“Fairy tales,” Laura Bradshaw mumbled as she ran her fingertip along the embossed letters on the newly purchased book, wishing it were a different title. Years ago, she’d loved the stories of Rapunzel, Briar-Rose, and the little cinder girl, but at nearly fourteen, she found her interests lying elsewhere—Shakespeare, animal care, and poetry.
“The illustrations are lovely,” her mother said, unaffected by Laura’s tone or the slight chill in the air. “Besides, only stuffy old people stop believing in happy endings.”
Her mother’s kind, gentle lips rose high in the corners, creating creases of infectious happiness. Suddenly Laura did not feel too old for stories of princes and princesses. Instead, she felt the familiar longing to curl up and fall asleep to the sound of her mother’s voice reading story after story.
“I don’t suppose I’m too old,” she said, not wanting her mother’s smile to fade or this perfect day to end. “It’s a beautiful book.”
“I hoped you’d like it.” Laura’s mother squeezed her hand before looking at the tall downtown building that loomed before them, ominous and bulky. Then she sighed deeply. When she smiled next, the expression was different—more forced. “You’re growing up so fast. Everything is happening so fast.”
“I’m almost fourteen.” Laura stood a little taller. All day they’d been together, shopping and eating. She didn’t want this mysterious final stop to darken the day. “Why do you have to go to the war office? Couldn’t Father just come?”
“No,” she said sharply. Gone was the lightheartedness of moments before. “I have to do this.” She shook her head, then wrapped her fingers around Laura’s arm. “It’s up to me to make this right. Wait here. Read your new book until I get back. I won’t be long.”
“What do you have to make right?” Laura asked, but her mother was already three steps away. Laura’s words drifted in the air like smoke pluming from a chimney with no destination. Eventually, the smoke would grow so faint that it seemed never to have existed at all. Left behind, she leaned against the wall of the nearby restaurant to wait. Her eyes and thoughts remained with her mother, who stood a few yards away, waiting to cross the street. What did her mother have to make right? She had never done anything wrong. She was perfect—wasn’t she?
Unaccustomed to being alone, and burdened by her questions, Laura opened the book of fairy tales and thumbed through the pages, pausing to admire the illustrations of handsome princes. Their well-drawn faces proved somewhat diverting, though she would have rather had Isaac Campbell here for company than pictures, no matter how skillfully rendered. If Isaac were here, beside her, she might have been able to forget about the war office and the worry lines around her mother’s eyes. The dashing fair-haired prince on the page in front of her was not nearly as handsome as her childhood friend. His dark hair, his eyes . . .
She snapped the book shut. This train of thought would lead nowhere. Isaac Campbell was little more than a dream or a fancy. He was kind, a bit of a tease, but at two years her senior, he still treated her like nothing more than the daughter of his father’s business partner. Other girls caught his eye—she’d seen him flirt with them—but not her. She and Isaac were chums, nothing more. But maybe one day . . . No, don’t start that, she chided herself.
A shriek pierced through her rambling thoughts. Laura looked up, instantly back in the present. Tires squealed. She dropped her book, all romantic thoughts vanishing as she moved toward the scene
in disbelief, pulled to it like a magnet to metal. She ran, pushing through the crowd, then stopped. It couldn’t be real. No. It couldn’t be.
A second shriek. This one came from inside Laura, rippling through her young body with so much force that she fell to her knees. The image of her mother crumpled and broken in the street burned itself in her memory, and with it came the knowledge that this moment changed everything.
Laura tightened her grip on her beaded handbag as she walked the maze of paths through the zoo, bound for her tree. Big Frank’s enclosure, with its elephant sculptures and proud stone edifice, caused her to pause, but only for a moment. Today, not even the waving trunk of her elephant friend could entice her to stop. She would have time to say hello to her four-legged friends later.
Before reaching the sea lions, she turned left and slowed her pace. Her heartbeat did the opposite, quickening with each cautious step as she approached the most awe-inspiring feature of the entire zoo—the letter tree, or so she called it—tucked in a corner that had once been part of the nearby park. It had been easier to get to the maple before the zoo expansion claimed this section of land a year ago. Since then, she’d had to enter the zoo, pay admission, and work her way through the crowd to get to her unconventional mailbox.
