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In the rugged Ozarks of beautiful Branson, Missouri, a woman struggles to save her marriage—and finds answers from an unexpected source: the heartrending love letters of her husband’s beloved first wife . . .
Allison felt like she’d stepped into a fairy tale when she married widower Burke Caldwell. Wealthy, powerful, and breathtakingly handsome, Burke is the husband of her wildest dreams. But after less than a year of marriage, he’s become distant, almost a stranger. His friends see Allison as little more than a trophy wife, and his only daughter regards her as the enemy. With everyone so devoted to the memory of Burke’s first wife, Kate, how can Allison possibly compete? Then a harrowing car crash leaves Burke badly injured and in need of support as he battles to heal. But it becomes achingly clear that the woman Burke wants by his side is the wife he lost . . .
No longer able to dismiss the power Kate still holds, Allison can’t resist reading a hidden cache of letters from Kate to Burke. What she discovers sets her mind reeling. Was it possible Kate was just as challenged as she by Burke’s bullheadedness and tight hold on his emotions? The letters give Allison an enlightening window into her husband’s heart. But will she have the courage to put aside her own fears, and grab hold of a love as big and bold as the man she once dared to marry?
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An excerpt from Letters from Peaceful Lane by Janet Dailey
Allison rolled the windows down and opened the sunroof for the drive back to Peaceful Lane. She drove with the wind in her burning eyes and Mick Jagger’s raunchy baritone blasted “You Can’t Always Get What You Want” from the stereo. Fighting the black undertow that threatened to drag her down, she sang along at the top of her lungs.
By the time she’d parked the car in the driveway, left a message on Brianna’s cell phone, showered, dressed in gray slacks and a black T, and twisted her hair up with a silver clip, it was after 7:00 A.M. She would find the missing contracts, then force down a bite of breakfast. After that it would be back to the war zone that Burke’s hospital room had become. The day was bound to be hellish, but no matter how much he tried to hurt her, she would be there for him.
Burke’s study had not been greatly changed by the remodeling. He’d allowed Allison to replace the curtains with shutters and the worn-out carpet with colorful kilim rugs over hardwood flooring, but he’d refused to part with the battered walnut veneer desk, the shabby leather chair, or the outdated brass reading lamp that hunkered beside it. The bookshelves lining the inner walls were stocked with a lifetime of treasures—books, photos, travel souvenirs, and models of boats and planes. These Allison had known better than to touch.
Burke had tactfully boxed up the pictures in which Kate appeared. Still it was here, in this very masculine room, that Allison most strongly felt the woman’s presence.
Walking to the desk, she glanced around its cluttered surface for the manila envelope containing the contracts. There was no sign of it, nor could she find any loose pages that matched Garrett’s description. Allison sighed. She had hoped this task would be simple. She was in no mood for a long search.
One by one, she opened the desk drawers and pawed through their contents. Common sense told her she was wasting her time. Burke would never have stowed a vital contract in the center drawer
with its clutter of pens, pencils, sticky notes, string, tape, and paper clips. Nor would he have put it in the drawer that contained nothing but household bills, receipts, and unused checkbooks, or the drawer that
held the instruction books and spare cables for his computer. But at least, if she failed to find it, she’d be able to tell Garrett she’d gone through the desk.
The large file drawer was next. Allison riffled through the folders, knowing that the missing envelope wouldn’t be there. Why would Burke file away the documents he’d planned to take back to work? Maybe he’d left the envelope in the foyer, the kitchen, or even the garage on his way out of the house. She should have checked there first.
Only one drawer—the small lower right one—remained. Sliding it partway open, Allison saw a box of powder-blue linen stationery with matching envelopes, an assortment of flowery all-occasion note cards, several pens, and a roll of unused 33-cent postage stamps. Kate’s things, most likely. They looked as if they hadn’t been touched in years.
