A Piedmont Porchlight Story
There are certain things a woman ought to know about her husband before she marries him.
Whether he snores.
Whether he puts the toilet seat down.
Whether he considers a dish towel an acceptable substitute for a handkerchief.
And whether he’s got forty-six love letters hidden in a shoebox beneath his side of the bed.
Ruby Roundtree Rhinehart had discovered the first three within a week of marrying Dink.
The fourth took a little longer.
And when she finally found those letters, she discovered something else.
A person can spend forty-six years believing a love story has ended, only to learn that somebody else has been writing the next chapter all along.
Now, the trouble began on a Thursday morning when Ruby decided to clean out the bedroom closet.
This was not an unusual occurrence.
Ruby had spent forty-two years inspecting quilts at Lawtex, and retirement had done nothing to diminish her belief that everything in the world ought to be examined periodically for defects.
She inspected canned goods.
She inspected receipts.
She inspected the seams in clothing she’d purchased twenty years earlier.
And she inspected Dink.
Regularly.
Sometimes without warning.
That particular morning, she’d discovered that her husband owned eleven neckties, four pairs of shoes he never wore, a Panama hat she’d already forbidden him to purchase another of, and a collection of socks that appeared to have survived several major military engagements.
“Dink!”
He was in the kitchen.
“What, honey?”
“Come here!”
He appeared in the bedroom doorway carrying a cup of coffee.
“What’s wrong?”
Ruby held up a sock.
“What’s this?”
Dink examined it.
“Looks like a sock.”
“It’s got a hole big enough to put a grapefruit through.”
“Well, don’t put a grapefruit through it.”
Ruby stared at him.
“Dink Rhinehart, I swanee, sometimes I wonder how you managed to survive forty-six years without me.”
He grinned.
“Mostly by staying out of closets.”
She threw the sock at him.
He caught it.
“Still got some life in it.”
“Throw it away.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“And don’t you put it in your other drawer.”
Dink looked wounded.
“I wouldn’t do that.”
Ruby folded her arms.
“You did it Tuesday.”
He considered this.
“That was a different sock.”
“OUT!”
Dink retreated.
It was while Ruby was rearranging the shoes that she discovered the box.
An ordinary cardboard shoebox.
Brown.
A little battered.
With a faded label advertising a pair of men’s dress shoes that had probably gone out of fashion sometime during the Carter administration.
It was tucked beneath a stack of old photographs.
Ruby lifted it.
Something shifted inside.
She set it on the bed.
Removed the lid.
And found forty-six envelopes tied together with a length of faded blue ribbon.
Each envelope bore the same name.
Miss Ruby Roundtree.
And each was addressed to the same little house in Piedmont, Alabama.
Her house.
The house where she’d lived before Dink came home.
Ruby sat down.
She picked up the first envelope.
The postmark was missing.
There was no stamp.
And in the upper right corner, written in Dink’s familiar hand, was a date.
December 24, 1959.
Ruby stared at it.
Christmas Eve.
The year Dink left Piedmont.
The year she’d stood beside the road and watched his taillights disappear.
She touched the envelope.
Then picked up another.
July 26, 1960.
Another.
December 25, 1961.
Another.
June 14, 1962.
Forty-six envelopes.
Forty-six dates.
Forty-six years.
And not one had ever been mailed.
Ruby sat on the edge of the bed for a long time.
Then she called out.
“Dink?”
He appeared in the doorway.
“Yes, honey?”
She held up the shoebox.
His expression changed.
Not dramatically.
He didn’t gasp.
Didn’t rush forward.
Didn’t demand to know what she’d been doing in his belongings.
He simply stopped.
And for the first time since coming home to Piedmont, Dink Rhinehart looked like a man who didn’t know what to say.
Ruby watched him.
“What are these?”
He looked at the box.
Then at her.
“Letters.”
“I can see that.”
He nodded.
“Yes, ma’am.”
“To me?”
