I kept replaying the way you dealt with that rude concierge at the hotel. The way you spoke so patiently, with such optimism, to a person who was so curt. You approach everything with such a purity. How do you do it? How do you keep such a sincere heart in the middle of all this?

Sometimes I think mine might turn to stone any minute now, and yet every time I see you I soften, reminded of how you still choose kindness over anger at every step.

I am trying to be more like you, as best I can.

You are a wonder, Carrie Ann.

All yours,

David

May 25, 1977

Encino, California

David,

Thank you for all your kind words. It seems as if you see me exactly as I wish to be seen. There is no greater gift than that.

When can we meet again? Are you free Wednesday the first? Lately, it does not feel enough to write.

All my best,

Carrie

June 2, 1977

Encino, California

David,

I was lying in bed last night, unable to sleep. I was thinking about you and what you said yesterday about the ways in which you feel you stopped complimenting Janet.

I was suddenly overcome with the need to tell you something.

You do not deserve this. What is happening to you. I know that you sometimes wonder if you do. I can tell in the way you talk about not paying enough attention to her, the way you sometimes say the situation is complicated. All marriages are complicated. If I’ve learned anything in my adult life, I think it’s been that.

Compromises are normal, heartbreak is commonplace, et cetera, et cetera.

But you are a good man. I know because I’ve seen it with my own eyes. I know you, David. And I know that you do not deserve this. You deserve a woman who is mad about you.

You are brilliant and dedicated. You are a tremendous father. You are tenderhearted. You are the kind of man who finds small joys in hard days. You are both chivalrous and respectful.

Men like you are so rare nowadays.

You are exceptional.

And you absolutely do not deserve this.

All my love,

Carrie

June 6, 1977

Carlsbad, California

Carrie,

You don’t deserve it either. You lack nothing, regardless of what roadblocks you have hit in your life, no matter what things in life don’t come easy to you. You lack nothing at all. I hope you see that.

You are everything a man could want in a woman.

All yours,

David

June 10, 1977

Encino, California

David,

For so long I have felt as if I am a disappointment to so many. To my parents, for my choices. To my husband, for what I cannot give him.

And now, in many ways, even to myself. For how I am handling all this.

When I was a teenager, one of our neighbors, Mr. Weddington, was caught having an affair with his secretary. And I remember feeling so disgusted when Mrs. Weddington took him back.

I could not, for the life of me, understand why that woman would embarrass herself by accepting his transgressions.

And yet here I am. Doing almost the very same. And it is enough to depress me.

But then I look at you. And I see a man of great integrity. And this man of great integrity is confused just as I am, and he is struggling just as I am, and he does not judge my choices, and he does not wish I were a different person entirely.

And it is enough for me to wonder if I shouldn’t reject the idea of disappointment in myself altogether.

Thank you for helping me hold my head a bit higher at a time in which it has every reason to hang low.

All my love,

Carrie

June 15, 1977

Carlsbad, California

Carrie,

If I have helped show you just how extraordinary your strength is, then I have paid you back only some small percent. You might just be solely responsible for carrying me through.

I wish I could tell you how often your name comes to the tip of my tongue, how many times a day I find myself thinking of something you said. The other day, someone at work was talking about peanut butter, and I had to stop myself from mentioning that you have converted me to cream cheese on toast forever.

I still can’t believe just how many ways in which you have enlightened my life.

You are the second half of my heart nowadays, Carrie Ann.

And I am lucky for it.

All yours,

David

June 18, 1977

Encino, California

David,

The other night on the phone, you asked me how much longer I’d be willing to let this affair go on.

I told you that I was still waiting to see if Ken had any intention of coming back to me. But what I did not say—and I think that, perhaps, I should have—is that the waiting has become so much easier now. Now that I have you to go through all this with.

However, now I’m starting to wonder if there is not much left to wait for.

As I told you, Ken stopped keeping Janet’s letters in his briefcase. But I recently came across one in his glove compartment when I was updating his car insurance card.

A copy of the letter is enclosed here. But, David, tell me—what are we doing? What is our plan?

Love,

Carrie

May 30, 1977

Carlsbad, California

K,

I agree. I cannot go on without you much longer. But it is not going to be simple. If we are serious, we need to make plans for a lasting future. We have families to consider! We have lives. There is still so much to reconcile.

So, yes, my love, I will get away. My kids are spending the weekend of the Fourth of July with my parents in Catalina this year. I will tell David that I’m going to my cousin’s in Anaheim. But instead we can meet, either at the Del or maybe that place in Newport Beach that you mentioned.

And we can talk about what this would mean for our lives and how we can finally be together once and for all.

Love,

J

June 22, 1977

Carlsbad, California

Carrie,

I don’t know what we are doing. I ask myself that on a daily basis. At this point, I think we’ve probably lost our minds a little bit. Mine certainly seems long gone.

Should we try to stop them? Is now when we confront them about all this? I worry it will only push them closer to one another. Trying to keep them apart may just be what solidifies them together. I’m not sure what to do.

But I can tell you that I don’t want to spend the Fourth of July alone in my house, with my kids in Catalina and my wife with your husband. It sounds terrible. And I won’t do it.

I think I’ll spend it at our spot. Any chance you know of someone who could offer good company?

All yours,

David

June 25, 1977

Encino, California

David,

I’m going to call the inn and take care of the rooms. You can get us some sparklers and maybe some tiny flags or something. We will be as festive as possible this coming weekend. And we can both try our damnedest to not think too much about what awaits us.

Sound good?

All my love,

Carrie

June 29, 1977

Carlsbad, California

Carrie,

Sparklers secured. I will see you Saturday. Here’s to making the best of things.

All yours,

David

July 5, 1977

San Clemente, California

Carrie,

I am currently at a gas station in San Clemente on my way home, and I saw this postcard with a sandbar on it and had to send it to you. I left you just a moment ago, and yet I still miss the sound of your voice, the way you smell like coconuts. I can’t believe you didn’t know you smell like coconuts!

It breaks my heart that no one had been smelling your hair.

You are a revelation. And beside you, I could feel nothing but peace.

Anyway, about the sandbar. It reminded me of you because you are my sandbar. I was lost at sea, and then you showed up. My dry land.

Love,

David

July 7, 1977

Encino, California

David,

Your postcard made me smile. I still blush at the thought of your hands in my hair.

I had no idea when we made the plans for the Fourth that I would be sad to see the weekend end. I thought for sure the two of us would be holed up there trying to cheer each other up and finding it impossible.

But that wasn’t it at all, was it? Somehow, as absurd as it is, we found ways to be truly joyful, didn’t we? There were moments, I swear, you made me forget why we were even there.