V a l e n t i n e
Date: 3rd of Frost, early afternoon
The first customer Hershey Valentine had was a befuddling one. Not only due to her garish appearance, which Hershey was not personally inclined to judge her based on, but was certainly in a position to, but also due to how oddly mousish her request came along, spilling from her lips like unripened molasses from the brewing pot; not ready yet to boil into sweetness, but saccharine still through the initial bitter taste.
And though Hershey's guitar played well, and echoed so nicely and lively through the crisp, winter air whenever it struck a chord, her impression tugged, instead, at Hershey's heartstrings, and he was flushed with a sudden desire to learn to sing through a saxophone - slowly, purposefully, sorrowfully, skillfully.
Kalzasi took some getting used to. It was the frost time now, and the chill was not new to Hershey, as he had travelled here through it, of course. However a stationary sort of chill always rattled him deeper, and despite himself, he was shivering as he sat upon his stool behind his Valentine's Solutions. The cold distracted him that morning, and since he awoke it was difficult for him to relax away the hours in the day. However, some time ago, his attention was thankfully taken by a woman who had been hovering nearby for quite some time. Folks pass frequently, true. Always looking. Sometimes wondering. Never inquiring. Hershey was used to and comfortable with this, though he had developed quite a keen sense towards when someone would, in fact, approach. Like reeling in a shy bass; gingerly did you have to pull until they seemingly waded onto the lakeshore by their own graceful candor, which Hershey did by leaning back in that wooden stool, closing his eyes, and embracing the cold. Despite himself, he found himself opening his mouth to catch the occasional snowflake as well. He didn't need to. Didn't correctly desire to. But felt inclined to enjoy himself. And when he opened his eyes, there, in front of him, was the first customer of Kalzasi.
He peeked out from under his brow and leaned his stool back to engage with the woman. Bundled in fur, she was. Expensive fur. Though her makeup was bright, rosary red, which clashed recklessly with her subtler undertones. Hershey would also wager some gambit that the makeup was significantly cheaper than the rest of her apparel - caked on and runny as it was.
She was an older woman, though not robbed of her youthful dignity; her chin was high, though turned away from Hershey. She looked down at him from the corners of her eyes and through bangs of black, tussled by an uncaring wind.
"Hello ma'am, it is so very pleasant to make your acquaintance, my name is Mr. Valentine but my friends may call me Hershey," he said to her, stringing his words along carefully and slow-like, giving her time to appreciate and listen to his verbiage, or perhaps gauging this woman's patience, since she had spent so long considering her approach.
And she evidently had the same amount of consideration for her reply, as it did not arrive well within a comfortable timeframe. So much so that Hershey was meant to assume only that her lack of a reply was meant as a message rather than a preference, and so he continued, "I solve problems, ma'am. Any and all, every sort of issue. It's hard for me to forget a face, particularly one as picturesque as yours, and I know it's your first time here. Penny for your thoughts?"
A bold move, and Hershey knew it. Deigning to deliver a compliment based only on flattery was just as much of a tactic as her silence was, and often, he found, an effective one to release that tension she had labored so to lay the foundation for in stone.
Upon completion of his delivery, Hershey straightened his back and smiled upon her, patiently. And it took a moment, as all things seemed to with the woman, before she, not completely despite herself but certainly despite her visage, cracked a grin. Which then soon spread to a smile, and a chuckle.
Hershey smiled as well - a genuine sort of smile. A smile he was invited to share, and took pride in doing.
"It's cold, Hershey Valentine, " she said, her voice deep, perhaps deeper than Hershey's, and far smoother. Hershey felt himself become the nicest sort of envious. "Let me buy you some coffee."
"That's quite the kind offer, Miss..."
"Names come later, Mr. Valentine. Upon delivery of payment."
"You have a job in mind, ma'am?"
the woman, never breaking her courteous grin, stood and walked from Hershey's stand. Which Hershey then stood to follow, flipping his sign from 'Open' to 'Be right back', patting his horse Jedidiah farewell, and following the woman in silence.
"How long is it since you've had something warm to drink, Mr. Valentine?" she inquired, Hershey making careful note of the way she addressed him.
