James Lalonde dropped his keys into the small bowl on top of the dark wooden shoe cabinet next to the front door. A little chirp cried out from the smartphone in his pocket. More work, the perfect way to spend the last twenty-two minutes of his Sunday evening.
Valentine is going to scream at me.
That was how every Sunday evening played out. He expected this weekend to be no different. Piles of editing and an angry girlfriend screaming at him in French.
As chief editor of the Northampton Tribune, James had a mountain of work to climb and would never reach its summit. He sighed. This was not the job he had wished for as a fresh-faced student. He had dreamed of investigative journalism and the same clichéd fantasies every journalism student imagined: writing in war zones, uncovering government secrets, and exposing corruption. And maybe one day, when he was too old to chase down stories, he would become the chief editor of a newspaper. He’d received his wish, but it had come thirty years too early. And now he longed for the adrenaline rush that came with chasing a story.
James walked down the hall and dumped his bag on the chair at the end of the kitchen table. He pulled out his phone and stared at the screen—he needed to assess the damage. Two messages had come through. The first was his best friend Liam wanting to catch up, and then there was the second. As usual, Harry Lancaster, the owner of the Northampton Tribune, wanted to Skype about the layout of page one. On James’s first day as editor, Harry had promised to guide him through his new role. After a year, Harry would step back and observe the paper from afar. Three years later, and this was the man’s idea of stepping back. But James had expected that. Harry had the reputation of being hands-on and epitomised the Oxford dictionary’s definition of micromanagement.
He sighed as he continued to stare at his screen. Out of the corner of his eye, he noticed a handwritten envelope with his name on it on the kitchen table.
A large stone formed in the pit of his stomach as he recognised the handwriting. He looked around the room and listened to the silence of the house.
‘Valentine,’ he called out into the emptiness, but he got no response.
Silence was never a good sign, especially from Valentine. He had expected her to lecture him about his work addiction the second he stepped through the front door. But this evening was different. He was all alone.
He took a deep breath, reached out, and slid the envelope towards him. He stared at the ink on it. A chirp cried out from his phone and disrupted the silence. He rolled his eyes. Another message had come through with one more item to add to his never-ending to-do list.
The handwriting was perfect and neat. It was as if Valentine had taken her time and not written it in a last-minute rush. She loved writing letters and had attended many calligraphy courses throughout their relationship.
This letter seemed different, though perhaps it was his overactive imagination. There was only one way to find out.
James opened the envelope, careful not to tear the letter within. Inside was a single ivory page with Valentine’s message.