Archive of Our Own ^beta

Each week at precisely ten in the morning on Thursday, Miss. Carrie Snider visited the post office to inquire with the Postmistress, Miss. Rebecca Taylor as to whether she had received any mail.

Now, the mail came to their small town every Friday, as Miss. Snider well knew. However, Miss. Snider, as Miss. Taylor came to know soon enough, preferred to come during the least busy time. Miss. Taylor supposed she understood why considering Miss. Snider had never once received so much as a telegram.

It crossed Miss. Taylor’s mind around the fifth week that Miss. Snider might have been a lonely woman. Well, she herself certainly understood the feeling well. Both women were largely considered far past marrying age and well into spinsterhood. Now, Miss. Taylor never minded the town’s whispers or pointed comments, having no use for gossiping herself. Of course, being the postmistress, she found herself privy to all sorts of scandal and little tidbits.

Early on in her tenure as the postmistress, the townies had tried to coax the details out of her, but quickly realized Miss. Taylor would not be one to spread her knowledge. Far from diminishing the amount of what she’d heard, people seemed more inclined to talk to her and spill their little secrets. Perhaps the security Miss. Taylor offered encouraged it.

Which may have been why, when Miss. Taylor asked Miss. Snider if she had any family, the woman hadn’t simply politely dismissed her and returned to her shop.

“I have a sister living in Chicago,” Miss. Snider said. “She’s the woman I write to each week. I just thought perhaps…never mind. Good day, Miss. Taylor.”

Each week, at precisely three in the afternoon on Monday, just before Miss. Taylor closed for the day, Miss. Snider visited the post office to send out a letter. Though Miss. Taylor had mentioned once that since mail was posted on Friday mornings when the wagon came to deliver that week’s post, it might be easier for her to simply bring her mail when she visited on Thursday, Miss. Snider had only smiled slightly before thanking her and heading off. And sure enough, the cycle repeated itself again next week. After that, Miss. Taylor stopped wondering about Miss. Snider’s strange habits.

Miss. Snider owned and ran a dress shop out of her house, also specializing in mending and alterations. Miss. Taylor, being a very tiny woman, had learned early on how to make alterations to her own clothing, thus had never had a reason to visit the shop. But the gossip around town said the woman was one of the best.

“No, nothing this week,” Miss. Snider said, checking through the small stack of envelopes for a letter she knew for a fact wasn’t there. Lately, when sorting through the mail, she’d taken to looking purposefully for anything addressed to Miss. Carrie Snider.

“Oh, well, thank you all the same,” Miss. Snider said. And just for a second, a flash of disappointment and sadness flitted across her face. Miss. Taylor looked away, feeling as if she’d intruded on a personal moment. Usually when Miss. Tayler informed her she had no mail, Miss. Snider would take it in stride, but today she seemed defeated.

“Miss. Snider,” Miss Taylor called after her. “I’m sorry.” Miss. Snider hesitated, glancing back. She opened her mouth as if to say something, but quickly turned and walked back to her shop.

Miss. Taylor sighed. Everyone in town who wanted to receive mail, received at least something. Everyone except Miss. Snider. No family ever came to visit nor did the woman have any friends to speak of. Of course, neither did Miss. Taylor. Not really. But unlike Miss. Snider, she liked it that way. Miss. Snider just seemed lonely.

And before she could stop herself or think better of it, Miss. Taylor dipped her pen in the inkwell and began writing.

But, for the first time in over a year, Miss. Snider did not visit the post office to send off her letter on Monday. Nor, to Miss. Taylor’s disappointment, did she come on Thursday either. After the second Monday in a row, Miss. Snider still having not shown, Miss. Taylor casually inquired about her to a group of town women picking up their mail.

“You haven’t heard?” one of them gasped. “Oh, the poor dear. She’s been bedridden all week, and she refuses to call Doctor Sanders about it.” The other women shook their heads in sympathy.

Miss. Taylor waited until just after noon before she closed up the post office early. Efficiently packing a large basket with food and anything else she thought Miss. Snider might need, the postmistress set off for the dress shop. She received no response knocking on the door.

“Miss. Snider,” she called. “It’s Rebecca Taylor. I just came to see if you needed anything. Um, I’ve brought a few things for you.” A long pause, then, Miss. Taylor could just barely hear footsteps. She waited patiently, stepping back a respectable distance so as not to crowd the other woman.

