To Peter with Love

By Beverley Andi

There was a time when computers weren’t in every America home and laptops and cell phones were still a novelty. This, light hearted epistolary novel set in the early 1990s, is all about writing letters. Amy Pacqua, 26, a stunning, single, doctoral student in museum studies, has just returned from a summer at the University of Cambridge, England to her Manhattan apartment. It is there she met the handsome, Peter Hobbs, 31, an archivist for the Fitzwilliam Museum and acting TA for her class. Though Peter is cordial he shows no particular interest in Amy. With the help of her sassy letters, explaining her madcap position as museum director at a small historical society, Peter is intrigued and a correspondence ensues. Amy soon finds he is as zany as she in his prose and a blossoming friendship develops.
Suddenly Peter’s letters stop. After weeks of trying to put a witty spin on her unanswered correspondence, Amy sends a farewell note. Fate steps in just in time to save the budding romance. Amy makes a surprise visit to England and love blooms.
Once back in Manhattan, Amy’s attention is suddenly turned by her long-time friend, Luke Gilbert, a struggling painter, who pursues her. Suddenly Amy is torn over whom she really loves.
Finally when she may lose both men, she admits her love and the rest is happily-ever-after.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Beverley Andi
• Release date: Mar 21, 2013
• ISBN: 9781301400539

Beverley Andi

Beverley Andi is a native New Yorker, born and raised in the city but spending most of her adult life living and working in Westchester County, NY. Her career stretched from the field of public education to designing educational programs for historical sites and art museums. Searching for Mr. Darcy was her first romantic novel; the sequel, Mrs. Darcy and the Scotsman, her second. She is completing a humorous epistolary novel between, Amy Pasqua, a young museum director in New York City and, Peter Hobbs, a museum archivist in Cambridge, England. The book gives a peek into the hilarious disasters that go on behind the scenes in “places of learning.” Look also for her charming novella entitled, A Kachina Dance, a love story between a New Yorker on vacation in Arizona and a Native American artist on a red motorcycle. Now residing in Durham, North Carolina, the author is a member of both the Romance Writers of America and Heart of Carolina Romance Writers.

Book preview

To Peter with Love

by

Beverley Andi

Cover design by Kim Blake.

To Peter With Love

Smashwords Edition

*****

Copyright 2013 by Paintbox Press

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, transmitted in any for or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopy, recording, scanning or any information storage and retrieval system, without prior written permission of the author/publisher.

This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author

This book is a work of fiction. The names, characters, localities and incidents are products of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to events, locations, or persons, living or dead is purely coincidental.

Contents:

Prologue

Letters & E-mails

Read on to read an excerpt of Beverley Andi’s

Save the Slow Dances For Me

About the Author

Prologue

Fall, 2000

Where do you want these boxes marked lamps, ma’am? asked the burly Bekins mover.

If it has yellow tape on the carton it goes in the bedroom, blue tape means it goes in the living room. Amy tried to smile though she was clearly tired of repeating the same instructions.

It had been an exhausting day and the last of her possessions were finally in her new Fifth Avenue apartment. With her third move in ten years she felt exhausted but satisfied. She had come far from her first tiny third floor walk-up on 51st Street. Weaving her way through the boxes in her new spacious living room, she looked out over Central Park. Yes, at 34, she had made it in Manhattan. She had everything she had dreamed about as a graduate student from Buffalo, N.Y. Now she was head curator in the prestigious New York Museum of Antiquities. Her charm, beauty, and sexiness, as well as, her promising career were written about in several magazines highlighting New York professional women to watch. She almost had everything she wanted.

Excuse me, said a young mover. We’re putting the bed together now but I’m afraid we’ll have to move your desk. Where would you like it?

Amy followed the slender man with tattooed arms into the bedroom and looked around. The king size bed was brand new. She clearly didn’t realize how much space it used up when she saw it in the showroom. After the men tried the desk in several locations, they finally were able to twist, turn and angle it into a little alcove. As they did so, the bottom drawer that had been stuck for years finally slid out exposing an antique letter box with an intricately carved design.

