Of Friends and Memories

The relevant story is any from the Montauk stories, but let's go with A Good Girl in Montauk, An Unseelie Court or A Montauk Christmas.

Hello, my friend. It's been ten years since you passed, and I think about you all the time. When I'm done writing this I'll walk out back, climb that little hill and lay this on your gravestone. Let the winds take it where they will. Chances are it will wind up in the ocean, and that would be fitting.

How many hours did we spend out there clamming or sitting on the grass looking out on the water? More than I could possibly count. The same water and beach where we first found Jennifer. She still loves you, by the way. The same water that you drove the assassin to when he tried to kill my son. The same water I would stare into hour after hour while in my wheelchair.

You wouldn't leave me. You'd push your nose under my hand, you'd playfully nip at me when I was quiet for too long, but you never left. Hungry, tired, thirsty, wanting to run, you stayed. Because I needed you.

You were there when I first met the woman I love. You were there when I brought my children home from the hospital. You were there when I grieved for the loss of Aunt Cynthia.

Can I tell you a secret? You were my best friend. More so than Pete, more so than Tommy. Does that sound stupid? I put on a mask and pretend to be Jay Gatsby, entertaining the rich and powerful here on my Long Island estate. It's repulsive. Before any event I listen to self-help tapes to get motivated to play my role.

Then I fix my smile, have a few quips ready and shake the hands of people who want my money or power. Ten minutes in and I feel like I have to take a shower. That's not who I am. I've never been that person. I started working on charter boats when I was fourteen. I never fit in with other kids. That didn't change when I got older.

My life changed the day that Aunt Cynthia and Pete brought you here from the airport. You were loyal and brave and filled a hole in my soul that I didn't know was there. Then we met Jennifer and the kids came soon after and you protected my family and loved them so, so much.

It is impossible for me to thank you for everything you've done and what you've meant to me, but I can remember, and I do. I remember you hating baths and running around like a maniac after you got one. I remember how gentle you were with children but how you scared the hell out of those guys who beat me up on the yacht.

I remember how you would walk between Cynthia and the water when she was a toddler. You'd bump her butt with your nose if she went more than ankle deep, no matter that I was right behind her. Back, little girl, back to the dry sand.

It hurts me to have to tell you this, Dink, but I've been betrayed. My babies have grown up. No matter how often I implored them to stay little, they insisted on getting older and to live their own lives. William has graduated from college and lives in the city. It breaks his mother's heart, but she pretends to be fine. Cynthia has a boyfriend. It's not so bad. He's from Madagascar and their relationship is mostly online. She's in college herself now. She wants to be a therapist, like Alistair.

Still, Cynthia has a serious boyfriend and you've been gone for a decade.

Time slips through my fingers and more and more I find myself trying to re-find those grains of sand and reform what was. I know, I sound like an old man.

You won't be surprised to know that Siobhan is a little slower now. You used to run after her and jump at her until she would chase you. You know that's how you got your name, right? From The Princess Bride. She'd call out "Humperdink, Humperdink, Humperdink" and you'd run away like Miracle Max. Humperdink became Dink.

Sorry, Jennifer just brought me some tea and I had to stop writing. So you know, she kissed her fingers and touched them to the paper this is written on. She knows. She always does. I get a little maudlin this time of year. It will pass. I'll remember the happy times and then I'll be okay.

Jennifer keeps dropping hints that she wants another baby. As much as I act it, I'm not really old. Maybe we'll do it. If we do, I'll hold our child by the fireplace where you used to lay and tell him or her stories about the dog who saved my son and how, in a thousand ways, on daily runs and walks and sitting by the sea, he saved me.

I love you, buddy. I always will.

Finn