The door opened, and Miss. Snider peaked out. Even from just the sliver of her face Miss. Taylor could see, she looked completely washed out and exhausted. Cautiously, the woman insisted Miss. Taylor leave, not wanting to infect her. She spoke barely above a whisper, her voice hoarse. But Miss. Taylor stubbornly replied that it mattered not to her, and that she wished to come inside. Perhaps too weak to argue at that point, Miss. Snider stepped back, holding the door open.

She looked away, keeping one part of her face covered. Right away Miss. Taylor could easily guess what ailed the dressmaker.

“Measles,” she said, running her eyes over the other woman’s body and noting the few spots of rash that poked out from beneath the woman’s long nightdress. “Well, we don’t have to worry about infection. Had it when I was a babe. Usually it clears up in a few weeks. You must drink plenty of fluids, and rest as often as you can. Have you been eating?”

“I can barely stand half the time. This ridiculous fever makes my head spin,” Miss. Snider replied, sinking into a chair, and cradling her head in her hands. “I’d hoped no one would have to see me in this state.”

Miss. Taylor smiled sympathetically. Miss. Snider prided herself on never leaving the house without looking absolutely impeccable. Never a hair out of place nor a hat askew. Now, barefoot, with her deep red hair in an unkempt braid, and wearing just an unclean nightdress, she looked decidedly less dignified.

Miss. Taylor thought it hardly mattered when the woman felt so poorly but did not mention it. Instead, she began heating up a bowl of the soup she’d brought.

Miss. Snider ate slowly, but to Miss. Taylor’s satisfaction, she managed to finish off the bowl. Meanwhile, Miss. Taylor puttered around in the kitchen, unloading her basket of freshly baked bread, jams, and preserves.

“Do you need anything else?” Miss. Taylor asked. Miss. Snider shook her head slowly, wincing, but thanked her all the same. “Well, I’ll be back tomorrow. I mean, that is if you don’t mind.”

“Please, I’d- I’d like that,” she answered. “I’m afraid I’m not used to being fussed over. Thank you.”

Miss. Taylor returned the next day, immediately putting the kettle on and serving Miss. Snider a cup of tea with a spoonful of honey for her throat. Incredulously, Miss. Snider asked just where she’d gotten the honey. The mercantile certainly didn’t sell it cheaply. But Miss. Taylor waved that off, claiming she’d received it years back from a beekeeper. In reality, she managed to bargain for it at the mercantile, but she knew Miss. Snider would raise a fuss over it.

“Could I ask a favor?” Miss. Snider asked a few days later. “It’s just, well, I’m feeling better, but I am in desperate need of a bath. Would you help me drag the tub into the kitchen, as I’m still feeling a bit weak?”

Miss. Taylor, despite Miss. Snider’s weak protests, started heating up pans of water to fill the tub. Though a slow process, warm baths were much, much better.

Miss. Taylor helped Miss. Snider into the tub, the other woman still wearing her nightgown. Stepping around the privacy screen, she waited for Miss. Snider to toss the wet dress over to her.

Feeling strange just sitting around as another woman bathed herself just a few feet away, Miss. Snider busied herself with tidying up the house a bit. She stripped the bed of the dirty sheets, replacing them with crisp white ones.

“Are you ready to rinse?” she called over the partition.

“Oh, um, yes. Would you…could you just close your eyes please?” Miss. Snider asked. Instead, Miss. Taylor offered to take off her glasses, saying how she couldn’t see past her own nose without them. Which Miss. Snider found acceptable, so half blind, she poured more pans of hot water over the other woman, listening as Miss. Snider muttered under her breath over her tangled hair.

“Do you need any help getting out?” Miss. Taylor asked. Miss. Snider murmured her ascent, so Miss. Taylor stepped back around the partition, leaving the other woman a towel. A yelp of surprise brought her back around. “Miss. Snider?”

Miss. Snider emerged from behind the screen a moment later, dressed in a fresh nightgown and looking very flustered. Explaining that she’d simply gotten dizzy and lost her balance, she gingerly sat at the table, rubbing her temple.

“Goodness, I really did need that bath,” she laughed. “Thank you, Miss. Taylor. I really appreciate everything you’ve done.”

“Oh, well,” Miss. Taylor bit her lip, looking down. “When I didn’t see you at the post office on your usual days, I- well, I suppose I became a bit worried. Please, Miss. Snider. Don’t hesitate to ask for help if you ever need anything.”