Seeing it fall out Amy gasped. Oh my God, I didn’t remember it was there.

The mover with the tattoos looked at her and said anxiously, I’m sorry but it doesn’t look like it broke. He picked it up carefully and handed it to her.

No, no, it’s fine. I haven’t seen this box or the letters inside for years. Thank you for finding it. She smiled and hurried out of the room holding the wooden box close to her chest.

After the movers were tipped and thanked, Amy’s only thought was to slip into a comfy pair of pjs and pour a glass of wine. Then, with disarray all around, she headed to the sofa and plopped herself down. Carefully taking the letter box now sitting on a carton that was serving as her coffee table, she opened the lid carefully. Immediately the scent of lavender escaped and she smiled. Had she brought the sachet back from England? Was it bought when she first met Peter at Cambridge? She smiled; people didn’t have computers and cell phones like today. It was the 1990s; they wrote letters. Sometimes long letters, other times silly letters…and special ones you saved forever.

She knew Peter’s letters wouldn’t be in the box because she had tied them up in lace and ribbon as one did with love letters. Somehow over the years they’d gotten misplaced or maybe destroyed by her lover. But if she read her copies of letters to him she was sure she could piece the story together. So she took a sip of wine and imagined herself as she was then, a young impressionable graduate student, returning from a summer at the University of Cambridge, England. She picked up the first letter, smiled and began to read.

Letters & E-Mails

***

August 15, 1992

Dear Peter Hobbs,

I’m taking the first opportunity at home to take pen in hand and thank you for having taken this neophyte under your wing at Cambridge. I could not have understood half of what the don was sputtering or found the architecture I was to be looking for without your kind help. You are a very sympathetic gentleman indeed, sir.

From where I sit across the pond, I wish (sigh) there were more like you to be found in New York. But alas, it is back to cruel reality. You live and work in that ancient and noble place of learning. Pity me. I must look for employment in the cold and unromantic modern humdrum world. For tomorrow I will go on my first interview after my English sojourn.

I’ll take a commuter train to a bedroom community called East Brixton in Westchester, New York. It’s a half-hour ride from Manhattan. I’m applying for the Museum Director. I’ll let you know if any of my Cambridge course material comes in handy. It’s a rather posh town so I’m hoping the salary will be above minimum wage.

Must mention, I read an old E.F. Benton novel, David Blaise, on the plane coming home. What a delight. It made me yearn to be an adolescent again. Now tell me, do the English still use the terms ripping and jawing?

A nice cuppa’ tea would be very pleasant about now but I only have tea bags. Bad luck, eh!

The American Tag-a-long,

Amy Pacqua

***

August 31, 1992

Dear Peter,

Never in my wildest dreams did I expect a reply to my letter in such a short turn-around. To be honest, I never expected a reply. But there it was sitting in my mailbox just as proper as any English letter could be. I could see that the bills had been moved over and the junk mail had hidden in the far corner. It’s not every day one’s mailbox gets such an honor. A Cambridge Letter! The neighboring mailboxes were showing signs of jealousy. Tut! Tut!

I’ll stop my beastly jawing and tell you how ripping your letter was, by jove. You had me in stitches (that’s American for laughing) with your quaint expressions, at least I’m hoping they’re quaint. Your letter is a treasure I will read on a dreary day when I need to smile.

I am happy you are on holiday in the Cotswolds and enjoying fine weather. You make me very, very envious describing those picturesque towns. I’m glad the weather is sunny. Here the usual heat and humidity is still with us. It makes one so very, very lazy

However, I think I have the job in East Brixton. They’re to get back to me with a salary on Monday. The site is small but quite nice. There are three buildings, a small museum with an office, an historic farmhouse and a barn. There’s a lovely garden but not much property; it’s right on the main drag (street) which might be a problem. I only met the former Director whose position I would be taking and the Board President, Mrs. Porter-Pym. They seemed very pleasant. Everyone else was away on vacation I guess.