“Yes.”
“Forty-six of ’em?”
He swallowed.
“Yes.”
Ruby looked down at the envelopes.
Then back at her husband.
“Dink, why didn’t you mail them?”
He took a breath.
Let it out.
And said, “Because I was afraid you’d answer.”
Now, there’s a peculiar kind of silence that settles over a room when somebody says something so unexpected that the other person doesn’t know whether to laugh, cry, or throw a shoe.
Ruby experienced all three impulses.
She settled for staring.
“Afraid I’d answer?”
Dink nodded.
“Yes.”
“Delbert Rhinehart, you spent forty-six years writing letters to me, and you were afraid I’d write back?”
He sat beside her.
“That’s about the size of it.”
“Well, that’s the stupidest thing I’ve heard since Curtis Pope told me he could fix a washing machine with a butter knife.”
Dink smiled faintly.
“Reckon it is.”
Ruby picked up the first envelope.
“May I?”
He looked at it.
Then nodded.
“They’re yours.”
She carefully untied the ribbon.
And opened the first letter.
Christmas Eve, 1959
Dear Ruby,
It’s Christmas Eve in New Orleans, and I reckon I ought to be having the time of my life.
There’s music coming from every direction, people laughing in the streets, and enough lights along Bourbon Street to make a fellow think somebody’s trying to outshine heaven.
But I’ve been sitting here in this little room above a bar, thinking about Piedmont.
Thinking about the way your mama’s kitchen smelled when she made cornbread.
Thinking about the old depot and Curtis Pope’s place.
Thinking about you.
I passed a jewelry store this afternoon. There was a little gold ring in the window. Nothing fancy. Just a plain band with a tiny red stone.
I stood there looking at it for so long the man inside came out and asked if I intended to buy it.
I told him I was just looking.
That was a lie.
I wanted to buy it.
I wanted to put it on your finger.
But I don’t have enough money to buy a decent supper tonight, much less a ring.
And I reckon a man ought to have something to offer a woman besides promises.
So, I’m going to work.
I’m going to save.
And someday, Ruby, I’m going to come home with something worth bringing.
Until then, Merry Christmas.
I love you.
Dink
Ruby lowered the paper.
Her eyes were wet.
She looked at her husband.
“You loved me then?”
Dink looked surprised.
“Ruby, I loved you before I knew what the word meant.”
She swallowed.
“Why didn’t you tell me?”
He smiled sadly.
“I reckon I thought you’d figure it out.”
Ruby shook her head.
“Men.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“Fortyleven kinds of fools.”
“At least.”
She reached for another letter.
August 3, 1965
Dear Ruby,
I bought the bar.
Can you believe that? Me, Delbert Rhinehart, who couldn’t keep a nickel in his pocket when I lived in Piedmont, now owns a business on Bourbon Street.
It’s not much to look at.
The roof leaks.
The floor’s crooked.
And there’s a fellow who comes in every Thursday and insists he’s related to Napoleon Bonaparte.
But it’s mine.
I’ve been thinking about what to call it.
The man who sold it to me suggested something French.
I considered that.
Then I thought about you.
About the red ribbon you used to wear in your hair.
About that red dress you wore to the picture show.
About the way you used to laugh when I tried to dance.
So, I named it the Ruby Red.
Folks think it’s because of the red neon sign out front.
I let ’em think that.
But you and I know better.
Well, you don’t know yet.
Maybe someday you will.
Love,
Dink
Ruby laughed through her tears.
“You named a bar after me?”
Dink nodded.
“Yes.”
“Before you even knew whether I’d take you back?”
“Yes.”
She looked at him.
“That’s either the most romantic thing I’ve ever heard or the most ridiculous.”
“Could be both.”
She smiled.
“Reckon it could.”
Then she reached for another envelope.
The years passed across the bed.
One letter at a time.
Dink wrote about hurricanes.
About Mardi Gras.
About the musicians who played in his bar.