Miss. Snider nodded, blushing. She’d rather liked being fussed over these past few days. And though she refused to admit to herself how lonely she sometimes felt, having someone to talk to pleased her to no end.

Miss. Taylor smiled at her before heading out for the night.

Three days later, Miss. Snider – with not a single hair out of place – walked to the post office. It was Thursday.

When Miss. Taylor saw her coming up the steps to the window, her face lit up. Commenting that she was glad Miss. Snider looked so well, she reached for the pile of remaining letters from the week, already knowing there was nothing there for the woman in front of her. The letter she’d written all those weeks ago lay hidden in her room upstairs.

“Oh, no, please don’t bother,” Miss. Snider said, reaching out a hand to stop her. She quickly pulled back, feeling Miss. Taylor tense slightly. “My apologies. Um, I just wished to know if you’d do me the honor of joining me for supper on Sunday night perhaps? To thank you for all you’ve done, I mean. And, well, I suppose I’ve become fond of your company. But, please, you need not feel obliged.”

Supper, as it turns out, was an enjoyable affair for both women. With Miss. Snider feeling more herself, she moved from the kitchen to the dining room table with grace and poise. Miss. Taylor watched fondly, drumming her faintly ink stained fingers along the edge of the table. Though she’d been too cowardly to send off that first letter, Miss. Taylor had written several more with no intention to ever send them. Embarrassingly, they’d become almost a diary of sorts.

“I must admit, I’ve never…” Miss. Snider trained off, looking thoroughly disgruntled. They’d retired to the sitting room after supper. Taking a breath, she tried again. “I have never had a friend before. That is, I hope we might be considered friends.”

“It would be my honor,” Miss. Taylor replied, laying a hand over Miss. Snider’s. They shared a soft smile before Miss. Snider began speaking of a book she’d begun. And Miss. Taylor listened attentively. She’d read the book Miss. Snider spoke of, and thoroughly enjoyed hearing a different interpretation of the text.

Three weeks into their official friendship, the two women crossed a significant milestone in their relationship.

“I believe it is customary for friends to call each other by their names,” she said over tea one afternoon. “Would you please call me Carrie?”

“Only if you’d call me Rebecca.” Miss. Snider – Carrie – smiled. Experimentally, she rolled the name off her tongue, liking very much how it sounded.

Soon, Carrie and Rebecca were spending most of their time together when they could. Shared meals, joint shopping trips at the mercantile. Often one would even sit in, reading or sewing, while the other worked. It became not uncommon for the townsfolk to catch a glimpse of red hair in the back room while they picked up their mail, or for ladies looking for dress fittings to see a small figure curled up in an armchair in the corner of the room.

From what Carrie could tell, based on her eavesdropping on the gossipy Mrs. Miller, most everyone thought well of this burgeoning relationship.

“…lovely that those two finally found each other,” Mrs. Miller was saying to Mrs. Latham, the mercantile owner. “Really, I was beginning to worry they’d be alone forever. So nice…”

And while Carrie certainly did not enjoy being the subject of idle gossip, she felt a swell of pride at having finally done something to earn their approval. Not, mind you, that she needed Mrs. Miller to approve of her friendship with Rebecca. Still, it felt nice to know no one thought maliciously of them.

The months flew by with Rebecca at her side. Before, Carrie had always felt life simply dragged on, each day so terribly monotonous. But with Rebecca, she never quite knew what to expect. Some days they would stay inside, discussing literature or philosophy, others they would end up taking long walks into the countryside, once even picnicking in a flower meadow. Rebecca had taught her to weave a flower crown that day.

On another occasion, after a monstrous thunderstorm disturbed their evening, Rebecca insisted Carrie stay the night lest she drown out there. They’d shared the bed, Carrie wearing just her shift because clearly, she’d never be able to fit into any of Rebecca’s clothes.

Carrie’s proudest moments came when Rebecca no longer tensed when Carrie initiated contact. The dressmaker had always been a tactile woman, enjoying the feel of fabrics beneath her fingertips, or cold ice chunks along her neck in the summer. And she liked showing her affection for her friend through soft touches or gentle hugs. So, when Rebecca actually leaned into her touch, it sent a thrill down her spine.

