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gather your powers, defeat the enemy!
Never fear about your love life, Charlotte, the right man will come along. If not, go and hunt him down and bring him home by force. Do you have a spear handy? Use that. Do try not to get arrested.
Toran said he would help me plant a new rose garden this summer. Poor man. As if he doesn’t have enough to do.
Love,
Bridget
 
July 7, 1985
 
Bridget,
There is not a hint of a man in sight to spear even if I wanted to. I have four cats. I put sweaters on them in cool weather. I live in my imagination with a fake woman named McKenzie Rae Dean and talk to her. She talks back. I am pathetic. I am going to die one of these days and people will find me on the ground, all my cats lying on top of me. If I thought a spear would work, I would use it.
Speaking of spearing men. How is Toran?
Love,
Charlotte
 
July 20, 1985
 
Charlotte,
Toran is fine. The semi trucks are coming in and out all the time to pick up the potatoes, blueberries, and apples that he’s growing. He has more and more clients for his crops, here and abroad. They take his crops across the ocean now. The invitation to come and visit us is always open.
Then you could try out Toran’s . . . spear.
Love you,
Bridget
     
    “What happened to your family’s home?”
    Toran’s face hardened across the table from me. He had made cheese and ham sandwiches, warmed on a skillet; a fruit plate; and lemon tea. He was a yummy cook. “I had it demolished.”
    “Completely taken down?”
    “Yes. That was not a happy house to grow up in, and I didn’t want to see it again.”
    “I understand.” Carney, Toran’s father, was a Catholic fanatic. He was hellfire and brimstone. Obsessed with religion and bible thumping and thunking. That house had been about a half mile away from this one. “I would have helped you demolish it had I been here.”
    “Thank you, Charlotte.”
    “You’re welcome.”
    He rolled his shoulders, as if he was trying to shake off the memory. “I told a builder in town what I wanted, and he built this.”
    “I love it.”
    “Thank you.”
    Toran’s home, a Scottish cottage, was new, but he had adhered to the traditional Scottish style. Light beige stone. Shaker roof. Two story. White trim, dark blue door. It was charming but solid. Spacious but not too spacious. It was more open on the inside than other Scottish cottages, with few walls. Downstairs was the kitchen, huge family area, and den. Windows everywhere. Two sets of French doors. Upstairs, as he had shown me, four bedrooms and a loft.
    Bridget’s bedroom was equal to the size of the master bedroom, with its own bath. “I wanted to create a place she wanted to come home to.”
    A light pink, striped bedspread covered the bed; the walls were white; and a long window seat stretched under the largest window, waiting for her to sit and read.
    He had bought a white desk for Bridget where she could draw her miniature, magical drawings. It was placed under the second window, with a view of the farm, and in the distance, the ocean and the cliffs.
    Toran’s windows framed the views of his farm where he grew blueberries and three different types of potatoes—Shetland Blacks, Dunbar Rovers, and russets. He also grew apples. Discovery; Katy; Red Devils, “For trouble,” he joked; Edward VII, “To add royalty to this place.” He had Bramleys and Grenadiers and crab apples. “For the bees. Without the bees, we don’t work.”
    He had tractors and farm equipment, three red barns, too many outbuildings to count, and greenhouse-type tunnels for early growing. He also had two other enormous tunnels for storage of the potatoes.
    I was not surprised. His father had done a poor job of farming. Toran had not.
    “How do you like farming?”
    “I love it. I even loved it when I was at home with my father, the long hours he made me put in. I like to plant things, watch them grow. I like the business end of it. I like to watch that grow, too.” He smiled. “It’s a