"That ain't too much a pressing matter, ma'am. I'd rather you not feel inclined, generous as your offer is."
"So a while then, I take it."
Hershey bashfully remained silent. Woefully, his desires overpowered his manners, and silently he walked with the woman around a corner and into a nook in the wall, where they then sat at a counter, and the woman tapped on the hardwood twice, followed by a wave to a server.
"A regular of this establishment?"
"Only for business meetings." The woman said, stripping her coat. She wore a silken shirt - clearly designed for men's wear. Hershey admired the tenacity to break from the oppressive barriers of the Men's and Women's sections of clothing stores. Often he, himself, admired moreso the way that feminine coats hugged his sides. But he felt his mind digressing.
"If I may be so forward..." Hershey said, trailing off as a coffee was placed before him and then succinctly paid for by his new companion. "What sort of job would you have me perform?"
"The kind of a sensitive matter," she said, rolling up and cuffing her sleeves at her elbows. "You see, Mr. Valentine, you have proven to me in quite an efficient amount of time that you have a certain penchant for flattery."
"Ahh," Hershey chuckled, and found it difficult to maintain eye contact. "It ain't a practiced sort of thing, I suppose."
"No, Mr. Valentine, I would suppose not. Oh would you please enjoy the drink? It's so blatantly obvious how desperately you require it." Hershey obliged, sipping silently as she spoke. "You see, Mr. Valentine, I do not have a penchant for flattery. In fact," she continued, leaning her elbows on the countertop, "I've always had trouble with that sort of... emotional honesty."
"Uh huh..." Hershey mumbled through a mostly-full cup of freshly brewed coffee.
"And I've a need today for someone to help. But due to the subject matter, I'm not sure if I could ask the people close to me to assist. Do you understand?" She looked over at him, and perplexingly she had green eyes. How unique, Hershey thought. Most eyes here were brown, as Hershey had noticed.
Hershey set down his cup, and chose his words carefully, speaking with a tone intended to respect the wishes of the nameless women who was requesting patronage.
"Well ma'am, I can honestly say I understand the intentions thoroughly. This ain't the first time I've heard this sorta' request, and I've got good reason to believe it ain't gonna' be the last. Bein' said, the medium that sort of request takes is as wild as the day is long, and I don't have details yet. I'm willin' to help, of course I'm willin' to help, I just need to know how."
She smiled, and reached into a pocket in her waistcoat, retrieving two objects; a capsule of used lipstick, and a blank envelope. She began twisting the base of the lipstick to push out the stem as she spoke, which was as red as the first apple of spring. "Are you literate, Mr. Valentine?"
"Yes'm."
She sucked her lips behind her teeth as she lazily applied the makeup, speaking through the ordeal. "And your handwriting? Is it nice?"
"Well,"
"The recipient appreciates a decent penmanship." She continued, closing the lipstick, and staring blankly into the middle distance.
Hershey perked up, sensing someone of similar sensibilities on the other end of this particularly peculiar jobline. "I understand that perfectly, ma'am."
"Wonderful." She said. Perhaps exclaimed. It was quiet, but pronounced, and though delivered through monotone, very evident that her disposition was betrayed by sudden surprise and satisfaction.
She lifted the envelope, and pressed her lips against it, leaving an imprint of bright red on the flat side. She placed it down on the counter, put away her lipstick, and received a single piece of paper, as well as a fountain pen, from her waistcoat.
Hershey, now, had a clear idea what her request may be consisting of. Often did he get jobs relating to the romantic sort of predicament. Hershey had served as a wordsmith and a curator alike, and felt prepared for this job.
"I have recently lost the affection of a man I admire vastly, and despite myself, I miss it. I-"
""I'm sorry ma'am, I'm not meaning to be rude, I just have an inklin'. Would wou please excuse me for just a moment?"
"You'll be coming back, I hope."
"In a wink, ma'am, just a jiff," Hershey reassured her as he rushed out the door in the direction he came.
In his absence, the woman held the paper, looking at it with trepiditious and reluctantly sturdy fingers. Perhaps she was rethinking her deal with Mr. Valentine, or perhaps her mind was occupied by the subject of her affections.