And for a while, everything was perfect. Carrie and Rebecca considered each other bosom friends. The letter Rebecca wrote to Carrie all those months ago lay buried beneath her underthings with all the others. She’d accrued a sizable pile after so long.

Rebecca never meant for Carrie to find them, believing she’d simply die of mortification. But when she asked Carrie to retrieve something in her room while she dealt with the Friday mail rush, the letters never crossed her mind. She didn’t remember leaving them on her dresser just that morning.

Carrie nearly missed them, but when she saw her name neatly written across the envelope, she stopped. For a long moment she turned the pile over in her hand, utterly confused. Why on earth would Rebecca have an envelope addressed to her just sitting on her nightstand along with a stack of paper?

Curiosity getting the best of her, she opened it. Well, the letter was addressed to her, after all. But she didn’t quite expect to find a letter dated nearly a year back.

Dear Miss. Snider,

Forgive me if this letter is overstepping boundaries, but I confess I feel we must be kindred spirits in a way. Perhaps it is inappropriate for me to assume such things, but I could not help but notice the expression on your face this morning and feel a great sense of injustice wash over me.

Each week you send off a letter to your sister, and never once has she written back. I suppose I need not tell you something you know so well, but if you would allow me to, I would like to tell you how very irate I find myself feeling.

I know by voicing – or writing in this case – my stance I equate myself to the other gossips about town. Perhaps sticking my nose in the business of someone who so clearly wishes to remain private is in poor taste, but I cannot help but believe your sister unworthy of your affection. Such dedication to her wellbeing – at least I must assume for I have not read any of your letters – only to be rewarded with silence is utterly detestable.

Believe me, I mean no offense when I say I feel you seem like such a lonely woman. I know hearing this from a fellow spinster with absolutely no friends to boast of herself must feel a bit like the pot calling the kettle black, but I suppose it takes one to know one.

It might be bold of me to offer after expressing myself so candidly, but if you would not be opposed, I would like to extend my hand in friendship, or at least in friendliness. Should you ever wish to ease your loneliness with a similarly situated woman, you know where to find me.

Sincerely,

Rebecca Taylor

Carrie blushed, reading Rebecca’s open and honest thoughts regarding the loneliness she once felt. Even then, knowing almost nothing about her, Rebecca had hit the nail on the head. Briefly, she wondered if perhaps she should not have been reading these letters, but her own self-control wavered, and she soldiered on.

Dear Miss. Snider,

I cannot tell you how happy I am that you are now healthy. I must confess my own cowardice at not sending my previous letter. Undoubtedly, this letter will also remain unsent. Perhaps it is for the best that I can write freely with no fear of potentially damaging our new friendship with my own ramblings.

               I so enjoyed our time spent together tonight. Not only for the fabulous supper you prepared, but also the stimulating conversation after. I must confess, it has been far too long since I have spoken of anything intellectual with anyone. And you have offered more insight than anyone I have ever met. Such brilliance I find to be wonderfully refreshing.

Yours Truly,

Rebecca

Dear…Carrie,

Today you asked me to call you by your given name. This permission for such familiarity left me with such a strange fluttering feeling in my stomach. I admit it has left me confused for most of the day, but I’ve decided it matters little.

Carrie…Such a pretty name, I must say. But then, you must know that you are certainly a pretty woman. Forgive me if these compliments of mine cross any lines. Though, I suppose I shouldn’t concern myself when I have no intention of sending them.

This friendship – a phenomenon I had long since resigned myself to never experiencing – pleases me to no end. At last I have something other than myself or the post office to think of.

Your Friend,

Rebecca

Dear Carrie,

I had the pleasure, today, of being able to observe you hard at work. I had never had an appreciation for fashions or dressmaking prior to knowing you, but I know admit how wrong I was for not seeing the light. Or perhaps it is not the topic that has caught my eye, but rather the fact that you are the one engaging in it that draws me in. But watching you work so diligently with such talent is simply incredible.

While you were otherwise occupied, I amused myself by examining your work more closely, and my goodness, the detail and skill with which you had so carefully embroidered nearly left me breathless.

I myself could never hope to achieve even half the quality. In the past, I’d always felt envious – though never jealous – of those with skills I could only dream of, but to my shock and pleasure, I felt none of those emotions about you, my friend. Instead, only pride and affection towards you.