I’ll let you know how life goes here but please don’t feel obliged to answer my inane scribbling. My mailbox has had all the excitement it can take; I think it has the vapors. I must close and hurry and find the smelling salts.

Your American Tag-a-Long,

Amy P.

***

Sept. 12, 1992

Dear Peter,

Thank you for the lovely post card. I’m drooling. Someday I hope to visit the Cotswolds. Now be a good chap and send me the names of 2 or 3 good places you’d recommend for a Yank to stay. Nothing too posh. Isn’t that cheeky of me to ask? You know us Americans.

It’s about 11:30 p.m. here and I was wondering what time it is in Cambridge. I’m thinking of my college room there. Some of my friends were put in newer lodgings. I adored the original building in which I was housed. It bore the oak paneled walls with the built-in nook for a bed. The fireplace had an oak mantle with some bookshelves above. On the opposite wall, two large windows overlooked the courtyard, where the tree Milton planted grew. The only furniture in the room was a sturdy table and chair probably from the 1930-40s. The room was bare yet it held such dreams!

I visualized a young man using that table as a desk piled high with books or maybe writing a letter to his first love. He might be sitting around the fire and chatting with chums over tea about philosophy with chums over tea or something equally as important. At night he’d be lying in bed planning his future. I could see him in his flannels, blazer, straw boater and parted hair, or maybe in his academic robes rushing down the stone staircase. Even the present dude occupying the space, with his long hair and jeans, has the same dreams. There was so much history in that space, Mr. Hobbs. I didn’t care if the bathroom was down the hall. Not all Americans are spoiled rotten.

Some current news: I bought a sporty little white car so I can drive to work and won’t have to ride the train. Yes, I got the job! With the new car I decided to get myself some vanity plates. All right, Americans are spoiled rotten. Most people put their initials or nicknames on their vanity plates. Mine simply says, Whee. Are you laughing? I thought I was pretty clever and it does look so cute on a little white car.

Now about the job…let’s see, the staff I thought was on vacation, wasn’t. There isn’t any other staff you see. Whatever the reason, it seems it’s me and the secretary and I’m not too sure about her. She looks ancient. Oh, and of course the Board President is always on hand.

Did you read that Dr. Mae Jemison is the first African-American woman to travel into space today on the space shuttle Endeavour? Nice, eh?

More to follow…off for a drive.

Whee,

Amy

Just read in the NY Times a hurricane hit the Hawaiian Islands. One of my friends is there on her honeymoon. I hope all is well. It happened yesterday but I don’t remember on which island the newlyweds are staying. I hope it’s not an omen for their marriage. Yikes!

***

Sept. 20, 1992

Good morning, Peter,

Isn’t it a lovely morning? Have you had your tea? I’m enjoying my hazelnut, yes, hazelnut coffee while I look up at the blue sky through my dirty living room window. Actually, I’m going to move outside onto my teeny, tiny balcony made for the wee people. There, that’s better. Now I can sit and enjoy this beautiful day, see the birds, and hear the groan of the traffic below with the police sirens and loud fire trucks. It’s nice living in Manhattan!

Now what’s this you’re writing me? I should have bought a bicycle instead of a car? Are you mad? Peter, I take it you’ve never gone far from the confines of Cambridge. Biking in the Cotswolds on holiday is lovely. But a daily trek (commute) from Manhattan to East Brixton by bicycle, no way José. Besides, my license plate, Whee, wouldn’t look the same on a bike. Phiffle, as David Blaise would say.

Aside from having a wicked sense of humor, tell me more about yourself. Of course, if you had asked me out on a date, I would have found this all out and it would have saved you writing it now. Well, I don’t hold grudges so tell me your saga. I hope you’re not married or engaged because I’d feel very, very embarrassed. I blush just thinking such a thought.