About the time a drunken tourist tried to ride a police horse down Bourbon Street.
About the night the power went out and the customers kept singing by candlelight.
He wrote about the good years.
And the bad ones.
About money earned.
Money lost.
Friends buried.
And birthdays celebrated with people who didn’t know the one person he wished was sitting beside him.
Sometimes the letters were funny.
Sometimes they were lonely.
And sometimes they were so full of ordinary details that Ruby could almost imagine she’d been there.
One letter described a stray dog that wandered into the bar and refused to leave.
Another told of a woman who played the piano every Friday night and insisted on being paid in bourbon and fried oysters.
Another described a terrible storm that flooded the streets and left Dink standing ankle-deep in water, wondering whether he ought to have become a plumber instead of a businessman.
And in every letter, somewhere, there was Ruby.
A memory.
A question.
A little joke only she would understand.
Or simply three words.
I love you.
Then Ruby found the letter dated November 12, 1978.
The envelope was different.
The handwriting was less steady.
She opened it.
Dear Ruby,
I heard you were getting married.
Curtis wrote and told me.
He said some fellow from Jacksonville had been coming around, and folks were saying it looked serious.
I sat here with that letter in my hand for an hour.
Then I went downstairs and poured myself a drink.
Then another.
And another.
I suppose I ought to be happy for you.
You’ve waited long enough for somebody to love you properly.
And I had my chance.
I had a thousand chances.
I just kept finding reasons not to take them.
So, if you’re going to marry him, Ruby, I hope he’s a good man.
I hope he makes you laugh.
I hope he brings you flowers for no reason.
I hope he remembers how you take your coffee.
And I hope he never makes you feel like you’re waiting for something that might never come.
Because you deserve better than that.
You always did.
I love you.
Dink
Ruby sat very still.
Then she looked at him.
“Who was Curtis talking about?”
Dink shrugged.
“Never knew his name.”
Ruby frowned.
“Jacksonville?”
“That’s what Curtis said.”
She thought for a moment.
Then her eyes widened.
“Oh, for heaven’s sake.”
Dink looked at her.
“What?”
“That was Harold Pritchett.”
“Who?”
“Harold Pritchett. He sold vacuum cleaners.”
Dink stared.
Ruby began laughing.
“That fool came over here every Saturday for three months trying to sell me a Hoover.”
Dink blinked.
“A Hoover?”
“Yes!”
“Curtis said you were courting.”
“Curtis Pope couldn’t tell the difference between a vacuum cleaner salesman and a marriage proposal!”
Dink looked at her.
Then started laughing.
Ruby laughed harder.
“He kept bringing me brochures!”
Dink wiped his eyes.
“Well, I’ll be damned.”
Ruby shook her head.
“Forty-six years, and half of it was caused by Curtis Pope not knowing when to mind his own business.”
Dink grinned.
“Reckon I’ll have to charge him for emotional damages.”
But the laughter didn’t last.
Because beneath the next few letters, Ruby discovered one that had been folded differently.
The paper was worn.
The corners softened.
As though Dink had opened and closed it many times.
The date was September 19, 1986.
She looked at him.
He looked away.
“That one’s hard,” he said quietly.
Ruby opened it.
Dear Ruby,
I came home.
You didn’t know it.
Nobody did.
I drove all night from New Orleans and got into Piedmont just before sunrise.
I parked down the street from your house.
I sat there watching the porch light.
I had a ring in my pocket.
Not the one from the jewelry store back in 1959. That one was long gone.
This was a proper ring.
Gold.
A little ruby set in the middle.
I’d bought it three months earlier.
I was going to knock on your door.
I was going to tell you everything.
About the bar.
About the years.
About how I’d never stopped loving you.
But then I saw you come outside.
You were carrying a basket of laundry.
You looked happy.
You were humming something.
And I thought, Lord, she’s made herself a life.
What right have I got to come knocking after all these years and ask her to change it?