Today her quest would have to wait, seeing as she was not alone in the normally quiet corner of the zoo. A woman clinging tightly to a man’s arm stepped into the shade of Laura’s maple. She giggled. He worked his hands around her waist and leaned closer. Without meaning to, Laura stared at the lovely couple, both tall and with matching dark hair. The way they looked at each other left Laura gawking and longing for a man to look at her in such a way.
Afraid they would take their escapade too far in her presence, Laura stepped on a fallen branch. The cracking of wood startled the couple, who, to Laura’s great relief, stopped ogling each other and, without so much as a word, turned their backs on her and walked toward the crowd and the animals.
Laura looked down at her polished Bradshaw black-buckle pumps while she waited for the pair to disappear from her sight. Her father’s shoe factory made the finest shoes, though those who favored Campbell shoes would argue theirs were superior. It seemed a lifetime ago that Bradshaw and Campbell had been united.
She ought to be proud that her father was such a successful factory owner. And, on occasion, she was. But those instances were rare; normally, the well-fitted shoes only reminded her that she would always be second in her father’s eyes. His tenderness had been tossed aside in his tireless pursuit of success and vengeance. She buried the toe of her glistening shoe into the soft dirt until it lost its sheen.
“Excuse me, miss, have you dropped something in the dirt?” She took a quick step backward. In front of her stood a white-haired man with rosy cheeks and a welcoming smile. “I can dig around for you so you don’t have to muddy your shoes.”
“No!” Her voice came out an octave higher than normal. “I haven’t lost anything. I was merely . . .” She scrambled for an excuse. None came. “I like this corner of the zoo.”
“You’ve a keen eye. This tree is magnificent. Most everyone comes for the animals.” He put his hands in his pockets while his eyes traveled the trunk of the tree. Her gaze followed his, admiring the vast array of branches and lush, vibrant spring growth. Her maple was beautiful. Magical. Large, proud, and old enough to have seen history she’d only heard of in whispered stories.
“It’s a fine tree,” she said, loving the maple, the animals of the zoo, and the inkling of joy she felt while within these fine gates. Paying admission was a difficulty, but the zoo itself was an oasis in the doldrums of life. Here, she felt connected to the world
outside her father’s home and nurtured her dreams of a life of freedom.
“I’m told this beauty was almost cut down a few months back.”
She gasped. “No!”
“Lost a big branch in the first snowstorm of winter.”
“I remember. But I didn’t know there was talk of cutting it down.”
“One of our donors demanded we leave it be. He made a big fuss. I guess we’re not the only ones who love this tree.” The man pulled his hand from his pocket, and with it came a pocket watch. “I’m to feed the bears in a few minutes. I suppose if you come to the zoo often, you’ve already met our fine bears.”
“I have.” She smiled. She’d spent many mornings watching the bears put on a show for their food.
“It’ll be my first time doing the feeding on my own. My friend’s a guard here. He helped me get this job. He told one of his friends about my work as a veterinarian. I treated mostly livestock before coming here, but I’m well read on the workings of other animals.”
Her breath caught in her chest. Where once he’d been a stranger, she now saw a man who shared her interest in animals and their care. “The polar bear is my favorite. I have watched his feeding many times. He seems a well-mannered fellow. You’ll do well, I’m sure.”
“Don’t go telling the other bears, but he’s my favorite too.”
“I won’t tell.” She grinned. Each animal felt like a friend to her. On her loneliest days, she could come here, look over the railings, and observe the vulture, tiger, or meerkat, and the day would improve.
“We’ve baby foxes, born three weeks back,” the zookeeping man said. “They aren’t coming out much, but you might want to take a look, see if you get lucky. I caught sight of them myself the other day.”
“The baby animals have always been my favorite.”
She’d been seven years old the first time she came to the zoo. Big Frank didn’t have an elephant house back then, only a ball and a chain. Her fingers tingled, pricked by the memory of her mother’s hand in hers, and she clenched her fist, wanting to cling to the feeling as much as she wanted to drive it away. The place where her mother ought to be had been empty for so long.
She fidgeted with the beads on her handbag. Her tongue burned, wanting to pepper this man with questions about animals and veterinary work. But she was better off remaining forgettable. There was less chance of word getting back to her father that she was at the zoo without his permission. Women no longer needed the ever-watchful eye of a chaperone, but her father had not embraced their newly granted freedom.