Delightfully Awed,

Rebecca

 Carrie’s grin grew as she continued reading. Always so reticent with her affections, Carrie felt utterly tickled that Rebecca instead committed her inner musings to paper. She continued reading through several months’ worth before pausing to take in one from just a few weeks ago,

Dear Carrie,

You fell asleep in my lap today. The fact that you have come to trust me enough to let yourself relax in this manner left me nearly giddy all afternoon. This feeling confused me as much as pleased me. Why ever should I react so foolishly, giggling to myself like a child, over a mere act of trust between best friends?

               Though, I must admit seeing you in such a peaceful state did me well. Always, even when we are alone, you hold yourself with an unmistakably regal dignity that I only ever saw falter once back when you were struck with the measles. But today you allowed yourself a bit of freedom and kicked off your heels to lay across my couch.

I have not the faintest idea why, when you idly placed your head in my lap, your hands clasping mine, I felt my heart speed up so. Nevertheless, I soldiered on, reading aloud to us both. When I, at last, noticed you’d fallen asleep, I did not – as I expected – feel affronted that you’d been so bored by my reading that you’d dozed off. Rather, a wave of tenderness overcame me, and without thinking I began to stroke your hair. Of course, I made sure not to muss it any more than I suspected it to be already.

I hadn’t had the heart to wake you. That is why, I answer you now, I let you sleep long after the position grew uncomfortable for me. You always seem so worn out at the end of the day that I simply had to let you sleep. You needn’t have looked so cross with me when you woke, though even that I found endearing.

Exasperatedly Yours,

Rebecca

Carrie flushed at the mere memory of having dozed off so improperly. Though, she hadn’t really been cross with Rebecca. Not really.

Dearest Carrie,

For the first time in my life, I shared a bed. At the risk of inflating your ego, I profess I am glad it was with you. With the rain as horrid as it was, you simply couldn’t have returned home without me fretting that you might slip – for even you might have done in that weather – and somehow perish. Utterly dramatic, I know, but not entirely unfounded. If anything were to happen to you, why, I just don’t know how I would cope.

               I am sorry I could not spare you the indignity of sleeping in just a thin shift – for I know how modest you are about your body person – but that is the price of having such a strangely short friend as myself.

               At first, my fear was that you might be an inconsiderate bedfellow. That you might snore, or steal the blankets in the night, or kick. But to my delight, you did none of those things.

But you did do something, and I promised myself I would never tell you. I’d never have guessed that such a prim woman as yourself would fling your limbs around me in the middle of the night, pulling me close and cuddling of all things. Not, of course, that I had any complaints. On such a cold night, I felt grateful for the extra warmth. And well, when you did pull me close, pressing yourself closely against my back, that strange, but now most assuredly familiar, fluttering feeling returned.

I still have not an explanation as to what this feeling might mean, but I am looking into it. All I know is that when you drew me close, allowing me to feel your steady heartbeat and soft skin, it was not at all what I feared cuddling might be like – oppressive, stifling. No, not with you, my dear.

Here I write: I wish to do this again. Though by the time you woke that next morning, you’d moved back to the other side of the bed and were none the wiser, I woke feeling almost disappointed you no longer were there. And I have never been good at voicing my own wishes, but I wish that. That we might perhaps hold each other close through the night again.

Shyly,

Rebecca

Reading this, Carrie blushed even hotter. She’d hadn’t the faintest idea that she’d cuddled with Rebecca that night. In the morning, she’d simply taken Rebecca’s bemused expression to be a result of waking up with someone else in the bed with her, and certainly not of anything she’d done that night. She supposed the fact that Rebecca seemed receptive only slightly lessened her mortification.

Carrie,

Please excuse my abrupt salutation, but I simply must begin writing. You see, I’ve been so confused recently. And I don’t know what to do. I’ve searched nearly all my books, and even the ones on the mercantile shelf when I could, but there seems to be no explanation available to help me make sense of these feelings I am having.

At first, I believed it to all be merely a product of our friendship. Remember, I’ve never had one of those before and knew not the proper way to go about it. Certainly, affection between two bosom friends was natural. Kisses and hugs seemed to be a staple in such friendships.

But nowhere did it speak of these feelings and reactions I’ve had around you. The fluttering that seems near constant whenever I see you now. The way my heart races when we brush fingers. How I sometimes catch myself getting lost in your intoxicating eyes. It’s all so confusing, and I just don’t know what to do.

