”
“No. He's going to write about them.”
Laurel took Brian's hand and walked toward the house, her mind on Adam. She missed him and wondered what he was doing now. She hoped he did get to report on the Olympics. He'd said he thought he might be sent.
Brian jerked his hand out of Laurel's, lifted the stick over his head, and ran toward the house, stopping several times to throw his spear.
Laurel followed, enjoying his antics. I hope Robert and I will still want to picnic together when we've been married as long as Mama and Daddy.
She hadn't yet written to Adam about the wedding. He deserved to know. She decided to write him after lunch.
Jean met Laurel at the back door, a basket draped over her arm. “Thank you for watching the children.”
“I don't mind. It was time for me to come in anyway. I'm hungry.”
“Susie's eating a sandwich. When she's done, you can put her down for a nap. And I expect Brian will be running out of steam any time. He'll be ready to go down soon.” She stepped out the door. “I'll be back in a bit.”
When both children were napping, Laurel went to the cupboard, took out paper and pencil, and sat at the table. She stared out the window for a long while, trying to think of just how to tell Adam she was getting married.
She started with “Dear Adam. I received your letter. It sounds as if life is very exciting for you there. Here it is much quieter. Summer has finally arrived. The snows have melted, and the valley is literally overrun with blooming plants and flowers. It's beautiful. However, the mosquitoes are back, but they don't seem as bad this year.”
She stopped writing and thought about what else he might be interested in. He'd seemed to like the idea of farming and clearly enjoyed her family. She continued, “The cabbages, potatoes, turnips, and carrots are up. The peas are nearly ready to pick. Everything grows amazingly fast. Daddy said it's all the sunlight. He's working hard, nearly from sunup to sundown, but it's wonderful to see everything growing so well. He's already cleared and tilled about four acres and planted them, two in vegetables, two in oats. He's working to clear more. It's a long, slow process, but he hopes to have two more acres finished by fall. The government will pay him sixty dollars for each acre. The money will help a lot. We may have trouble selling our vegetables. Ray Townsend is leading a movement to keep homesteaders from buying our produce.”
She chewed on the end of her pencil, then returned to the letter and wrote, “December fifteenth, Robert and I are getting married.” She stared at the sentence. It looked too bold. Erasing it, she wrote, “Robert and I have grown very close. We've decided to get married. December 15 is the day we've chosen.” She stopped and read the sentence. It sounded better. “We both love winter, so we figured December would be a good time. We'd like you to come. I know it's a long way from London to Palmer, especially in December, but could you try?”
Unexpected sadness spread through her. Laurel set down her pencil. Part of her would always love Adam even if he didn't share her life.
She returned to the letter, telling him about Colony Day and the confrontation between her father and Ray Townsend and how Celeste was hurting and confused. She chatted about fishing and hunting and her work for Jessie and how much she enjoyed studying local history.
She signed the letter, “Sincerely, Laurel.”
Adam read the letter, then sat staring at it. He'd known this was coming. Finally he folded it, keeping the creases just as they were, then carefully returned it to the envelope and walked to the table where he intended to set it. Instead he let loose a stream of profanities and hurled it.
He dropped onto a chair at the table. His insides felt raw. You knew she'd marry him. You knew it. The ache gnawed at him, and he groaned, covering his face with his hands. “I shouldn't have let her go.”
He envisioned Laurel in Robert's arms, and then he saw her walking down an aisle with Robert waiting at the altar. Breaking away from the image, he stood and paced, fists clenched. How could he have been so stupid? He should have tried harder to get her to see things his way. His eyes fell on a vase with carnations. Without thinking, he grabbed it, hurling it against the wall. Splintering glass shattered the silence. Flower petals and crystal littered the floor. Water dribbled down the wall.
“I'm stupid! Stupid!” He crossed to the window and gazed down on the busy street three floors below. Thoughts of the farm and the valley pulled at him. He tried to imagine himself a farmer. Could he do it— give up his career? No. He couldn't give up all he'd worked so hard for— not even for Laurel.
He opened the window, and chilly afternoon air flowed in. It was cool for June. He leaned on the sill and studied a man hawking newspapers. Once, not so long ago, that had been him. He'd come far.
Again the memory of his conversation with Will nudged him. “Maybe God wants you here in Alaska,” he'd said. “Maybe it's where you belong.”
Adam respected Will. At the time the comment had stopped him. “It's not possible,” he told himself, imagining what life would be like without writing, without the prestige, without the challenge. “Alaska's not for me.” He leaned on the sill. “Even if it is God's plan, it's not mine. And if Laurel wanted me, she would have come to London.”
Adam grabbed his coat, left the apartment, and headed for the stairs. When he reached the first floor, he pushed through the door and stepped onto a small porch leading to the street. He hurried down the steps, heading for the nearest pub.
He walked decisively, avoiding eye contact with passersby. When he reached the tavern, he pulled open the door and stepped into a dimly lit room. Small tables and chairs were scattered about. A long bar stood on one side of the room. The smell of stale cigarette and cigar smoke lingered from last night's visitors. A man and a woman sat at one of the tables. They talked quietly, sipping dark ale.
Adam walked to the bar and sat on a stool. Resting his forearms on the bar, he counted tumblers standing in straight rows on a shelf on the wall.
The bartender, a robust-looking man with a heavy mustache, greeted him, “Good day to you, Adam.”
Adam nodded.
“You look a bit down in the mouth. What can I get for you?”
“Just a beer. Don't bother with a glass.” Adam didn't look up. He heard a fizzle as the lid was pried loose. The bartender set the bottle in front of him, then wisely went about his business. Adam took a sip, then guzzled down half the bottle.
The door opened, and a rush of cool air and city street noise swept inside. Adam didn't look up.
“Hey, I thought that was you,” a man said.
Adam recognized Joe's voice. He didn't bother to look at his friend.
“Hey, what's got you so down?” Joe said, sidling up next to Adam.