From beneath his white brows the elderly zookeeper studied her. What did he see when he looked at her? Did he see her fashionable
straight-cut dress, with its scalloped hem, and assume her a modern woman? He couldn’t know that she was anything but modern, preferring comfort over fashion and never caring if there was dirt beneath her nails.
Laura touched a hand to her hair, smoothing the waves as she searched for the right words to end this unexpected exchange and escape his inquiring gaze.
He spoke first. “I’ve been wondering how I know you . . .”
Oh dear.
“I’ve got it—”
She shook her head. “We’ve not met. I believe you’re mistaken.”
“You’re a Bradshaw, aren’t you?”
Laura sucked in her bottom lip and chewed on it a moment. “I am.”
“Best not look at my feet. I’m wearing a pair of Campbell boots today.” His dark eyes twinkled with a spark that would have been welcoming had she not felt the sting of nerves racing up her spine at his recognition. She preferred, no, she needed her anonymity. Without it, her visits to the zoo could be in jeopardy. “You’ve the same auburn hair and blue eyes as your mother. Same small frame. It’s been a long time, but it’s like looking at your mother.”
“My mother,” Laura whispered, suddenly cold despite the warm sun. Talk of the feuding shoe companies riled her spirits, but talk of her mother left her out of sorts. She needed to get away from this man and the memories that were sure to assault her and leave her hollow, empty, and begging for answers.
“It looks as though everyone is headed toward the bears,” she said, desperately hoping to end the conversation.
“You’re right. I’ve dawdled too long. Before I go, I should have introduced myself. It’s not fair that I know you’re Catherine Bradshaw’s daughter but you don’t know I’m Brent Shaffer.”
Polite manners required her to share her name. “I’m Laura Bradshaw.”
“It’s been a pleasure meeting you. Perhaps if I see you again, we can talk more. It would do this old fool well to hear how Catherine Bradshaw’s daughter is faring.” He looked again at the moving crowd before stepping away. “Good day, Miss Bradshaw.”
She offered a brief farewell, then stared like a ninny as he walked away. His gait was slow; she had time to run after him and ask how he knew her mother. If she pried, perhaps she could find a clue that explained her mother’s death and answered one of the many questions that haunted her.
Her father refused to speak of his wife’s accident, brushing it under the rug as though their loss were an irrelevant piece of old factory equipment or unimportant bit of dust. But understanding what had happened was important to Laura. She wanted to tear the rug away, dig through the pile, and discover what led to her world falling apart. Perhaps then she could put things back together.
A gust of wind rustled the young spring leaves of the maple, reminding
her of her quest. Now was not the time to dwell on a past she did not understand. Now was her chance to get to the tree.
Laura let her fingers graze the ridges and valleys of the maple’s bark. Over her shoulder she looked at the crowd, with their peanuts and popcorn in hand, that migrated like a flock of wintering birds toward the bears, leaving her unnoticed. A moment like this was what she always waited for. She stepped closer to the maple that was, in many ways, more than a beloved tree. It was memories. It was comfort. It was hope.
Like a ballerina, she popped onto her tiptoes and reached into the hollow opening. The moment her fingers touched paper, warmth raced to her heart, and nothing else mattered. She took her prize, wishing she could open it immediately, devour its contents, and escape into the world of words. But caution kept her from acting impulsively. Instead, the paper went into her handbag, and then, just as quickly as she’d retrieved the waiting letter, she placed her own carefully penned words into the tree.
For seven years, this tree had been her mailbox—the gateway connecting two worlds. She’d been fourteen when her unusual correspondence began. Now, at twenty-one, the letters were a solace, providing a reprieve from her many woes and a touch of excitement and mystery to her often dull life. Like her very own fairy tale, this secret exchange felt magical, whimsical—and hopeful.
She stepped out from under the shadows of the branches, smoothed her drop-waist dress, and, with head high, walked back through the zoo, stopping only briefly to look for the baby foxes, wave at the swimming sea lions, and admire Big Frank’s leathery skin. The stench of elephant manure hovered in the warm, humid air, but the onlookers’ excitement remained unfettered.