For it’s not always so mild. Take, for instance, that time I wandered into your bedroom as I often did only to accidently catch a glimpse of you wearing just your corset and bloomers. How prettily you blushed, and though I quickly retreated to the living room, I felt the most indescribable feeling in my lower abdomen. Why, I found myself fidgeting and unable to keep still all the while as I waited for you to come down. I’ve always prided myself on being able to remain motionless, but for the life of me, I could not that day.

The only time I ever felt such a stirring in the pit of my stomach as that again was when you, quite by accident, brushed your arm across my breasts. And while you blushed hotly and stammered out an apology, I felt utterly flustered all day. Not only was there a tightening in my lower stomach, but also in the area you…you touched. It left me so addlebrained that I dropped a stack of letters all across the floor.

And there are thoughts I keep having that I just can’t get out of my head. They frighten me so, and I simply cannot sleep at night. And when at last I manage to fall asleep at last, there are dreams. I just don’t know, I don’t know. I just – I wake up with fragments of these dreams that I don’t understand.

This one dream…I could not forget even if I tried. Even as I write this, I’m blushing almost as freely as…well, as you, Carrie. In my dream we are back in that night. The night you stayed over because of the weather. In my dream, we are lying as we were, you pressed against my back, your long limbs draped over me. In my dream, you are awake, slowly stroking my shoulder. My bare shoulder. For in my dream, we are not wearing a stitch, and I can feel your breasts against my back.

I don’t know what this means, but it terrifies me. These thoughts…

Rebecca

Carrie sat frozen, uncertainty and confusion racing through her head. These feelings and thoughts Rebecca had so anxiously written of. Carrie felt just as at a loss, but an odd feeling of dread and anticipation settled in the pit of her stomach. With trembling fingers, she opened the last letter.

My Dearest Carrie,

I have concluded through my research that these feelings and thoughts I have for you are those of… well, of a lover. There, I’ve written it. I have feelings for you, dear Carrie, and for the first time since I began to have these thoughts I don’t feel afraid anymore. Strange, isn’t it? The moment I realize my feelings for you are romantic in nature I feel at peace. This should terrify me, shouldn’t it? A woman wishing to be with another woman as lovers…as wives.

I searched and searched, and nowhere does it mention love between two women in the romantic sense. But, knowing how devote you are, I poured over the bible you gifted me. I knew, of course, the passage in Leviticus, but it spoke of two men, not two women. So, I persisted, until at last I read through Romans. And…and the bible does not condone my affections for you. You know how I have never placed much stock in the bible or god God. To this day it remains the only thing we have ever disagreed on.

I cannot believe, no matter how blatantly your bible condemns me, that what I feel for you is wrong. How can something that brings me so much joy and happiness be anything less than wonderful? Am I hurting anyone with my affections? No. The only person in danger is myself. For I know you could never love me the way I love you, and I accept that. And I don’t mind, truly. Your friendship is more than I could possibly imagine, Carrie. You are the best thing in my life.

Sometimes…sometimes I wish I had the courage to tell you. Sometimes I imagine our life together, but I must stop myself before I dream too far. And reality comes crashing over me, and I remember.

Hopelessly, irrevocably, shamelessly in love with you,

Rebecca

“Where did you find those?” Carrie shot up, the letter falling from her limp fingers and fluttering to the ground. Flushing hotly at being caught, she started at Rebecca unspeaking.

“You had no right to- to read those letters,” Rebecca said angrily. The letters lay scattered across the bed, and there was no question that Carrie had read them. “How much did you read?”

“They were addressed to me!” Carrie snapped back, growing angry in response to Rebecca’s emotions. She stood at her full height, towering over the smaller woman. “I came up here, saw an envelope addressed to me. What do you propose I should have done? At first, I thought you must have been hiding my mail, but then I realized that sounded ridiculous. And yes, yes, I kept reading. Rebecca…”

“I knew I should have burned them when I had the chance,” Rebecca said, sounding more angry at herself than Carrie now. Slumping, she rapidly gathered up the pieces of paper, clutching them to her chest. “Carrie, I- I should- I’m sorry, I need to-”

Rebecca turned to leave, tears prickling at the corners of her eyes. She made it halfway through the door before she heard Carrie call out to her, gently grasping her arm.

“Rebecca, please, wait,” Carrie said. “What you wrote…it was so beautiful. No, really! Please, listen to me. You’ve poured your heart out, and I- I don’t know what to say, really.”

