A Love Letter

With spring coming to an end, hints of summer were beginning to emerge. The temperatures warm but not yet reaching the 30-degree mark. Perfect tennis playing weather. It was a Tuesday when I received a call from friends Mark and Sarah, avid tennis players, inviting me to play, doubles to be exact. Sarah, who worked at University Hospital mentioned the arrival of a colleague, new to “Toon Town”, endearingly referred to by locals, and they needed a fourth player.

Given I hadn’t picked up my tennis racquet in years, I was reluctant to say the least. Sarah, not taking no for an answer, continued on encouragingly, “It will be fine”. “Meet us at the tennis courts behind the Education building on campus, 2 pm sharp.” She always was big on punctuality. Being a Surgeon, I would assume punctuality was a prerequisite.

I pulled up in my beat-up 1986 Oldsmobile, wearing running shoes that looked like they belonged in the garbage, not on my feet, holes in both sides, exactly where my bunions protrude. “Why I didn’t buy new runners weeks ago when I was at the mall, I will never know.”

With the exception of Mark, Sarah and a complete stranger, the tennis court was totally empty. Seeing me, Sarah waved, urging me to join them. As I approached, Sarah began the introductions, “Laura this is Jack”, “Jack, Laura”. “Nice to meet you” replied Jack. “I hear you are a terrific tennis player”. I could feel the blood quickly rising, turning my neck and cheeks bright red. “I am going to kill Sarah. Why would she tell him that when she knows I haven’t played in years?”

Sarah pairing herself with Jack, leaving me to partner with Mark, shouted “let the match begin”.

Rusty doesn’t even begin to describe my game. A ridiculous serve, lacking in power, easily returned time after time. But Jack doesn’t seem to mind. Initially he was gentle with his rally, allowing me time to find my rythm on the court. Back and forth the ball went, to the left then right, swing after swing. The first set was obviously the warm-up. I could see in his eyes that he was ready to up his game, daring me to take the bait.

“Your serve”, he yelled.

My serve had always been the weakest part of my game and it appeared to me in that moment that he was well aware of that fact based on the warm-up. Ball in left hand, racquet in right, I threw the tennis ball high above my head, waiting for gravity to bring it down, striking it in the sweet spot, with more effort than I intended.

“Wow! Now that’s what I call a serve”. “You’ve been holding out on me Laura” teased Jack. As the match continued, I could see he was enjoying himself, strategically placing balls well out of my reach just to see how I would respond. Being highly competitive, I was not about to let this newcomer show me up. During the warm-up rally, very few balls came to my left, so my forehand swing was predominantly used. Jack was about to be introduced to my secret weapon…I had an amazingly accurate backhand. As the very next ball was played to the left side of the court, I pivoted, positioning my body and delivered a backhand swing placing the ball directly into the far back corner, just inside the line but out of Jack’s reach. My turn to tease, yelling “there is more where that came from”.

After six games and high-fives all around, the afternoon was coming to a close. Sarah glancing at Mark, announced she was on-call and needed to stop by the hospital to check on a patient. Not missing his cue, Mark declared his requirement to go to the hardware store for decking screws. The not-so-subtle glance between Mark and Sarah, finally registered. “This was a blind date! A set up!” Sweat and not the glowing perspiration kind, was dripping from my face, armpits stained, and running shoes with cavities the size of giant marbles. I was mortified! “I am going to kill Sarah! Again!”

So, there we were in that awkward moment, both of us keenly aware of what had just materialized. Jack, noting the horror on my face and perhaps more practiced in the art of blind dates, assuaged the moment by suggesting some post-match banter at “Corked” the local Wine Bar, adding after a well needed shower and shave of course! My Saviour! Already this man is a gentleman in my books.

Now, what does one wear for a not so blind first date with someone you just spent two hours running around a tennis court, sweating and grunting like a pig? At this point, anything would be an improvement over sneakers and a sweat stained tank top. It occurred to me that I kind of liked this guy. Something about him was charming, so a little effort was definitely in order.

I arrived at “Corked” at 7:30 wearing a pale pink sundress, cardigan sweater and cream sandals, hoping this more put together look would fully erase the image of the sweat stained apparel I had donned earlier today.

Jack was seated near the window, overlooking the riverbank. The view from that exact spot was really quite breathtaking, making me wonder whether Jack chose the seating arrangement or was placed there by the waitress. Seeing me enter, he stood, waved me over and gently pecked me on the cheek followed by a “you clean up nice!” Obviously, he noticed the cavity-stricken runners!

The waitress approached, offering the wine selection. Scanning the menu, I noticed the Bright Cellars wine options. Merlot has always been a favourite. “I will have a glass of Bright Cellar Merlot please.”

“Excellent choice, six or nine ounces?” asked the waitress.

“Six”, I responded. Normally I would have totally gone with the nine ounce, but one must behave on a second first date!

“Make that two”, replied Jack.