Big Frank’s eyes found hers, and she could almost believe he recognized her. An unusual friendship, to be sure, but one she treasured. Big Frank, with his wise eyes, saw her come and go, and when there was no crowd around him, he listened to her worries, her dreams, and her secrets. He even knew about her letters, a secret she’d not shared with anyone else.
A crowd began to gather at the elephant enclosure, so she waved goodbye and made her way to the zoo’s exit and the grounds of the adjoining Delaware Park, mindful of staying on the side of the park that faced her home so she could look for the warning crystal prisms Mrs. Guskin hung in the window whenever her father came home early. There would be no going to the lake or to Spire Head; it was better to find a quiet spot in view of the parlor window to read the letter and soak in her last bit of freedom before returning to her oversize and ornate prison, so effective at cutting her off from the world that it may as well have been Rapunzel’s tower.
Sweet old Mrs. Guskin, who worked under the title of housekeeper but was more like a grandmother to Laura, encouraged her to go out nearly every day, even if only briefly to stretch her legs. On that account, Laura fared better than Rapunzel.
“Go on now,” Mrs. Guskin had said earlier that day as she waved a hand toward the door, behaving as though Laura were a rambunctious child and not a grown woman of twenty-one. But there was nothing condescending about Mrs. Guskin; she was all goodness and warmth. “Go breathe the fresh air you love so much. See the animals. Those books of yours will never compare to the real thing. Your father made no mention of coming back early, but be sure and check the window.” A throaty laugh followed. “As soon as I believe I know what to expect from your father, he does something unexpected.”
“I’ll check the window.” Laura grinned, grateful that Mrs. Guskin had no fear of undermining her father. “I don’t want a lecture from him today.”
Mrs. Guskin adopted the deep voice she used whenever she mimicked Laura’s father. “How many times must I tell you—how you behave affects the factory. No one needs to see my daughter running around like a tomboy.” She laughed, and her voice returned to normal. “Go on. Put on a decent dress in case someone spots you. Enjoy yourself.”
Laura hadn’t needed to be told twice. She’d readied herself and scurried out.
When Mrs. Guskin first arrived, shortly after Laura’s mother died, Laura had been leery of trusting the older woman. Then one night Mrs. Guskin came to her rescue, interrupting Laura’s father when he’d had too much to drink and his temper was high. She claimed he’d received a telephone call and then gave Laura the go on, get out of here look. They’d had an alliance ever since.
Laura inhaled, her lungs filling with the damp spring air. She looked around the meadow-like park. The people of Buffalo could almost believe themselves far from the city while walking the paths of Delaware Park. In truth, she often imagined herself far away, in some distant country, a breeder of the finest horses or a country lass caring for her flock of overly pampered chickens. Her dreams were always simple—varied, but full of freedom and fresh air.
An open bench invited her to sit, providing a perfect spot to read her letter. She traced her finger over initials carved into the bench’s worn wood. RB + TF. Who were they? Were they married now, with a houseful of children? Were they deeply in love, devoted to each other? She closed her eyes, blaming the many novels she read for her active imagination and incessant longing for companionship. How lovely would it be to be a woman in love, sitting beside a handsome suitor? She imagined what it would feel like for a kindhearted man to take her hand, to have eyes for only her, to carve their initials
for the world to see . . .
From within the confines of her handbag, she retrieved her letter. Her reality was not all bad; her letters were better than any dream. After all, this secret friend was real, and he was hers.
She paused, smiling at the silly greeting. When she’d been fourteen, still grieving her mother’s death and feeling stifled by her father’s controlling hand and spike in temper, she’d escaped to the park with pen and paper. Near the letter tree—only it hadn’t been the letter tree then—she’d penned a poem, trying to capture in words the tumultuous feelings warring inside her. When Mrs. Guskin put the hurry-home prism in the window, Laura had panicked, afraid her father would catch her out of the house and read her words, brow furrowed in disappointment.
In desperation, she’d looked for a place to stow her writing, and her eyes had landed on the maple with the narrow hollow. Two days later she’d returned, eager to recover her words and dispose of her novice attempt at poetry for good. But her poetry had not been there. Instead, she’d found a letter.
She’d read it a thousand times since. Even now, she could quote it by memory.
Dear Wishing Girl,
I found your poetry and I have kept it. You didn’t want squirrels using your words for their nests, did you?
