After the sun went down, the three of them drove to Hyannis and had dinner at Sam’s Crabhouse, a thriving restaurant that deserved its reputation. It was crowded and they had to wait an hour for seats, but the steamed crabs and drawn butter were worth it. The butter had been flavored with garlic, and among the three of them they went through six beers in two hours. Toward the end of dinner, Brian asked about the letter that had washed up.

“I read it when I got back from golfing. Deanna had pinned it to the refrigerator.”

deanna shrugged and laughed. She turned to Theresa with an “I told you someone would do that” look in her eyes but said nothing.

“It washed up on the beach. I found it when I was jogging.”

Brian finished his beer and went on. “It was quite a letter. It seemed so sad.”

“I know. That’s how I felt when I read it.”

“Do you know where Wrightsville Beach is?”

“No. I’ve never heard of it.”

“It’s in North Carolina,” Brian said as he reached into a pocket for a cigarette. “I had a golf trip down there once. Great courses. A little flat, but playable.”

Deanna chimed in with a nod. “With Brian, everything is somehow connected to golf.”

Theresa asked, “Where in North Carolina?”

Brian lit his cigarette and inhaled. As he exhaled, he spoke.

“Near Wilmington—or actually, it might even be a part of it—I’m not exactly sure about the boundaries. If you’re driving, it’s about an hour and a half north of Myrtle Beach. Have you ever heard of the movie Cape Fear ?”

“Sure.”

“The Cape Fear River is in Wilmington, and that’s where both of the movies were set. Actually, a lot of movies are filmed there. Most of the major studios have a presence in town. Wrightsville Beach is an island right off the coast. Very developed—it’s almost a resort community now. It’s where a lot of the stars stay while they’re on location filming.”

“How come I’ve never heard of it?”

“I don’t know. I guess it doesn’t get much attention because of Myrtle Beach, but it’s popular down south. The beaches are beautiful—white sand, warm water. it’s a great place to spend a week if you ever get the chance.”

Theresa didn’t respond, and Deanna spoke again with a hint of mischief in her tone.

“So, now we know where our mystery writer is from.”

Theresa shrugged. “I suppose so, but there’s still no way to tell for sure. It could have been a place where they vacationed or visited. It doesn’t mean he lives there.”

Deanna shook her head. “I don’t think so. The way the letter was written—it just seemed like his dream was too real to include a place he had only been to once or twice.”

“You’ve really given this some thought, haven’t you?”

“Instincts. You learn to go with them, and I’d be willing to bet that Wrightsville Beach or Wilmington is his home.”

“So what?”

Deanna reached over to Brian’s hand, took the cigarette, breathed deeply, and kept it as her own. She had done this for years. In her mind, because she didn’t light it, she wasn’t officially addicted. Brian, without seeming to notice what she had done, lit another. Deanna leaned forward.

“Have you given any more thought to having the letter published?”

“Not really. I still don’t know if it’s a good idea.”

“How about if we don’t use their names—just their initials? We can even change the name of Wrightsville Beach, if you want to.”

“Why is this so important to you?”

“Because I know a good story when I see one. More than that, I think that this would be meaningful to a lot of people. nowadays, people are so busy that romance seems to be slowly dying out. This letter shows that it’s still possible.”

Theresa absently reached for a strand of hair and began to twist it. A habit since childhood, it was what she did whenever she was thinking about something. After a long moment, she finally responded.

“All right.”

“You’ll do it?”

“Yes, but like you said, we’ll use only their initials and we’ll omit the part about Wrightsville Beach. And I’ll write a couple of sentences to introduce it.”

“I’m so glad,” Deanna cried with girlish enthusiasm. “I knew you would. We’ll fax it in tomorrow.”

Later that night, Theresa wrote out the beginning of the column in longhand on some stationery she found in the desk drawer in the den. When she was finished, she went to her room, set the two pages on the bedstand behind her, then crawled into bed. That night she slept fitfully.

*  *  *

The following day, Theresa and Deanna went into Chatham and had the letter typed in a print shop. Since neither of them had brought their portable computers and Theresa was insistent that the column not include certain information, it seemed like the most logical thing to do. When the column was ready, they faxed it in. It would run in the next day’s paper.

The rest of the morning and afternoon were spent like the day before—shopping, relaxing at the beach, easy conversation, and a delicious dinner. When the paper arrived early the next morning, Theresa was the first to read it. She woke early, finished her run before Deanna and Brian were up, then opened the paper and read the column.

Four days ago, while I was on vacation, I was listening to some old songs on the radio and heard Sting singing “Message in a Bottle.” Spurred to action by his impassioned crooning, I raced to the beach to find a bottle of my own. Within minutes I found one, and sure enough, it had a message inside. (Actually, I didn’t hear the song first: I made that up for dramatic effect. But I did find a bottle the other morning with a deeply moving message inside.) I haven’t been able to get it off my mind, and although it isn’t something I’d normally write about, in a time where everlasting love and commitment seem to be in such short supply, I was hoping you would find it as meaningful as I did.

The rest of the column was devoted to the letter. When Deanna joined Theresa for breakfast, she read the column as well before looking at anything else. “Marvelous,” she said when she finished. “It looks even better in print than I thought it would. You’re going to get a lot of mail from this column.”

“Do you think so?”

“Absolutely. I’m sure of it.”

“Even more than usual?”

“Tons more. I can feel it. In fact, I’m going to call John today. I’m going to have him place this on the wire a couple times this week. You may even get some Sunday runs with this one.”

“We’ll see,” Theresa said as she ate a bagel, not really sure whether to believe Deanna or not, but curious nonetheless.

On Saturday, eight days after she’d arrived, Theresa returned to Boston.

She unlocked the door to her apartment and Harvey came running from the back bedroom. He rubbed against her leg, purring softly, and Theresa picked him up and brought him to the refrigerator. She took out a piece of cheese and gave it to Harvey while she stroked his head, grateful that her neighbor Ella had agreed to look after him while she was away. After he finished the cheese, he jumped from her arms and ambled toward the sliding glass doors that led to the back patio. The apartment was stuffy from being closed up, and she slid the doors open to air it out.

After unpacking her bags and picking up her keys and mail from ella, she poured herself a glass of wine, went to the stereo, and popped in the John Coltrane CD she had bought. As the sound of jazz filtered through the room, she sorted through the mail. As usual, it was mainly bills, and she put them aside for another time.

There were eight messages on her recorder when she checked it. Two were from men she had dated in the past, asking her to call if she had a chance. She thought about it briefly, then decided against it. Neither of them was attractive to her, and she didn’t feel like going out just because she had a break in her schedule. She also had calls from her mother and sister, and she made a note to call them sometime this week. There were no calls from Kevin. By now he was rafting and camping with his father somewhere in Arizona.