The Secret Women

by Sheila Williams

“My mother,” Dee Dee answered, running a fingertip across the image.

  “Let me see.” Phoebe nudged her sister aside. She leaned in closer in order to get a clearer view. “It is good.” Her light brown eyes caught her mother’s. “Grandmother . . . Laura painted this?” Her choice of words amused and saddened Dee Dee. The girls had never known Laura in the flesh and didn’t quite know how to refer to her.

  Dee Dee inhaled, then leaned back against the countertop.

  “Look. Girls . . . I owe you an apology. This is my fault. My mother . . . well, my mother was ill when I was growing up. And she died relatively young—France, you were a toddler when my mother passed away. You girls didn’t get to know her. And I . . . well, I admit it. I was ashamed of my mother, of her sickness, even though I knew that she couldn’t help it and that she tried very hard to get well. And so . . .”

  She stopped for a moment and brushed a tear from the corner of her eye and was surprised that, instead of interrupting her with a snide remark, Frances was pressing a tissue into her palm.

  “Mommy was . . . she was what we now call bipolar. One day she would be fine. The next day she wouldn’t be. She might stay in bed for days. Then she might stay awake for days. They . . . the doctors didn’t have the treatments and medications then that they do now. And even now, well, it’s a tricky condition and things . . .” Dee Dee bit her lip, remembering her mother on a new medication regimen that had left her lethargic and disoriented. “Well, things don’t always end up well. Mommy wanted to get well. She wanted to be home with us, with me and your aunt. She wanted to paint, to write, she was planning a one-woman art exhibit—did you know that?” Even Dee Dee hadn’t known it until she’d read Laura’s journals. “She wanted to create a comic book series, you know, like a graphic novel. She wanted . . . so much. But . . .”

  “But her sickness wouldn’t let her.” This from Phoebe.

  Dee Dee blew her nose. “No,” she said, her voice hoarse. “No, it wouldn’t.”

  She brushed a stray strand of hair away from the lens of Phoebe’s glasses. “I tried to pretend that she didn’t exist. I never spoke about Mommy, put away most of the photos of her, and never showed you her art, her writing, her . . . the evidence of her life. I didn’t tell you stories about her. And so you girls don’t know anything about my mother. How lovely she was, how smart and funny she was, and what a talented artist she was! I hid that all away.” This time Dee Dee grabbed an unruly curl away from Frances’s forehead. “Even though I named both of you after her: Frances Laura and Phoebe O’Neill.”

  Frances looked up, a small furrow in her forehead, her gold-green eyes shining. I did the right thing naming her Frances Laura, that’s for sure!

  “She was an artist and she wrote too? What kind of things did she write?”

  “Was she a reporter?” Phoebe broke in, her dimples now evident in her face. “A foreign correspondent?” Phoebe wanted to be a war correspondent when she grew up even though she declared that she was a pacifist.

  “No,” Dee Dee said, chuckling, her eyes still on Frances’s rapt examination of Laura’s painting. “No. Mommy wrote essays and short stories, but she also wrote poetry.”

  Frances’s head jerked up. “Really? Do you have some of it? I mean, can I read it?”

  Dee Dee slid the spiral-bound notebook across the slick counter.

  “There you go,” she said. “And when you’ve finished, I have some photo albums to show you both, and we’ll talk about taking a field trip.”

  Now it was Phoebe’s eyes that lit up. “Where are we going?”

  “To Yellow Springs,” Dee Dee. “There’s a gallery there. The owner was a friend of Mommy’s, and she’s kept some of her art in storage. I’ve emailed her. We’ll go up and take a look.”

  “Wow.” This from Frances. “I’d really like to see her work. She’s good. I mean . . . she was good. Her style is a lot like Elizabeth Catlett’s woven into Mary Cassatt’s. With a little Vermeer thrown in.”

  Phoebe rolled her eyes. “Like you’re an art critic.”

  This time it was Frances who poked Phoebe in the side. “Like you would even know who Vermeer is.”

  “Quit,” Phoebe growled.

  “Girls,” Dee Dee warned.

  “Mom.” Frances held the picture frame against her chest and for some reason the gesture made Dee Dee feel good, as if her mother was being embraced by her granddaughters. “Izzie’s having a sleepover tonight and I thought . . .”

  “No, France.”

  “Mooommm!”

  “You’re on punishment, remember? The party?”

  Phoebe snorted with amusement. Her sister poked her in the side again.

  “Quit it!”

  The bickering started from there.

  “Girls!” Dee Dee bellowed. Hallmark moment over. Real life beginning again.

  Chapter 40

  Elise

  Whenever the word “Namaste” popped into her mind, Elise envisioned an artificially serene setting, spare and organized, no wasted space or emptiness, very feng shui, with well-placed bamboo plants, the requisite number of strategically placed mirrors, and a smiling Buddha statuette. She would imagine white walls in a room so silent and so sterile in appearance that a surgeon would feel comfortable using it as an OR. And if you threw in twenty people sitting cross-legged with their eyes closed, you had the perfect Instagram marketing pic for a yoga studio like the one Sergeant Jasmine operated, called . . . Namaste. Of course.