But, as promised, it did not take Hershey long to return, now guitar in hand. The woman smiled upon watching him return to his seat.
"Now what is this?"
"Oh don't mind me ma'am, it helps me think. Please continue," Hershey invited her, leaning over the curve of his instrument.
"Alright, then. Just please don't distract me."
"I promise, ma'am."
"Where was I?"
"You miss him?"
"Right, I-... Well I suppose if you'd like to be reductive, Mr. Valentine, yes, I miss him."
"Mm'," Hershey mumbled, thumbing a chord as she spoke, not breaking eye contact. F.
"It's more that..." She sight into the counter, tapping the table twice and waving once more. "I don't miss him as much as the lack of his presence bears upon me."
Wistful.
The F was too full.
F Minor?
"It's hard to know what you've got until you feel its absence more than you felt its touch."
F Minor was too forward.
Hershey dropped his pinky, and strummed, and smiled.
F Minor Seventh. Perfect.
"Mr. Valentine, are you listening?"
"More than I've ever heard anyone before, ma'am. I hear you."
"Right. You'll be writing him a letter, Mr. Valentine. You will not be signing it, you'll be writing it in excellent penmanship, and the purpose of it will be to relay just how much I," she struggled. "Notice his absence."
Hershey nodded. And began writing.
"One more thing, Mr. Valentine."
"Yes'm?"
"May I... Trust you... If I choose not to read the letter personally?"
"Of course, ma'am." Hershey replied, smiling.
"Alright then."
It didn't take long for Hershey to write that letter, with very few, if any, interruptions from the inquiring customer, every once and again strumming a chord and working out a progression. He'd play a chord to match his F Minor Seventh; a D Flat Ninth, C Seventh add Nine, G Minor Seventh Flat Five. Not often chords Hershey played - too striking to his more vanilla sensibilities. To Hershey, there wasn't anything wrong with an east 1,5,7 progression. Easy to listen to, easy to play, easy to write. But he could sense that the mood, as well as his patron's sensibilities, demanded something of a very particular melody. He'd play this melody of his, strum it so quietly, and pluck at his chords, as he wrote the letter, catching passing glances from the woman as he did so. He'd mutter words every now and again, to the quiet and obvious chagrin of the woman, but paid it no mind, as Hershey had a wonderful idea.
He tapped his pen against the paper, noting it with its final period. He blew gingerly on the ink, allowing it to dry, before folding the paper over with a soft smile so that the woman could not read the words. He passed it over to her, along with the pen, which she marked lovingly with her signature, and slowly placed it in the envelope, and moved to place it in her waistcoat.
"Oh, um, one moment please ma'am, may I see that?"
She furrowed her brow, but handed it back to him. And without hesitation, Hershey immediately stuck it in his coat.
"Mr. Valentine!"
"Hold on ma'am! Hear me out now. This letter ain't gonna be complete until I deliver it with you personally. I want you to see why, but you'll have to trust me."
She looked hesitant. Though, throughout this entire interaction, that seemed to be the case.
"Mr. Valentine, you do realize I will not pay you until the letter is received, correct? Without my paramour knowing your identity?"
"Ma'am I have a feeling that won't be an issue."
She leaned in, her attention caught by surprise like a coat button on a wire fence. "And why, Mr. Valentine, would that be?"
Hershey detected her incredulity, and dismissed it, or perhaps leaned further into it. He smiled and crinkled his nose. "Call it a sense of healthy intuition, ma'am."
She paused, and breathed.
"Do you insist?"
"I'm afraid I do."
"It's a walk."
"Which I do so enjoy."
She huffed, but stood and walked out the door. Hershey threw his guitar on his back and followed eagerly, leaving a full cup of coffee behind.
She was right. It was a walk. But in the hours between when they had initially met and the writing of the letter itself, the sun broke through the clouds, and Hershey whistled his way gleefully, even up until, and not ceasing, the point where the woman led him to a graveyard.