So, I sat there.
And watched.
And then I drove away.
I made it as far as Anniston before I had to pull over.
I sat beside the road and cried like a little boy.
I don’t know whether I did the right thing.
I only know I was afraid of doing the wrong one.
I love you, Ruby.
And I reckon I always will.
Dink
Ruby couldn’t speak.
She remembered that morning.
The laundry.
The little song she’d been humming.
The warm September air.
She remembered thinking it was going to be a beautiful day.
And she remembered something else.
A car engine starting down the street.
She’d glanced up.
Seen a vehicle pulling away.
And thought nothing of it.
For forty years, she’d thought nothing of it.
Now she looked at her husband.
“You were there?”
Dink nodded.
“Yes.”
“Right outside my house?”
“Yes.”
“With a ring?”
He swallowed.
“Yes.”
Ruby set the letter down.
Then stood.
Dink looked up at her.
For one terrible moment, he thought she was angry.
She wasn’t.
She walked to the dresser.
Opened the top drawer.
And took out a little velvet box.
She brought it back.
Set it on the bed.
And opened it.
Inside was a plain gold ring with a tiny red stone.
Dink stared.
“Ruby?”
She smiled through her tears.
“I bought this in 1986.”
He looked at her.
“What?”
“I’d saved up for it. Thought maybe someday I’d meet somebody worth giving it to.”
Dink looked at the ring.
Then at her.
“Ruby, that’s a man’s ring.”
She nodded.
“Yes.”
He stared.
She laughed softly.
“I reckon I was still waiting on you, too.”
Now, I wish I could tell you that Dink swept Ruby into his arms and delivered a speech worthy of the finest romance ever written.
But Dink was seventy-something years old.
His knees weren’t what they used to be.
And Ruby had already warned him that if he tried lifting her again, she’d have to call the ambulance and explain why her husband was lying on the bedroom floor.
So, he did the next best thing.
He took her hand.
And kissed it.
Then he looked at the ring.
“Ruby, what happened to it?”
She smiled.
“Been sitting in that drawer forty years.”
“You never gave it to anybody?”
“No.”
“Why not?”
She considered the question.
Then said, “Nobody ever seemed to fit.”
Dink laughed.
Then cried.
Then laughed again.
And Ruby, who had spent most of her life believing that crying was something best done in private, sat beside him and did a little of both herself.
They spent the rest of the afternoon reading the letters.
Some made them laugh.
Some made them cry.
And some made them sit quietly, holding hands, wondering how two people could have loved each other for so long and managed to spend nearly half a century apart.
Finally, Ruby reached the last envelope.
The date was November 8, 2005.
She looked at it.
Then at Dink.
“Why’d you stop writing?”
He shrugged.
“Didn’t stop loving you.”
“I know.”
“Just got tired of telling paper what I ought to have told you.”
Ruby nodded.
She opened the envelope.
Inside was a single page.
Only four lines.
Dear Ruby,
I’m coming home.
I don’t know when.
But I’m coming.
Love, Dink
Ruby stared at the words.
Then looked at her husband.
“You wrote that twenty-one years ago.”
He nodded.
“Yes.”
“And it took you twenty-one years to get here?”
Dink smiled.
“Well, honey, you know how traffic is around Birmingham.”
Ruby burst out laughing.
And Dink laughed with her.
That evening, they sat on the porch.
The shoebox rested between them.
The letters were neatly tied with their faded blue ribbon.
Ruby had made coffee.
Dink had brought out a little plate of cookies.
Napoleon lay on the porch railing, pretending not to listen.
The November sun was slipping behind the trees.
For a while, they sat quietly.
Then Ruby said, “Dink?”
“Yes, honey?”
“I’ve been thinking.”
He smiled.
“That usually costs me money.”
She ignored him.
“Those letters.”
“What about ’em?”
“Forty-six years.”
“Yes.”
“Forty-six letters.”
“Yes.”
