Lacy leaned her back against the trunk of the apricot tree. Throughout the day, already long and sunny as summer approached, the bark had soaked up the heat, and now it shared it willingly; it felt as if a soft shawl had been draped over her shoulders.
This spot, under the generous canopy of the apricot tree, was Lacy's kingdom. She had always loved this place: just as she had in childhood, hiding in the thick shade to play with dolls; and during her school years, when she came here with textbooks and notebooks. Even now, nothing had changed—she still returned to this spot. Granted, the dolls and textbooks had been replaced by novels from her favorite authors, a sketchbook for watercolors, and a flute. Lacy's grandmother, Irene, had offered to put a chair here or hang a hammock, but Lacy didn't want them. She liked sitting right on the ground, leaning back against the trunk. That way, she felt the reality of life pulsing more sharply beneath the thick, rough bark.
"If I close my eyes and listen closely," Lacy thought, "I can hear the old branches creaking, the young leaves reaching for the light… I can hear the sap rushing from the roots to the crown, and the fruit swelling with honeyed sweetness."
The gate creaked. Lacy listened. She could never mistake Robbie's footsteps for anyone else's. Never. She hurriedly fluffed her hair with her hands and let the strap of her sundress slip slightly off her shoulder. She desperately wanted to look seductive and sophisticated, like the many femmes fatales from her romance novels. So what if she was only sixteen, and her beloved wasn't a mysterious, formidable pirate, but just a green graduate of the maritime academy? They had love! The kind of love you don't even read about in every novel. So there!
Robbie was being clever: instead of coming straight down the path, he snuck up behind her. Lacy jumped when large, warm palms covered her eyes.
"Robbie!"
Laughing, he sank onto the ground beside her.
"I didn't just come for a visit. I have some big, huge, brilliant news!"
"And what would this news be?"
Lacy rested her head on his shoulder. Robbie wrapped his arm around her, burying his face in her tousled hair. It smelled of wildflowers—better than any perfume. He adored that scent.
"I'm heading out to sea, Lace. For a month."
"What?!" Lacy recoiled instantly, breaking free from his embrace.
Now her face, pale in the twilight, was directly in front of his. Her eyes were filled with alarm.
"I thought you'd be happy…" Robbie muttered, confused. "Do you know how many people wanted to get on the Viking? And they only took me and Alex Smith!"
"Oh, Robbie… Oh, of course, I'm happy for you, it's just… How am I supposed to go a whole month without you?"
"You can use the time to work on your French; you know you're struggling with it," he tried to joke. But seeing Lacy's eyes fill with tears, he pulled her close again. "Come on, Lace, it's only a month, not a year, not a whole lifetime. I tell you what. You'll write me letters! A letter every day, like in the old days."
"And send them in bottles?" Lacy sobbed.
"No, no. You'll put your letters in a box, and when there are thirty of them, I'll be back. We'll sit here, just like this, and you'll read them to me. Will you?"
He gently stroked her head. Lacy sniffled and then asked:
"And what happens then?"
Robbie smiled.
"I'll realize I'm like Captain Wentworth, and you're my Anne Elliot who waited for me. And I'll ask you to marry me right then and there. Although..." his voice dropped to a searing whisper, "I could ask you that right now. Lace, will you marry me?"
Stunned, she stopped crying.
"Robbie, I'm not eighteen yet…"
"But you will be," he said softly, "and then we'll get married. Do you want to?"
The southern night spread its black, silver-embroidered cloak over the town. There was room for everyone beneath it: for the ships dozing in the old port, for the people in houses with wide-open windows, and for the happy lovers in the garden under the apricot tree.
Why is it that grief is remembered in all its grisly detail, yet happiness leaves almost nothing behind but one vast, bright sensation: "It happened!"
***
Standing on the deck of the departing Viking, Robbie thought about how a week had passed—a week he had sworn to remember every day of. Yet, he remembered surprisingly little: the sleepy warmth of Lacy's body pressed against him, the intoxicating scent of her hair, the rustle of the old apricot leaves, and those huge southern stars in the night sky.
"Bring your flute when you come to see me off," he had asked. "I want to head out to sea to your music. For luck, okay?"
"I promise," she had nodded.
She had indeed brought her flute, but she couldn't play—her breath was too hitched from sobbing.