She looked back at him, perhaps expecting some sort of visceral reaction, but none was had. Hershey was as happy as a bee in a meadow, and his good mood was not even soiled by the sight of a freshly dug grave, perhaps just a few days old. He stopped, and he glared at it, and then looked at the woman for confirmation. In lieu of a verbal agreement, she looked at him, and away. Hershey strode towards the grave, making sure to stop at a reasonable and respectful distance. In an animated way, he looked at the ground to his left and right, realizing the woman wasn't there, looked behind him, and waved her over gleefully. She followed his beckon, but did not share his pep.
"Say, ma'am, would you be alright reading that letter?"
"Excuse me?"
Hershey swung his guitar out in front of him on its strap, reached into his pockets to retrieve the envelope in question.
"Ma'am I promise you now that you will not be reading it alone. I want you to know that I did him justice by writing it."
She didn't respond, but instead bit her lip, and balled her fists in her pockets. She looked at Valentine, and the letter, as well as the grave in front of them. As she did so, so did Hershey.
"I promise Chet will love it." Hershey said.
She took the letter and opened it, holding it out in front of her.
F Minor Seven.
"You don't know,"
C Seventh Flat Nine
"What love is,"
F Minor Seven
"Until you've learned,"
C Seventh Flat Nine
"The meaning,"
D Flat Seventh
"Of the blues."
She carried it out in monotone, looking to Hershey for reassurance before continuing.
"Until you've learned a love you've had to lose,
You don't know,
What love is.
You don't know,
How lips hurt,
Until you've kissed and had to pay the cost.
Until you've flipped your heart, and you have lost,
You don't know what love is."
She dropped the letter, and felt her knees shake. Hershey, chilly as he may be, was quick enough on the draw to catch it before the wind could carry it away.
"How did you know?" She asked him.
Hershey smiled a bit, with the sort of sympathy in his eyes which is only earned through experience. "No one in their right mind would leave you if you loved 'em so true." He said. It was the truth.
Slowly, she wrapped her arms around Hershey's neck, and sobbed quietly, politely, into his shoulder.
"Hey, now," he said, maintaining his jovial attitude, and rubbing his palm on her back in semicircles. "You're alright. You're okay ma'am."
They stood there for a moment, quietly, holding each other the way a climbing vine holds onto a wall above a garden, clinging on for life but not ready to let go, and the wall allowing its cracks to become a home for it, if just for a moment.
She pulled away, and didn't speak.
"I think you should finish the letter ma'am."
She sniffled and held it up, facing the rock in the snow. It stood out. The snow was fresh and ethereal white, pale, and, if you'd excuse the adjective, ghostly. It was soft and powdered, and looked so pretty resting atop the grave, like an ornament.
Chet's grave seemed almost to patiently await her voice, which Hershey had grown to appreciate all the more now. And though it was cracking, and he heard it through the gentlest, quietest sobs, he felt her tones as rich as autumn gravy just beneath.
"You don't know how hearts burn
For love that cannot live, yet never dies.
Until you've faced each dawn with sleepless eyes,
You don't know what love is."
She knelt down and tucked the letter into the snow atop the grave. The two stood in silence for a moment.
"You really wrote that?"
Hershey chuckled. "No," he said, "unfortunately I didn't. Not entirely. But a good friend did. And just like I'm sure Chet enjoyed the tune, I think my friend enjoyed having his song sung by such a lovely voice."
Hershey smiled and placed an empathetic hand on the woman's back, feeling some relief as he felt her torso rise and fall through a chuckle.
"Such a charmer, Mr. Valentine."
"Mama taught me right."
"I'm sure she did."
They stood there for a while, as if allowing Chet room to speak. And Hershey felt almost the opposite sort of way he felt upon their initial introduction, when her silence filled the air. Whereupon that moment, there was a subtle hint of discomfort, there was now one of peace.
He left before she did. Backing out slowly from the picture before feeling like an intruder - it seemed like the two needed a moment alone. The sun broke through the clouds. The snow reflected brilliant and radiant daylight. Noon struck a lovely chord upon Hershey's heartstrings, and the walk back was pleasant.
In the morning, there was a note on his stand, written in elegant penmanship.
"Thank you, Hershey"
And Valentine smiled.