You must be wondering how I came upon your words, and so I will tell you. I was at the park with a couple of my chums. We had no plans, and according to my father, it is not good for boys to go about with no direction. He says trouble always follows. My father is never short on advice.
She’d smiled at his mention of his father. Her own father also had a great deal to say about her every move. Reading these words, she felt a connection, like a thin thread linking her and her mystery pen friend together. Over the years it had grown thicker, stronger and more binding.
The lot of us were aimlessly passing the time when we spotted a couple sitting on the grass, staring at each other as though nothing else in the world existed. I thought I might get a laugh if I tossed a pinecone or two at them. I flicked one and hit the man on the leg. He flinched but didn’t take his eyes off the woman. I threw another and another. When I had thrown seven or eight of them, the man jumped from his spot and came chasing after me. His face was all red, and he was scowling. How was I to know that a little fun would rile him up? My pals ran off in different directions, but it made no difference—it was me he wanted.
I ended up climbing the big maple tree and hiding there until he gave up. When I finally came back down, a scrap of paper caught my eye.
I thought perhaps I’d found a treasure map or a letter sent between secret lovers. But it was neither. It was your poetry I found, and a great many questions. Who was the writer? Had we ever met?
I think it’s a funny story, don’t you? My father would disapprove; he’d hate knowing that I found a magic mailbox after causing trouble. I suppose it will only be a mailbox if you find this and write back. Otherwise, I am writing to no one. I will call it an act of faith and believe that you will come back and find this and that you and I are meant to be friends. When you find this, write again. Tell me why you left your poetry and why your words have me believing you are sad.
My curiosity is piqued and is begging to know who the mysterious writer is.
Until I hear back, I remain,
Your pinecone-throwing friend
Seven years later, she was still the Wishing Girl and he was still her pinecone-throwing friend, that and many other titles. His writing skills had only become more refined with time, but his letters retained their humor and heart. When she wrote him back the very first time, she told him little about herself. She’d insisted they not use their names, declaring it far more enchanting if they remained anonymous. In truth, she’d feared her father’s reaction should he ever discover their correspondence. She’d already lost her mother. And because of the shoe factory divide, her interactions with her childhood friends were severed. She hadn’t wanted to lose anyone else.
Laura pulled herself from her musings, unread letter still in hand, and glanced toward the window. Her heart stopped. The prisms were in the window, glistening like a beacon. Her father was home.
She leaped to her feet and, like the sly foxes at the zoo, dashed for the servant’s entrance so she could slink inside and pretend nothing was amiss.
Isaac Campbell’s sizable donation to the zoo gave him the ability to visit the grounds nearly anytime he wanted to. Often he came in the evening or at night when only one guard was on duty. With such a well-known name and recognizable face, thanks to his uncanny resemblance to his father—both tall, broad, and with strikingly dark hair and equally dark eyes—coming at night was the easiest way to get to the tree unnoticed.
Besides, animals never inquired after the Campbell shoe company’s affairs. They didn’t bombard him with gossip about their rival company or pretend to know what happened seven years ago between his father and his father’s former business partner. They didn’t ask him his feelings on prohibition, recount memories of the Great War, or whisper about his bachelorhood. Animals were far less meddlesome than people.
Isaac shoved his hands in his pockets and meandered slowly along the stone paths of the zoo, whistling to the tune of “My Little Dream Girl.” The evening air was crisp but not bitterly cold like the winter nights had been. The temperature was comfortable enough that he could stay all night if he wished.
Outside these gates, he was a different man, but in here, he felt free. Liberated from the struggle to prove himself to his father. Here no one knew he was a sought-after bachelor who felt no inkling of desire to date the women who batted their eyes at him. Here he was free to think of the woman behind the letters, or to think of his uncle who’d died in the war and long for days gone by. The buzzing world outside the gates could wait; he was in no hurry to return to it. His mind wandered in whatever direction it chose, carefree as the spring breeze.
The guard, Bill Turner, an old friend, waved as he made his rounds. “That’s a fine tune you’re whistling.”
“It’s playing on the radio all day long. It gets stuck in my head.”
“I thought maybe you were dreaming about a lady.” Bill stopped his march around the zoo. “We had hundreds of folks here today. The warmer weather is filling these grounds.”
“There’s nothing like spring in Buffalo. Makes you want to get out of doors and celebrate. ...
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