Pushing on the drawer to close it, she felt a slight but stubborn resistance. Something in the rear had caught on the inner frame of the desk. Not wanting to do any damage, she worked the drawer the rest of the way open. There in the very back, crumpled at one corner, lay a large, plain manila envelope.
As soon as she lifted it out of the drawer, Allison knew it wasn’t the envelope she was looking for. The contents, whatever they were, felt too thick and lumpy to be flat legal documents. She was debating whether to return the envelope, unopened, to the drawer when the phone jangled. She answered on the second ring.
“Allison? Garrett again.”
Her pulse slammed. “What is it? Burke—?”
“Relax. That’s not why I’m calling. I’m at work, and I just found the contracts under some papers in Burke’s office.”
“So I can stop looking.”
“Right. Sorry, I hope you didn’t spend too much time.”
“Only a little. I’m glad you found them.”
“Are you holding up OK?”
“Fine,” she lied.
“You’ll call me if there’s any change in Burke’s condition?”
“Of course.” Allison hung up the phone without saying goodbye and sank back into the worn leather chair, feeling as if every ounce of energy had been sucked from her body. With the contracts in Garrett’s hands, there was nothing to keep her from returning to the hospital. But she lacked the strength to face the war of wills that would erupt as soon as she stepped into Burke’s room.
The manila envelope lay on the desk in front of her. In her present condition, the mere thought of putting it back in the drawer made her feel tired. But given the chance that Brianna might come rushing home and see that her stepmother had been snooping, Allison knew it would be prudent to leave things as she’d found them.
Willing her hand to move, she picked the envelope up by its nearest end—the bottom. As she lifted it, the flap at the top fell open, spilling the contents onto the desk.
Allison stared at the scattered heap of letters, folded into pretty envelopes that made a rainbow of pastel shades on the desktop. Except for one that was sealed, they’d been torn off at one end, the way
Burke tended to open his letters. They were addressed to him, at the far-flung locations where his work as a talent agent had taken him.
The labels in the upper left corners bore the return address of this house—6314 PEACEFUL LANE. And above the address, the name on each one was KATE CALDWELL.
Realizing what she’d found, Allison scooped up the letters. She was stuffing them back into the manila envelope when she was seized by a thought so stunning that it stopped her hands in midmotion.
Maybe she was meant to find these letters.
Maybe, in this time of shattering crisis, there was something here that would help her understand the proud, impossibly stubborn man she’d married.
Or maybe not. The letters were private and precious. She had no business touching them.
Still vacillating, she gazed down at the scattered envelopes, trying to decipher the blurred postmarks. The latest one was dated a few months before Kate’s death.
One envelope, this one plain, white, business size, and thicker than the others, bore no postmark, stamp, or address, only a single line, written in an unsteady hand.
For Burke, to be opened after my death
Allison’s throat tightened as she held it. This letter, if that’s what it was, had almost certainly been written last. And it appeared that it had never been opened.
But never mind that. Today, with her life crumbling like a sandcastle, the last thing she needed was to read the intimate thoughts of the woman Burke had loved.
Hastily, as if fearing she might change her mind, she began scooping the letters into a pile. One letter slipped loose and dropped to the floor, spilling its folded pages—sunny yellow sheets bordered with daisies—onto the carpet.
She reached down to gather them up. The first page had fallen open, lying faceup, inviting her—almost daring her—to read it.
As her fingers brushed the paper, Allison felt a shiver of anticipation. She would read only one letter, she vowed. Then she would put them all back in the drawer and forget she’d ever seen them.
Her pulse quickened as she put the three pages in order, smoothed out the creases, and began to read.
My Darling Burke,
The rains have come early. This afternoon, while I was mulching the hydrangeas, I noticed a cloud
bank creeping in over the lake. Now it’s lying out there like a big, shaggy, wet dog, with no plans to leave. I’ve opened the French doors to let in the breeze. A few minutes ago, when I looked out beyond the balcony, I saw the first flash of lightning.