He never learned her name.
Date: 3rd of Frost, early afternoon
The first customer Hershey Valentine had was a befuddling one. Not only due to her garish appearance, which Hershey was not personally inclined to judge her based on, but was certainly in a position to, but also due to how oddly mousish her request came along, spilling from her lips like unripened molasses from the brewing pot; not ready yet to boil into sweetness, but saccharine still through the initial bitter taste.
And though Hershey's guitar played well, and echoed so nicely and lively through the crisp, winter air whenever it struck a chord, her impression tugged, instead, at Hershey's heartstrings, and he was flushed with a sudden desire to learn to sing through a saxophone - slowly, purposefully, sorrowfully, skillfully.
Kalzasi took some getting used to. It was the frost time now, and the chill was not new to Hershey, as he had travelled here through it, of course. However a stationary sort of chill always rattled him deeper, and despite himself, he was shivering as he sat upon his stool behind his Valentine's Solutions. The cold distracted him that morning, and since he awoke it was difficult for him to relax away the hours in the day. However, some time ago, his attention was thankfully taken by a woman who had been hovering nearby for quite some time. Folks pass frequently, true. Always looking. Sometimes wondering. Never inquiring. Hershey was used to and comfortable with this, though he had developed quite a keen sense towards when someone would, in fact, approach. Like reeling in a shy bass; gingerly did you have to pull until they seemingly waded onto the lakeshore by their own graceful candor, which Hershey did by leaning back in that wooden stool, closing his eyes, and embracing the cold. Despite himself, he found himself opening his mouth to catch the occasional snowflake as well. He didn't need to. Didn't correctly desire to. But felt inclined to enjoy himself. And when he opened his eyes, there, in front of him, was the first customer of Kalzasi.
He peeked out from under his brow and leaned his stool back to engage with the woman. Bundled in fur, she was. Expensive fur. Though her makeup was bright, rosary red, which clashed recklessly with her subtler undertones. Hershey would also wager some gambit that the makeup was significantly cheaper than the rest of her apparel - caked on and runny as it was.
She was an older woman, though not robbed of her youthful dignity; her chin was high, though turned away from Hershey. She looked down at him from the corners of her eyes and through bangs of black, tussled by an uncaring wind.
"Hello ma'am, it is so very pleasant to make your acquaintance, my name is Mr. Valentine but my friends may call me Hershey," he said to her, stringing his words along carefully and slow-like, giving her time to appreciate and listen to his verbiage, or perhaps gauging this woman's patience, since she had spent so long considering her approach.
And she evidently had the same amount of consideration for her reply, as it did not arrive well within a comfortable timeframe. So much so that Hershey was meant to assume only that her lack of a reply was meant as a message rather than a preference, and so he continued, "I solve problems, ma'am. Any and all, every sort of issue. It's hard for me to forget a face, particularly one as picturesque as yours, and I know it's your first time here. Penny for your thoughts?"
A bold move, and Hershey knew it. Deigning to deliver a compliment based only on flattery was just as much of a tactic as her silence was, and often, he found, an effective one to release that tension she had labored so to lay the foundation for in stone.
Upon completion of his delivery, Hershey straightened his back and smiled upon her, patiently. And it took a moment, as all things seemed to with the woman, before she, not completely despite herself but certainly despite her visage, cracked a grin. Which then soon spread to a smile, and a chuckle.
Hershey smiled as well - a genuine sort of smile. A smile he was invited to share, and took pride in doing.
"It's cold, Hershey Valentine, " she said, her voice deep, perhaps deeper than Hershey's, and far smoother. Hershey felt himself become the nicest sort of envious. "Let me buy you some coffee."
"That's quite the kind offer, Miss..."
"Names come later, Mr. Valentine. Upon delivery of payment."
"You have a job in mind, ma'am?"
the woman, never breaking her courteous grin, stood and walked from Hershey's stand. Which Hershey then stood to follow, flipping his sign from 'Open' to 'Be right back', patting his horse Jedidiah farewell, and following the woman in silence.
"How long is it since you've had something warm to drink, Mr. Valentine?" she inquired, Hershey making careful note of the way she addressed him.