You asked again about the job. Well, I shall try to explain but it is a muddle. Remember the secretary? Presto, chango! She’s gone, too. Do you think I’m on a sinking ship with just the rats? Tomorrow I am to dine with Mrs. Porter-Pym at her home after which a Board meeting will follow. I will be introduced and get some sense of what I am facing. Wish me luck; I have many car payments to make.

I can hear the church bells at St. Patrick’s Cathedral; it’s just up the block from me. It’s Sunday and I think I’d better get myself dressed and head to church. Maybe if I pray and light some candles, tomorrow’s meeting will go well.

Pax,

Amy

***

September 21, 1992

Dear Peter,

It’s 12:30 a.m. and I can’t sleep. Too much caffeine and too much Porter-Pym! Do you mind if I jaw? Let me set the scene for you.

Meriwether Porter-Pym is a tall, stately woman with an affected British accent. In fact, the first time I met her I thought she was English. Later I found she was born and educated in New Jersey. Keep this under your hat (shhh !) my sleuthing on the grande dame paid off. She’s had three husbands and outlived all; of course, she always marries money. Doesn’t this sound like a good thriller? She probably bored them to death with her constant jawing. Did I mention she’s attractive and dresses to kill?

As you might guess her house is a classic manor house complete with a live-in housekeeper and gardener. Antiques and paintings abound and I suppose one is expected to feel awed by this but I felt like I was walking into a museum. I was afraid to move let alone touch anything. What struck me as odd was the fact that only water was served with dinner.

The Board meeting followed in the library with many of the members quite elderly. One even had her knitting. This wasn’t a high-powered assembly; just warm and fuzzy. Coffee, tea and cakes were served and niceties were exchanged. Meri, as the Prez is called, dominated the meeting and frankly I don’t know if I learned much more then I knew before. I’m still in a muddle. They talked about a country fair in October and a nut sale in December. My course at Cambridge was mentioned but I doubt if the art and architecture of Cambridge will do me much good at the country fair. Ya’ think?

I’m still not sleepy so I think I’ll head to bed with a copy of A Room with a View by E. M. Forster. I have to read the first 100 pages for a class I’m taking comparing this book with Pride and Prejudice.

Good night,

Amy

***

Sept 30, 1992

Dear Peter,

You really are a kick! Did you actually think I didn’t notice you had blue eyes and sandy-colored hair? Architecture wasn’t the only thing I was looking at my good fellow. You could have skipped the height and weight; I don’t do metrics and stones, just good ole’ feet and pounds. You play soccer or as you folks call it, football…that accounts for the taut body. You speak French…how romantic; play the cello…interesting. That I wouldn’t have guessed. And you like to write letters (I knew we were meant for each other). You said you are 31 and single. Single is good. Of course, I knew you were an archivist with your wire rimmed glasses and the muffler around your neck. You looked like a character from a Charles Dickens’ story. I expected to see a ledger, a quill pen and ink pot in your hand. You know, of course, I’m only pulling your leg (teasing). As I said, single is good. But you forgot to mention you are very reserved which I guess is rather British.

Now it’s my turn. Here goes. You should have noticed I have long, straight hair, black in color, large brown eyes, good teeth, nice smile. I don’t do height and weight, well I’m 5’8". I’m almost 27 and yes, I’m SINGLE, too. I love to read, write letters, watch old movies, walk in the park (Central), listen to music…rock, mostly, dance, travel, and, low and behold, go to museums! I guess I’m still a kid at heart: I adore bike riding on a country road…being read to…looking up at the stars on a cold wintry night when you can see your breath…laying on the grass and watching the sun sparkle and shine through the leaves…eating ice cream…walking hand-in-hand with someone young or old…making a snow angel…laughing so hard my stomach hurts…getting goofy over a song…listening in bed to the sound of the rain and know it’s Saturday so