"Wait for me, my Anne!" Robbie shouted.
The sky above the Viking was a piercing blue. Lacy tried bravely not to cry. She waved to him until she could no longer distinguish his face on the rapidly receding vessel. Then, when the Viking became nothing more than a white speck on the horizon, she sat on the sand and broke down.
***
"Just eat something already!" Irene set a bowl of cold soup in front of her granddaughter. "You've become thin as a rail. Your Sinbad the Sailor will come back and won't even recognize you."
"Grandma, Robbie will always know me," Lacy smiled.
Irene looked at her granddaughter and laughed. The girl had grown up to be a beauty. A lithe figure, thick hair reaching down to her waist, and deep, sea-grey eyes. Just like her mother…
That memory was a sad one. Irene had outlived her daughter, and all she could do was thank God every day that she at least had her granddaughter. Mary, Lacy's mother, had died as a twenty-year-old girl. She died in childbirth. Her husband, a quiet, serious grad student named Steve, struggled for a month with the restless infant before suddenly remembering he had a mother back home who needed his help.
"Lacy should stay with you, Irene," he had said before leaving. "I don't know the first thing about babies, and you have experience. Besides, it'll be better for the child here. Fresh air, the ocean nearby, fresh fruit and vegetables. And I… who's going to help me with her there?"
Irene could have asked, "What about your mother, Steve? Doesn't she have experience?" The question was on the tip of her tongue. She didn't ask it. In the end, she was glad Lacy was staying with her. It gave her life meaning.
"And I'll visit. Often!" Steve promised. "I'll send money, don't worry."
He hadn't visited once since then. The money transfers did come, though. They weren't large, but they were something.
"Eat," Irene repeated. "You haven't eaten a thing in a month."
Lacy poked at her food with a spoon, then picked up a few pieces of vegetables and put them in her mouth.
"No, I really have no appetite," she admitted. "I think I'll go finish my letter to Robbie."
The room was dark and cool. Lacy turned on the desk lamp and picked up a sheet of paper covered in writing. She wrote to Robbie every day, as they had agreed. In a carved wooden box lay a neat stack of letters. There were twenty-nine of them. She folded the latest one and added it to the others. The thirtieth.
Lacy spent the entire morning on watch at the port, getting in the way of the sailors scurrying to and fro. A slender girl in a cornflower-blue dress, holding a bouquet of daisies, drew everyone's attention. People looked back at her: from the dockworkers to the captains. Her heart beat erratically, speeding up and then slowing down. For some reason, tears were pricking her eyes.
"It's just nerves," Lacy thought. "I haven't seen Robbie in so long; I missed him so much."
But rational thoughts didn't help much. Her soul felt not joy, but a prickly, unpleasant premonition of imminent disappointment.
Lacy looked at her watch: it was already eleven. The Viking was supposed to have docked at nine. She climbed the narrow stairs to the glass-walled dispatcher's office. She knocked timidly.
"Hello. I wanted to find out why the Viking is delayed..."
The dispatcher, a middle-aged woman, looked closely at Lacy. She switched off her microphone.
"The Viking? You have someone on it? Your father?"
"No, not my father. My fiancé. Robert Ivans."
The woman clarified:
"So you're nothing to him? Not his wife?"
"His fiancée."
"Then go. I can't tell you anything."
"But…"
"Go!" the dispatcher raised her voice. "I have work to do."
Lacy stopped port employees again and again, repeating the same question: "Where is the Viking? Have you heard anything?" People turned away and hurried off. Some asked who she was to Robbie, but upon hearing she was only his fiancée, they shrugged: "I don't know anything. You should go home."
"Lacy!" a voice called from behind her.
She turned around. A tall, silver-haired man in uniform was walking toward her.
"How do you know my name?"
"I knew your mother," the man smiled, but his face quickly turned serious again. "And I heard you asking everyone about the Viking."
"Do you know something? My fiancé is on that ship!"
"Listen, girl. Try to find some courage, because this is going to be hard: contact with the Viking has been lost, and no one knows where it is. It might be a simple equipment failure. God willing. But it might be trouble. Go home, Lacy. I'll keep you informed."
Lacy didn't remember the walk back. She walked toward her home like a wind-up toy that couldn't stray from its path. At the doorstep, the spring ran out. Lacy collapsed unconscious and didn't wake up until evening, in her own room.