  But today the word stretched out syllable by syllable across Elise’s mind like a sacred chant of balance, acceptance, and, oh yes, serenity. The real kind. Although silence, order, bamboo plants, and sterility were absent. Elise’s “Namaste” found a home amidst towers of brown boxes, street noise, conversation, shouts, and general chaos as she, Dee Dee, Carmen, and a horde of other people came in and out of Marie Wade’s condominium like ants moving bread crumbs across a sidewalk. Instead of transporting precious tidbits of food, however, they carried boxes, lamps, cushions, and other items down the walk to the street, where a large truck was parked, its loading ramp extended. And in lieu of the indefatigable yoga instructor, it was Elise who barked out orders.

  “Wade! Stack those cushions neatly in the back of the truck, will you? Push them against the seat—”

  “Yes, Mom . . .” her son said, his voice muffled by the tower of cushions he carried.

  “Lewis! What do you think? Can we get the washer and dryer in there?”

  “Yes, ma’am, no problem,” Lewis, the moving crew’s leader, answered with an expression that indicated just the opposite.

  Dee Dee and Lorenzo emerged from the cavernous darkness of the truck.

  “There’s tons of room in here,” Lorenzo said. “The size of the truck isn’t the problem. It’s the size and amount of the stuff!”

  “Yeah,” Dee Dee said as she walked down the ramp. She exhaled loudly and drew her hand across her forehead in mock exhaustion. As she passed by Elise, she said, “E, instead of four men and a truck, you need fourteen men and a convoy of trucks. The more stuff we move out, the more there is!”

  “Wimps,” Elise said, a grin brightening her face.

  Carmen staggered toward them carrying a brown-box version of the Leaning Tower of Pisa.

  “God, she’s heading toward disaster,” Dee Dee blurted out as she and Elise moved quickly to intercept her.

  Carmen stopped and together the women adjusted the load.

  “Thanks. I needed that.” As they maneuvered slowly onto the ramp of the truck, Carmen added, “I just want you to know that I’m only doing this because I was told there would be martinis.”

  “And pulled-pork sandwiches,” Dee Dee added.

  “And chocolate cake.” This remark came from Frances, who grinned as she walked by carrying a lampshade that was as tall as she was.

  Elise laughed and turned to go back into the house before she heard a car door slam. Bobby waved at her from the parking lot. She waved back and
walked toward him.

  “Wow,” he said, surveying the activity in the lot and on the walkway. He sidestepped a pair of men who were awkwardly maneuvering a large sofa down the sidewalk toward the truck. “Wade told me that you were finally clearing out the place, but I didn’t believe him.” He nearly tripped over a pile of furniture covers. “Boy, you weren’t kidding. You’re not . . . holding on to anything?”

  Elise shook her head. “Nope. Everything goes.”

  Bobby frowned. “Everything?”

  “Everything. I have the mementoes from Mom that I want, and so do Bill and Warren.” Elise turned toward the moving truck, now half full, and the buzz of activity coming from the regiment of people who surrounded it. “The rest of it goes somewhere. But it isn’t going with me!”

  “That’s wild,” Bobby mused. “Honestly, Elise? I didn’t think you’d be able to give any of it up.”

  Elise smiled. “Neither did I. But things change.”

  “When’s the closing?” Bobby asked, his voice muffled by the noise.

  “Monday.”

  Her former husband’s eyes widened. “No shit.” He turned back to look at the open door of the condo. “And you’re almost done? You’ll be finished by then?”

  “I will,” Elise said proudly. “It’s all worked out.” She gestured toward the moving truck. “That stuff goes to a consignment shop. Dee Dee’s buying some of the artwork—her daughter Frances is into art. Carmen’s bought some of the jewelry and the brass lamp, the boys have taken what they want, and Mom’s books were donated to the library weeks ago. The kitchen appliances stay, the washer and dryer go, the draperies and window coverings stay, and the new owner likes the antique armoire Mom had in her bedroom, so that stays behind too. All of the rest? Gone, gone, and gone. The cleaning crew comes in . . .” She glanced at her phone. “I’ve scheduled them for six-thirty tomorrow. The house will be empty and clean before the closing.”

  “I’m impressed,” Bobby said, smiling.

  “Impressed enough to pitch in?” Elise asked him.

  He nodded. “Absolutely.”

  And, listen, E, I’ve been thinking . . . Shit.”

  “What is it?” Elise asked. Bobby pulled her arm.

  They turned toward the ramp, where their son was doing a juggling act with a trio of large plastic tubs that were precariously sliding out of formation toward his feet. Bobby broke into a sprint.