She looked at him.
“That’s a whole lifetime.”
Dink nodded.
“Reckon it is.”
Ruby picked up the box.
Held it for a moment.
Then set it on her lap.
“You know what bothers me?”
“What?”
“All those years we wasted.”
Dink looked toward the street.
“Yes.”
“We could’ve had children.”
“Maybe.”
“Grandchildren.”
“Maybe.”
“Christmases.”
“Birthdays.”
“Sunday dinners.”
He nodded.
“We could’ve.”
Ruby looked down.
“And now…”
She didn’t finish.
Dink reached for her hand.
“Ruby, honey, look at me.”
She did.
“We can’t get those years back.”
“I know.”
“But we’ve got this one.”
She looked at him.
“And maybe another.”
She smiled faintly.
“And another after that.”
He squeezed her hand.
“Then I reckon we’d better quit wasting ’em.”
The next morning, Ruby woke early.
Dink was still asleep.
She slipped out of bed.
Made herself a cup of coffee.
And sat at the kitchen table.
In front of her was a sheet of stationery.
She picked up a pen.
And began to write.
November 10, 2026
Dear Dink,
I’ve been thinking about your letters.
All forty-six of ’em.
And I’ve decided something.
You spent forty-six years writing to me.
So, I reckon it’s only fair that I write you one.
I don’t know how to say all the things you’ve said.
I never was much good at putting feelings on paper.
But I know this.
I loved you when we were young.
I loved you when you were gone.
And I love you now that you’re home.
I can’t give you back the years we lost.
But I can give you this morning.
And tomorrow, if the Lord’s willing.
And every day after that, for as long as we’ve got.
So, here’s my first letter.
And I intend to write you another one next year.
And another after that.
And if you live long enough, Delbert Rhinehart, I might just catch up with you.
Love,
Ruby
She folded the letter.
Placed it in an envelope.
And wrote his name across the front.
Then she carried it into the bedroom.
Set it on his pillow.
And went back to the kitchen to make breakfast.
Dink found the letter an hour later.
He read it.
Then read it again.
Then came into the kitchen holding the envelope.
Ruby was standing at the stove.
He looked at her.
“Ruby?”
She didn’t turn around.
“What?”
He held up the letter.
“What’s this?”
She smiled.
“Looks like a letter.”
“To me?”
“That’s what it says.”
He swallowed.
“Ruby…”
She turned.
And saw the tears in his eyes.
For a moment, neither spoke.
Then she walked over.
Took his hand.
And said, “Dink Rhinehart, you listen to me.”
He nodded.
“You spent forty-six years writing letters you never mailed.”
“Yes.”
“Well, I ain’t making that mistake.”
She kissed him.
Then stepped back.
“And now sit down before your eggs get cold.”
Dink laughed.
Ruby laughed.
And Napoleon, who had been watching from the windowsill, yawned as though the entire business was beneath his dignity.
Now, I reckon there’s a lesson in all this.
And it ain’t necessarily about love letters.
It’s about the things we mean to say.
The apologies we keep putting off.
The kindnesses we intend to offer.
The people we mean to visit.
The words we assume there’ll always be time to speak.
Because time, as it turns out, is a peculiar thing.
It can stretch forty-six years into something that feels like forever.
And then, when we’re finally happy, it can make a single afternoon seem altogether too short.
Dink Rhinehart wrote forty-six letters he never mailed.
Ruby Roundtree wrote one.
And between them, they finally discovered something that had taken most of a lifetime to learn.
Love doesn’t need perfect timing.
It just needs somebody willing to say it while there’s still time.
And if you happen to visit the Rhineharts some evening, you might notice a little wooden box sitting on the table beside Ruby’s rocking chair.
Inside are forty-six old letters tied with a faded blue ribbon.
And one new letter.
Written in a woman’s careful hand.
Addressed simply:
To Dink.
With all my love.
And unlike the others, that one was delivered.
Right on time.