"That ain't too much a pressing matter, ma'am. I'd rather you not feel inclined, generous as your offer is."
"So a while then, I take it."
Hershey bashfully remained silent. Woefully, his desires overpowered his manners, and silently he walked with the woman around a corner and into a nook in the wall, where they then sat at a counter, and the woman tapped on the hardwood twice, followed by a wave to a server.
"A regular of this establishment?"
"Only for business meetings." The woman said, stripping her coat. She wore a silken shirt - clearly designed for men's wear. Hershey admired the tenacity to break from the oppressive barriers of the Men's and Women's sections of clothing stores. Often he, himself, admired moreso the way that feminine coats hugged his sides. But he felt his mind digressing.
"If I may be so forward..." Hershey said, trailing off as a coffee was placed before him and then succinctly paid for by his new companion. "What sort of job would you have me perform?"
"The kind of a sensitive matter," she said, rolling up and cuffing her sleeves at her elbows. "You see, Mr. Valentine, you have proven to me in quite an efficient amount of time that you have a certain penchant for flattery."
"Ahh," Hershey chuckled, and found it difficult to maintain eye contact. "It ain't a practiced sort of thing, I suppose."
"No, Mr. Valentine, I would suppose not. Oh would you please enjoy the drink? It's so blatantly obvious how desperately you require it." Hershey obliged, sipping silently as she spoke. "You see, Mr. Valentine, I do not have a penchant for flattery. In fact," she continued, leaning her elbows on the countertop, "I've always had trouble with that sort of... emotional honesty."
"Uh huh..." Hershey mumbled through a mostly-full cup of freshly brewed coffee.
"And I've a need today for someone to help. But due to the subject matter, I'm not sure if I could ask the people close to me to assist. Do you understand?" She looked over at him, and perplexingly she had green eyes. How unique, Hershey thought. Most eyes here were brown, as Hershey had noticed.
Hershey set down his cup, and chose his words carefully, speaking with a tone intended to respect the wishes of the nameless women who was requesting patronage.
"Well ma'am, I can honestly say I understand the intentions thoroughly. This ain't the first time I've heard this sorta' request, and I've got good reason to believe it ain't gonna' be the last. Bein' said, the medium that sort of request takes is as wild as the day is long, and I don't have details yet. I'm willin' to help, of course I'm willin' to help, I just need to know how."
She smiled, and reached into a pocket in her waistcoat, retrieving two objects; a capsule of used lipstick, and a blank envelope. She began twisting the base of the lipstick to push out the stem as she spoke, which was as red as the first apple of spring. "Are you literate, Mr. Valentine?"
"Yes'm."
She sucked her lips behind her teeth as she lazily applied the makeup, speaking through the ordeal. "And your handwriting? Is it nice?"
"Well,"
"The recipient appreciates a decent penmanship." She continued, closing the lipstick, and staring blankly into the middle distance.
Hershey perked up, sensing someone of similar sensibilities on the other end of this particularly peculiar jobline. "I understand that perfectly, ma'am."
"Wonderful." She said. Perhaps exclaimed. It was quiet, but pronounced, and though delivered through monotone, very evident that her disposition was betrayed by sudden surprise and satisfaction.
She lifted the envelope, and pressed her lips against it, leaving an imprint of bright red on the flat side. She placed it down on the counter, put away her lipstick, and received a single piece of paper, as well as a fountain pen, from her waistcoat.
Hershey, now, had a clear idea what her request may be consisting of. Often did he get jobs relating to the romantic sort of predicament. Hershey had served as a wordsmith and a curator alike, and felt prepared for this job.
"I have recently lost the affection of a man I admire vastly, and despite myself, I miss it. I-"
""I'm sorry ma'am, I'm not meaning to be rude, I just have an inklin'. Would wou please excuse me for just a moment?"
"You'll be coming back, I hope."
"In a wink, ma'am, just a jiff," Hershey reassured her as he rushed out the door in the direction he came.
In his absence, the woman held the paper, looking at it with trepiditious and reluctantly sturdy fingers. Perhaps she was rethinking her deal with Mr. Valentine, or perhaps her mind was occupied by the subject of her affections.