The wine was smooth, with light notes of black cherry, clove spice and a chocolate finish. Taking his first sip, Jack declared “You certainly know your wines. This is delightfully delicious”. Okay, who says “delightfully delicious?” Now, I was definitely intrigued to know more about this beautiful stranger.

Conversation was easy with Jack. He had a way of making you feel totally comfortable and relaxed in his presence. He spoke about his cancer research, explaining it in layman’s terms, in the most non-condescending way. The conversation stretched well into the evening. There was something magical about his voice, neither one of us wanting the conversation to end.

Jack explained that he had recently accepted an oncology position at the Cancer Clinic. He was transferring in from Toronto and would be here for about four weeks before returning to finalize the sale of his house and relocation to Saskatoon.

Over the next four weeks Jack and I saw one another occasionally, time permitting. Most of our time was spent playing tennis, eating ice cream (well me anyway) and long walks along the South Saskatchewan River. He even made me the most brilliant pizza and chicken curry dinners. This man definitely knew his way around a kitchen!

Our relationship was developing quickly, unnerving in some ways but yet seemed so right, so comfortable, familiar even. This was indeed a new experience for me. A failed marriage left me guarded. Exploring the possibility of dating again was not something I had considered.

But by mid-June Jack departed for Toronto to finalize the sale of his house. I thought to myself, “it was fun while it lasted. Nothing ventured, nothing gained”

Surprisingly, on June 27, 2001, a letter arrived in the mail. I didn’t recognize the handwriting on the envelope, only that it was post marked Toronto, Ontario. Inside was a hand-written note.

It read…

“To my witty and funny, highly intelligent and clever, bossy and at times pushy, wonderfully kind and considerate, hard-working, always proudly thought of, absolutely beautiful, sexy, athletic and fit and otherwise perfect in every way tennis partner. I miss you. Very much. I think of you at all times, and this is how it makes me feel (a crayon drawing of a bright yellow, orange and red sun with multiple long and short rays donned the page).

The letter continued with “The next two weeks will be very long and at times feel like this (another crayon drawing - dark clouds and rain). On July 8th I get to hug and kiss you and feel your body close to mine. It will be wonderful. I am very much in-like with you. Xo Jack.”

I couldn’t believe what I had read…my face immediately flushed, heart beating faster than if I had just completed a 10 km run and my thoughts racing, back and forth, trying to recall the details of the tennis match, post-game banter at “Corked” and easy like Sunday morning conversations.

“Was this a love letter?”, I asked myself. Having never receiving anything like this before, I found myself speechless, flattered, to say the least, and unapologetically excited.

True to form, Jack returned July 8th and immediately upon touching down on the runway, barely waiting for the “you may now use your cell phone” announcement, called to arrange our next date. We spent the next six months getting to know one another on a deeper level. The connection was very real indeed and our bodies intertwined like a Celtic love knot. It was wonderful, just as Jack said it would be.

We married six months later and had two children. Life progressed as it should, work, kids, school, everyday routines. Even with the mundane routines, our lives fell into Jack never seemed our first date, making a reservation at “Corked” every year, where we revisited our tennis game banter, thanking our lucky stars to have found one another.

But luck wasn’t on Jack’s side. In 2020, he was diagnosed with a rare form of cancer, aggressive with limited treatment options. Six months later, he passed.

Unbeknownst to me, Jack used his remaining time wisely and productively. You see, my husband was a hopeless romantic. Even as he laid dying in his palliative care bed, he penned a love letter, and made arrangements for the letter to be delivered to my mailbox on June 27th. I immediately recognized his impeccable handwriting on the envelope. The date was not lost on me. Dropping to the floor, clutching the letter to my chest, I sobbed, unable to catch my breath. How could this possibly be?

Pulling myself together I knew exactly what to do and made a reservation at “Corked” for 7:30 pm, specifically requesting the same window seat where we shared our first date. Searching my closet, I found the pale pink sundress, hoping it would still fit. To my surprise I was able to squeeze into it. With cardigan and cream sandals completing the ensemble, I tucked the unopened envelop into my purse and made my way to the wine bar.

It was relatively quiet, with a few customers coming and going. I ordered the Merlot, nine ounce this time, knowing I would probably want to savour this moment for as long humanly possible. Hands shaking, I opened the envelop, staring at the contents and began to read… “To my witty and funny, highly intelligent and clever, bossy and at times pushy, wonderfully kind and considerate, hard-working, always proudly thought of, absolutely beautiful, sexy, athletic and fit and otherwise perfect in every way tennis partner.”

I began to laugh uncontrollably, tears of joy streaming down my face. Jack had composed the exact love letter that he had written some 20 years earlier, following our first encounter, with one small difference. The closing salutation read “That was the best $15 glass of Merlot I ever had. Make sure you thank Sarah and Mark for me. (crayon drawing of a glass of merlot framed inside a large red heart). Xo, Jack.”