I took a white linen envelope from Shep. Was it one more of her letters? What did she have to tell me now? Another dark secret?
I slid my finger under the envelope flap. Then I took out a single page and began to read.
Dearest Jennifer,
I guess this is our last talk, and don’t you dare be sad. That was never our style. When your grandfather and I bought the lake house fifty years ago, it was a fixer-upper on stony soil, but it had the most gorgeous views of the lake. I have so many glorious memories of this place, and so do you. I can still see you and your mother curled up on the couch in front of the fire while I cooked one of my dinners. Valerie gave birth to Bobby upstairs in the east bedroom, and both you and your cousin left permanent ice skate tracks on the kitchen floor. (Of course, I knew you did it.) I remember all the summers we spent on the front porch, but most of all, I remember the times I’ve had with you, Jennifer. You were always “my best.”
I’m looking out across the lake now as I write. Winter will be here before long; the branches will glisten with ice, and snow will blow across the lake like a fine lace curtain. I can’t wait for that to happen.
But I am also already looking forward to spring. The freshly painted docks will go back into the lake, the garden will shake off the snow, and the perennials will reemerge. And what I’m thinking is that the word perennial is a misnomer. Long-lived might be more correct, because perennials don’t live forever. Not even sassy ones like me. This is why I’m preparing for the future, today.
Of course, I’m taking care of everyone I love, but I have a special gift for you. Actually, it’s inside the envelope with this letter. Use it well—I know you will.
Jennifer, my heart is full, and my life has been, too. That’s a great thing. I have my Doc. I have you, and you have Brendan. I couldn’t be any happier. What more could anyone ask for?
All my love, and remember—you are my best friend, you are “my best.”
Sam
A small weight shifted inside the envelope, which sent it floating from my hand. I bent to retrieve the envelope, and a brass key tied to a round cardboard tag with a frayed red string slid out.
I picked up the key and looked at the tag.
On one side, Sam had written: 23 Knollwood Road, the house is yours now, Jennifer.
On the other side was a short inscription. I looked at what Sam had written. Her last words to me, ever.
Love never dies.
EPILOGUE
Pictures for Sam
Eighty-three
BRENDAN AND I arrange ourselves on the couch in front of the handy-dandy, state-of-the-art Sony video camera, which is set up and ready for our very first home movie.
We’re in our new Chicago apartment, with its view of Lake Michigan, and we’re as excited as can be. This is an important moment in our lives, seminal stuff. At least, we seem to think so.
“You ready? Okay, I’ll turn it on,” Brendan says, then jumps up and switches on the video camera. He is full of life these days—in remission—like the rest of us, right? “You start, Jen,” he says. “You’re never at a loss for words.”
“Hello, Samantha,” I say, and grin like a fool and finger-wave to the camera. “It’s Mommy, when she was thirty-five and not afraid to tell her age.”
Brendan is leaning in beside me. “And I’m your proud, very happy dad, as of fourteen days and about eleven hours.”
“We love you very, very much, sweetheart, and a couple of times a year —”
“Maybe more than a couple,” Brendan says. “See, your mom and dad are frustrated actors. Obviously, we’re windbags, too.”
I say, “We’re going to film ourselves and try to give you an idea of who we are, what we’re like, what we’re thinking about, and, of course, how much we love you.”
I look at Brendan and he picks up the thread, which we have semirehearsed.
“So that when you get old and infirm like the two of us—or me, anyway—you’ll be able to look at these tapes and know who we were. Is that cool?”
“And how silly we were. . . . But also how much we treasure having you as our daughter. Right now, you’re sleeping, and you’re a very, very good sleeper.”
Brendan starts to clap, and also lets Sam see his movie-star smile. “Hooray! Good going, Samantha. Keep it up! You go, girl! Way to sleep!”
I say, “Samantha, you have the most beautiful blue eyes, a breathtaking smile, like your dad—and neither of us can get enough of you.”
“You’re also bald as a cue ball, but Mama dresses you in pink so we know you’re a girly girl,” Brendan teases, but sweetly, as is his way.
“Here’s an interesting tidbit,” I say. “When you were born, at the moment you appeared in the world, you looked around like a curious little bird peeking out for the first time from its nest. You looked right at me, checked me out—and then you looked at your dad, checked him out—and then you smiled gloriously at both of us. Now, supposedly, according to the doctor in the house, you couldn’t possibly smile or see us yet, but we don’t believe that.”
“I’m the doctor, and I don’t believe it,” says Brendan. “Did I mention that you’re bald as an egg?”
“You did,” I say. “Now let us start at the very beginning of this wonderful story, the start of it all, Samantha. Let me tell you how you got your name. It’s a beautiful name and an even more beautiful story. And you, Sam, are its happy ending.”
And then I am silent for a moment, and I don’t say this, but I am thinking, Love never dies, Sam.
About the Author
James Patterson is the author of the acclaimed Alex Cross and Women’s Murder Club series. His love story Suzanne’s Diary for Nicholas was a runaway success and his top bestseller. He lives in Florida.
James Patterson, Sam's Letters to Jennifer
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