“You don’t have to…” Rebecca looked down, wiping a tear from her eye. “It’s okay. I know you don’t…”

“I think…I think reading how absolutely honest you wrote just opened something up. In me. Because, Rebecca, what you described, though I never realized it, is mirrored in me.” Carrie bit her lip, holding Rebecca’s hand in hers. “I…I feel my heart speed up when you let me touch you. I can’t help but shiver in delight when you make those dry comments of yours. I find myself…I want to…may I kiss you, please?”

Rebecca trembled slightly, glancing up. She nodded, but still wouldn’t meet Carrie’s gaze. Carrie stepped closer, carefully lifting Rebecca’s chin to look her in the eye. Hesitantly, Rebecca placed her hand at Carrie’s hip, and lifted herself onto her toes. Both women felt utterly terrified, but Carrie leaned down, pressing her lips to Rebecca’s.

And…well, it wasn’t exactly the firecracker and earthquakes moment the books promised. Their height difference made their positioning awkward, there was far too much teeth and not nearly enough contact, and when they broke apart, Carrie somehow caught her bracelet in Rebecca’s hair.

“Could we try that again?” Carrie asked sheepishly after they’d disentangled themselves. Carrie, despite being well into her thirties, had never kissed anyone before and hadn’t the faintest idea what she should do. Rebecca nodded breathlessly. For as strange as their kiss had been, Rebecca wanted more.

Letting the letters fall to the ground, she guided Carrie towards a stuffed armchair. Carrie sat, and without thinking, pulled Rebecca onto her lap. The smaller woman gasped, catching her balance just in time.

They tried again, this time starting slowly. Rebecca tilted her head, cupping Carrie’s cheek in her hand. Carrie whimpered, wrapping an arm around Rebecca’s waist, pulling her closer until they sat flush against each other.

This time when they broke apart, both women’s breathing sounded ragged and pure desire stared back at them.

“Do you…” Rebecca’s voice cracked. Clearing her throat, she started again. “Do you regret…I mean, I’ve inadvertently made my feelings clear. But, if you don’t feel the same.” Carrie’s only response was to pull Rebecca in for another kiss.

“I have something for you,” Carrie whispered when they broke apart again. “It’s, um, I’ve been working on it for a while now. I’m not sure it will fit, but perhaps you will have supper with me tonight and we can see?”

That something turned out to be an exquisite dress. Rebecca gasped, tracing the fabric reverently. No one had ever gotten her anything so beautiful. And without even hesitating, her hands began working the buttons of her own dress.

Carrie inhaled sharply, unable to tear her eyes away. It wasn’t until Rebecca stepped completely out of her dress that she remembered Carrie was there.

“Would you help me with this? I’d hate to ruin it,” she said, stepping onto the small stool. Carrie nodded, pulling the dress over the other woman’s head. She sighed, already reaching for her pin cushion. Because she’d been unable to measure Rebecca exactly, she’d had to estimate much of the measurements.

“You and your tiny waist,” she said teasingly, pinning at the fabrics. Rebecca rolled her eyes, and Carrie could see a bit of her usual sass returning after this morning’s ordeal.

When at last Carrie finished pinning, she straightened. Standing as they were, Rebecca on the stool, Carrie didn’t tower over her nearly as much. Rebecca batted her eyelashes playfully, leaning in to kiss the other woman once more. Each time they got better and better.

The town never found out. They never knew the fierce friendship between the two old spinster women concealed so much more. They never knew the soft – and sometimes not so soft – kisses they shared together in the privacy of their homes where no one could see. They didn’t know how kisses turned to touches, and touches turned to so much more.

When Miss. Taylor and Miss. Snider quietly moved in together, Miss. Taylor relinquishing her small apartment just above the post office, the town hummed in approval. Far better for two spinster women to have each other than live alone. They never knew that, though Miss. Snider made a production of fixing up the second bedroom in anticipation of her new housemate, Rebecca Taylor spent her nights in the warm embrace of her lover.

And really, it was simply none of their business what the postmistress and the dressmaker got up to when the sun gave way to the moon. And as for the letters, well, Carrie Snider kept them carefully hidden, treasuring them long after her love left her for a better place. And only after she herself felt the pull of death did she relinquish her hold on them, giving up the words to the flames. For no one but each other ever needed to know of their love. And no one ever did.