But, as promised, it did not take Hershey long to return, now guitar in hand. The woman smiled upon watching him return to his seat.
"Now what is this?"
"Oh don't mind me ma'am, it helps me think. Please continue," Hershey invited her, leaning over the curve of his instrument.
"Alright, then. Just please don't distract me."
"I promise, ma'am."
"Where was I?"
"You miss him?"
"Right, I-... Well I suppose if you'd like to be reductive, Mr. Valentine, yes, I miss him."
"Mm'," Hershey mumbled, thumbing a chord as she spoke, not breaking eye contact. F.
"It's more that..." She sight into the counter, tapping the table twice and waving once more. "I don't miss him as much as the lack of his presence bears upon me."
Wistful.
The F was too full.
F Minor?
"It's hard to know what you've got until you feel its absence more than you felt its touch."
F Minor was too forward.
Hershey dropped his pinky, and strummed, and smiled.
F Minor Seventh. Perfect.
"Mr. Valentine, are you listening?"
"More than I've ever heard anyone before, ma'am. I hear you."
"Right. You'll be writing him a letter, Mr. Valentine. You will not be signing it, you'll be writing it in excellent penmanship, and the purpose of it will be to relay just how much I," she struggled. "Notice his absence."
Hershey nodded. And began writing.
"One more thing, Mr. Valentine."
"Yes'm?"
"May I... Trust you... If I choose not to read the letter personally?"
"Of course, ma'am." Hershey replied, smiling.
"Alright then."
It didn't take long for Hershey to write that letter, with very few, if any, interruptions from the inquiring customer, every once and again strumming a chord and working out a progression. He'd play a chord to match his F Minor Seventh; a D Flat Ninth, C Seventh add Nine, G Minor Seventh Flat Five. Not often chords Hershey played - too striking to his more vanilla sensibilities. To Hershey, there wasn't anything wrong with an east 1,5,7 progression. Easy to listen to, easy to play, easy to write. But he could sense that the mood, as well as his patron's sensibilities, demanded something of a very particular melody. He'd play this melody of his, strum it so quietly, and pluck at his chords, as he wrote the letter, catching passing glances from the woman as he did so. He'd mutter words every now and again, to the quiet and obvious chagrin of the woman, but paid it no mind, as Hershey had a wonderful idea.
He tapped his pen against the paper, noting it with its final period. He blew gingerly on the ink, allowing it to dry, before folding the paper over with a soft smile so that the woman could not read the words. He passed it over to her, along with the pen, which she marked lovingly with her signature, and slowly placed it in the envelope, and moved to place it in her waistcoat.
"Oh, um, one moment please ma'am, may I see that?"
She furrowed her brow, but handed it back to him. And without hesitation, Hershey immediately stuck it in his coat.
"Mr. Valentine!"
"Hold on ma'am! Hear me out now. This letter ain't gonna be complete until I deliver it with you personally. I want you to see why, but you'll have to trust me."
She looked hesitant. Though, throughout this entire interaction, that seemed to be the case.
"Mr. Valentine, you do realize I will not pay you until the letter is received, correct? Without my paramour knowing your identity?"
"Ma'am I have a feeling that won't be an issue."
She leaned in, her attention caught by surprise like a coat button on a wire fence. "And why, Mr. Valentine, would that be?"
Hershey detected her incredulity, and dismissed it, or perhaps leaned further into it. He smiled and crinkled his nose. "Call it a sense of healthy intuition, ma'am."
She paused, and breathed.
"Do you insist?"
"I'm afraid I do."
"It's a walk."
"Which I do so enjoy."
She huffed, but stood and walked out the door. Hershey threw his guitar on his back and followed eagerly, leaving a full cup of coffee behind.
She was right. It was a walk. But in the hours between when they had initially met and the writing of the letter itself, the sun broke through the clouds, and Hershey whistled his way gleefully, even up until, and not ceasing, the point where the woman led him to a graveyard.