A damp towel lay on her forehead. Muffled voices drifted in from the kitchen:
"It's shock... not surprising. Were they very much in love?" a deep male voice asked.
Whose? Oh, right! Her mother's acquaintance. Why was he here? Had he found out something about Robbie? She began to listen.
"First love," Irene sighed. "It's always powerful. You remember how much you loved Mary, don't you? How devastated you were when she chose Steve."
"I remember, Irene... Well, that makes it all the harder for Lacy. Will you tell her, or should I?"
"Tell her what, Eugene? Is anything known?"
"Not much. We traced the Viking's approximate location and sent out patrols. We found the vessel, but there was no one on board. We don't know what happened. But there isn't much hope for a happy ending, as you can imagine. Where does a crew vanish to in the middle of the open sea?"
Lacy had no strength left to cry. Only two hot tears escaped and rolled down her temples. She knew they were bitter, like resin. Lacy wasn't able to get out of bed for a week. Supporting her granddaughter, Irene led her to the apricot tree and helped her sit down.
"Just sit here," she said firmly. "This is your favorite place; it'll give you your strength back."
The girl pressed her back against the rough trunk. She remembered the day she saw Robbie off, and how she had cried on the shore for a long time. How long ago that seemed!
"Strange," she said, her lips dry. "Back then, I could cry. Now I can't."
Her grandmother stroked her hair.
"It's always like that, Lacy. We cry over trifles, but when the grief is great, there are no tears. It's okay; this too shall pass. Just know: once you start crying, the pain will start to leave."
"Grandma…"
"What is it, sweetheart?"
"When Robbie was sailing away… he asked me to play for him. For luck. And I… I couldn't. Maybe it's all my fault?"
"No," Irene's voice was firm. "Don't blame yourself; don't torture yourself. Not everything in life depends on us."
The girl tried to nod, but the world suddenly spun before her eyes, and she had to clutch at the grass to keep from falling. Lacy leaned to the side and was immediately sick.
***
"It's Robbie Ivans'," Lacy heard.
She had heard so many of these whispers and rumors over the past few months. Her pregnancy was impossible to hide now, and all the local gossips were eager to discuss it. Lacy tried not to show herself in public more than necessary. The gossip made her feel ill.
"Be patient," Irene said. "Life in a small town, you know how it is… Always the same. And now this: unmarried and pregnant! Ignore them. They'll talk until they're tired of it. You're going to have a baby. That's what matters."
And Lacy endured.
There was still no news of the Viking. In the town, the crew was considered dead. They held a communal memorial service. Lacy didn't go. To go would be to admit that the person she loved was dead. That was impossible.
"Don't go then," her grandmother unexpectedly supported her. "It's never too late to mourn, and he might still be alive."
Lacy knew Irene didn't really believe Robbie could have survived; she was only saying it to avoid reopening the wound in her granddaughter's soul. She was grateful to her grandmother for that. The birth happened in mid-February and went surprisingly quickly and easily.
"What will you name him?" Irene asked, admiring her great-grandson.
The young mother smiled.
"Robert. Like his father."
***
The man was large, and it was impossible to get around him as he blocked the exit of the store.
"I'm coming to see you tonight," he insisted, not even trying to lower his voice.
"Let me through," Lacy didn't dare get closer and now stood surrounded by a curious crowd.
"What difference does it make to you!" came a voice from behind.
It was a woman speaking. Lacy looked around, and the woman was already vividly describing the story of Lacy's "scandalous" pregnancy, adding a bunch of non-existent details.
"She's just a loose woman!" shouts came from the appreciative audience. "Had a kid out of wedlock and still turns up her nose!"
"Young people these days have no shame!"
"Disgraceful!"
"Oh, phooey on the lot of you!" A woman stepped out from the crowd and took Lacy by the hand. "Come on, dear. Let them wag their tongues if they've got nothing better to do. And you, Bill," she turned to the man, "get out of the way for your own good, before I tell your wife, Dorothy."
"Don't you worry, Lacy," she comforted the girl on the way home. "They do it out of stupidity. And boredom."