Earlier tonight I tried to sleep. But the house is too quiet, the bed too wide and empty without you, so I’m curled in your big leather chair, wearing your ratty old plaid bathrobe over my pajamas. The robe smells like you, which is why I stop myself every time I get the urge to throw it in the laundry. Wearing it is the closest I can come to feeling your arms around me. Brianna’s off at a slumber party and Captain is snoozing in his favorite spot under your desk. From the way his arthritic old legs keep twitching, I’d say
he’s dreaming about chasing seagulls on the wharf, or maybe treeing that snooty Siamese next door.
A few minutes ago I almost picked up the phone and dialed your hotel. Don’t worry, I came to my
senses in time. It’s after midnight here and God knows how late it is in Miami—sorry, you know I never bother to keep track of such trivialities as time zones. Whatever the hour, I’m aware that you’ve had a hectic day and need your rest. Besides, the ringing of a phone in the dark hours is a nightmare sound. Even when it’s a wrong number, your pulse doesn’t stop jerking till dawn. I wouldn’t inflict that on you for the world. But I wish I could hear your voice right now—or better yet, I wish I could fly across the country on the wings of night and creep between your sheets. We wouldn’t even have to make love. Just holding you would be enough.
Since that isn’t possible, I’ve decided to write you a letter. Oh, yes, I know it’s the twenty-first century, and email is the way to go. It’s fast and efficient and won’t wake you up in the night. But I hate the sterile look of those words on the screen. A letter is more intimate— the paper I’ve touched, the curves, dots, and lines of words that I’ve formed with my own hand, the envelope I’ve sealed with my tongue, to be opened by no one but you. I realize I’m hopelessly out of date. But I’ve always enjoyed writing letters to people I love.
Wondering . . . How much time have we spent apart in the past twenty years? I’ve never tried to add up the days, weeks, and months, the missed holidays and anniversaries, the crises I had to survive without you. But then, why should I? It’s the time we’ve spent together that counts—you, me, Brianna, the dogs, the boat, our friends. We’ve had a rich life, Burke. And the rough times have only made the good times sweeter.
Which brings me to a bit of news. It’s nothing you need to be alarmed about, and certainly no cause for you to come flying home. If it were, you’d have gotten one of those awful late-night phone calls. And you haven’t. So don’t worry, OK? Here it is. Last week, when I was showering after a run to the landing and back, I found a pea-sized lump in my left armpit. The doctor took a biopsy, and the results came back today. The picture isn’t pretty, my sweet. But the specialist is hopeful that we’ve caught the cancer in time to stop it (there, I’ve used it, that nasty old C word).
I start chemo (another of those ugly C words) next week. The doctors say I’ll lose my hair, which will probably make me look like Patrick Stewart in drag. But you and Brianna always did like Star Trek, didn’t you? And my hair will grow back thick and curly when the treatment’s over, or so they tell me. I should even lose some weight in the bargain. Think how sexy I’ll look on the boat next summer!
I know my news will worry you, Burke, but please don’t let it change anything between us. I’m a strong woman, and I’m going to fight this thing like a tigress. I plan to be around for years to come—to dance at Brianna’s wedding and rock her babies in my arms, to celebrate our fiftieth anniversary, and maybe our sixtieth! Not only am I not going down without a fight—I am not going down, period!
So put this letter aside and be at peace. In two weeks, when you fly home, I’ll be waiting at the airport to welcome you with open arms. Until then, stay well, be safe, and know that I’ll always be here for you.
All my love,
Your Kate
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About Janet Dailey
JANET DAILEY has written more than 100 novels and become one of the top-selling female authors in the world, with 325 million copies of her books sold in nineteen languages in ninety-eight countries. She is known for her strong, decisive characters, her extraordinary ability to recreate a time and a place, and her unerring courage to confront important, controversial issues in her stories. To learn more about Janet Dailey and her novels, please visit www.JanetDailey.com or find her on Facebook at Facebook.com/JanetDaileyAuthor.