She looked back at him, perhaps expecting some sort of visceral reaction, but none was had. Hershey was as happy as a bee in a meadow, and his good mood was not even soiled by the sight of a freshly dug grave, perhaps just a few days old. He stopped, and he glared at it, and then looked at the woman for confirmation. In lieu of a verbal agreement, she looked at him, and away. Hershey strode towards the grave, making sure to stop at a reasonable and respectful distance. In an animated way, he looked at the ground to his left and right, realizing the woman wasn't there, looked behind him, and waved her over gleefully. She followed his beckon, but did not share his pep.
"Say, ma'am, would you be alright reading that letter?"
"Excuse me?"
Hershey swung his guitar out in front of him on its strap, reached into his pockets to retrieve the envelope in question.
"Ma'am I promise you now that you will not be reading it alone. I want you to know that I did him justice by writing it."
She didn't respond, but instead bit her lip, and balled her fists in her pockets. She looked at Valentine, and the letter, as well as the grave in front of them. As she did so, so did Hershey.
"I promise Chet will love it." Hershey said.
She took the letter and opened it, holding it out in front of her.
F Minor Seven.
"You don't know,"
C Seventh Flat Nine
"What love is,"
F Minor Seven
"Until you've learned,"
C Seventh Flat Nine
"The meaning,"
D Flat Seventh
"Of the blues."
She carried it out in monotone, looking to Hershey for reassurance before continuing.
"Until you've learned a love you've had to lose,
You don't know,
What love is.
You don't know,
How lips hurt,
Until you've kissed and had to pay the cost.
Until you've flipped your heart, and you have lost,
You don't know what love is."
She dropped the letter, and felt her knees shake. Hershey, chilly as he may be, was quick enough on the draw to catch it before the wind could carry it away.
"How did you know?" She asked him.
Hershey smiled a bit, with the sort of sympathy in his eyes which is only earned through experience. "No one in their right mind would leave you if you loved 'em so true." He said. It was the truth.
Slowly, she wrapped her arms around Hershey's neck, and sobbed quietly, politely, into his shoulder.
"Hey, now," he said, maintaining his jovial attitude, and rubbing his palm on her back in semicircles. "You're alright. You're okay ma'am."
They stood there for a moment, quietly, holding each other the way a climbing vine holds onto a wall above a garden, clinging on for life but not ready to let go, and the wall allowing its cracks to become a home for it, if just for a moment.
She pulled away, and didn't speak.
"I think you should finish the letter ma'am."
She sniffled and held it up, facing the rock in the snow. It stood out. The snow was fresh and ethereal white, pale, and, if you'd excuse the adjective, ghostly. It was soft and powdered, and looked so pretty resting atop the grave, like an ornament.
Chet's grave seemed almost to patiently await her voice, which Hershey had grown to appreciate all the more now. And though it was cracking, and he heard it through the gentlest, quietest sobs, he felt her tones as rich as autumn gravy just beneath.
"You don't know how hearts burn
For love that cannot live, yet never dies.
Until you've faced each dawn with sleepless eyes,
You don't know what love is."
She knelt down and tucked the letter into the snow atop the grave. The two stood in silence for a moment.
"You really wrote that?"
Hershey chuckled. "No," he said, "unfortunately I didn't. Not entirely. But a good friend did. And just like I'm sure Chet enjoyed the tune, I think my friend enjoyed having his song sung by such a lovely voice."
Hershey smiled and placed an empathetic hand on the woman's back, feeling some relief as he felt her torso rise and fall through a chuckle.
"Such a charmer, Mr. Valentine."
"Mama taught me right."
"I'm sure she did."
They stood there for a while, as if allowing Chet room to speak. And Hershey felt almost the opposite sort of way he felt upon their initial introduction, when her silence filled the air. Whereupon that moment, there was a subtle hint of discomfort, there was now one of peace.
He left before she did. Backing out slowly from the picture before feeling like an intruder - it seemed like the two needed a moment alone. The sun broke through the clouds. The snow reflected brilliant and radiant daylight. Noon struck a lovely chord upon Hershey's heartstrings, and the walk back was pleasant.
In the morning, there was a note on his stand, written in elegant penmanship.
"Thank you, Hershey"
And Valentine smiled.
He never learned her name.