Irene, having heard her granddaughter's story, shook her head. She didn't mention that rumors about the girl's "immoral" behavior had reached her as well—for some reason, the women were especially zealous. Perhaps they feared for their husbands' loyalty or their sons' morals. Or maybe they just liked thinking they were much better and more proper than Lacy.
But there were others, though very few, who sincerely pitied the girl who had lost her love and was left with a baby at seventeen. Of course, in different times, seventeen-year-olds had faced even greater trials, but still, youth is meant for study, romance, and friendship…
"You and little Robbie need to move away," Irene said resolutely.
"Where?" Lacy asked in surprise.
"To the city. You'll get a job there, put your son in daycare. You can finish your degree through correspondence. You'll get on your feet bit by bit. They won't give you a life here. Little Robbie is small now, but when he grows up, these same women will be telling him everything they're saying to you. Think about it—what is there for you here?"
That night, Lacy spent a long time walking around the room, rocking her son. Her grandmother was right: in their old town, which had fallen out of time long ago, there was nothing for a young unwed mother. It was time to leave. Little Robbie whimpered softly.
"Don't cry, little one. We're going to the big city, and then your daddy will find us. He'll come, and we'll live together."
Lacy told her son every day that his father would surely return. She herself believed it less and less.
***
Irene sat on the porch, reading another letter from Lacy. Her granddaughter visited often, and in the intervals, she wrote long letters.
It had been seven years since she and little Robbie had been living in the city. Lacy had managed to finish her studies and was now working in her field. She was highly valued at work, and six months ago, she had been able to buy her own apartment—small, but hers. Lacy liked city life; there were more opportunities, and most importantly, no one judged her. Sometimes people asked who Robbie's father was, but upon receiving the short answer that he had died at sea, they asked no more.
Irene folded the letter and smiled. Everything was good. Only one thing troubled her: Lacy hadn't even tried to start dating anyone. Her "Sinbad" hadn't been forgotten; she hadn't been able to stop loving him. The gate opened, and confident footsteps were heard on the path leading to the house.
"Irene, where's Lacy?" a cheerful male voice rang out.
"Robbie…"
Robbie. No, Robert now. Tall and broad-shouldered, bronzed by the sun, with generous streaks of silver in his unusually long hair.
"Where is she?" he repeated, grinning widely. "I even checked under the apricot tree, but she's not there."
***
"We had already turned back," Robert recounted.
Irene poured him more tea. He took a sip and continued:
"Who they were, what they wanted, or where they came from, I don't know. None of us understood. There wasn't much to rob on the Viking, so they probably weren't pirates. And there weren't pirates in those waters; it was a quiet area. Maybe they wanted to take hostages and demand a ransom later. Anyway, five of the crew survived. We reached the shore, and the local police were there. They took us all in one sweep: the bandits and the hostages. That's how we ended up in that prison. It was hell, Irene… No food, nothing. They gave us water twice a day, and the heat was unbearable. And the flies…"
"Did they beat you?" Irene asked softly.
"Of course. They did. Well, and then one fine morning, two men in uniform showed up, took me by the arms, and threw me out."
"Where?!"
"Onto the street," Robert smirked. "I still don't know why I was in there or why they let me go. It took me six months to get back here. I had no money, no ID. And no one was looking for me—being an orphan and all."
"How did you endure it all, you poor soul... How did you find the strength to survive…"
"I," even under his tan, it was clear that a flush had crept into Robert's hollow cheeks, "I thought about Lacy all the time. I kept telling myself she was waiting for me. I knew a lot of time had passed, but… I never would have survived without that."
***
Lacy laughed and hugged her son. Today was Sunday—their day, which they always spent together. The playground was almost empty. That was for the best, really; it meant Lacy could fit on the swings with Robbie or race him across the play structure.
"Can we draw?" the boy suggested.
Lacy pulled colored chalk out of her backpack.
"Sure. What should we draw?"
"Well…" Robbie thought for a second. "You draw the Cheshire Cat, and I'll draw…"
"Alice?"
"No, a Cheshire Dog!"
Lacy knelt down and picked up a piece of chalk.
"Hello, son," a voice said from behind her.
Lacy knew that voice; she couldn't be mistaken. Very, very slowly, she stood up and turned around.
"I'm back, my Anne," Robert said softly.
Lacy's happiness knew no bounds. Robert embraced his love and his son.
"I'm finally home," he whispered.
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