  “Wade! Son! Stop, hold on . . .”

  The disaster was narrowly avoided and the two men managed to restack the tubs and carry them up the ramp and into the truck.

  “You are a miracle worker.”

  Elise smiled at Dee Dee, who was standing next to her. Carmen approached them from the parking lot.

  “Naaaaw.”

  “Oh yes you are,” Carmen added, uncapping her water bottle and taking a few loud gulps. “I don’t know many women who could persuade their ex-husbands to help them clear out a house.”

  Elise shrugged. “Well, it wasn’t that kind of a divorce. It was just a matter of it being over, and we both knew it. No need to get our thongs in a knot.”

  Dee Dee giggled. “And that’s why I love you, Elise. Never at a loss for the right words.” She opened the flaps of her jacket to reveal a bright purple tee shirt with an inscription in a Gothic font that read DON’T MIND ME—I’M HAVING AN EXISTENTIAL MOMENT.

  “You wore it!” Elise exclaimed, standing back to get a better look. “It looks better than I thought it would!”

  Carmen nodded. “Uh-huh. I think it’s the color. The purple is just right—royal and riotous at the same time.” She glanced over at Dee Dee, who was chuckling. “What? Dee Dee, what is it?”

  Carmen and Elise stared at their friend, whose expression had evolved from the satisfied smile of someone who had just completed a challenging task to that of the Grinch who was about to steal Christmas.

  “I have an idea,” Dee Dee said. “Are you guys coming to yoga class on Monday?”

  Carmen and Elise exchanged glances.

  “Yeah . . .” Carmen answered. “Why?”

  “What are you wearing?” Dee Dee asked.

  * * *

  Sergeant Jasmine walked slowly across the room, studying each student as they adjusted themselves in their poses pursuant to her barked instructions. She nodded with satisfaction at their progress, especially those devotees who had adapted to her philosophy of yoga etiquette: rapt attention to the instructor, no chitchat, and proper and authorized (as in sold by Jasmine) yoga attire of black, light gray, charcoal gray, or navy only. Solid colors. No logos, no designs.

  “Really plant those hands . . . Make suction cups of your fingers. Grab that mat! Tuck in your tailbones. Aaron! Straighten your elbows. Mike, are you okay? Rose? Elise . . .”

  The last three students in the second row tucked in their tailbones, puffed out their kidneys, and planted their palms on the mats with regimental precision. Their manicured fingertips splayed in perfect form and clutched their mats like the Jasmine-described suction cups. And so their headstands, although a bit wobbly in the opinion of the instructor, were adequate. As for the rest of their appearance . . . Being upside down, they didn’t see the raised eyebrow and pursed lips of their instructor. Jasmine paused to adjust the foot position of one of the three, then moved on. Any thoughts she had about the message printed across their identical purple tee shirts, she kept to herself.

  Just before her headstand dissolved, Elise whispered, “Namaste.”

  Acknowledgments

  Every writer is encircled by a pantheon of amazing people who go about their business with focus and diligence. I am elevated by them. Thank you to Patrik Bass, editor, who reached out to me; to Amina Iro for her patience; and to my agent Matt Bialer, who lit a lamp to guide my way.

  The Secret Women is a story for anyone who has had the thankless task of clearing out the home of a loved one who has died. The “stuff” is overwhelming: boxes, drawers, closets, furniture. But the memories and questions that sometimes emerge from photos, letters, and journals may leave mysteries in their wake. I decided to create a story inspired by this unlikely source.

  Gratitude goes to my friends Louise Lawrence and Winona McNeil, whose observations of clearing out their own family members’ belongings helped me to see through the clutter. Additional thanks to Winona for graciously allowing me to use her lovely name. My appreciation also goes to Sandra Rivers and Ron Ellis, who answered questions about many subjects, including New York City and the military. Please note that any errors or divergences on these subjects are entirely mine. A special thank you, as always, to my family, especially my husband, Bruce Smith.

  This book is dedicated to the memory of my second cousin, Dorothy Turner Johnson, who made up her mind to reach the age of one hundred years—and did. An adventurer, librarian, and Francophile, Dorothy was a WAC during World War II, part of the 6888th Central Postal Battalion, the only unit of African American women to serve overseas. I hope that I’ve inherited some of those genes.

  About the Author

  SHEILA WILLIAMS is the author of Dancing on the Edge of the Roof, The Shade of My Own Tree, On the Right Side of a Dream, and Girls Most Likely, as well as a contributor to the anthology A Letter for My Mother, selected and edited by Nina Foxx. She has been commissioned as the librettist for Fierce, an original opera composed by William Menefield for the Cincinnati Opera’s 100th season in 2020. She lives in northern Kentucky.

  Discover great authors, exclusive offers, and more at hc.com.

  Also by Sheila Williams

  Dancing on the Edge of the Roof

  The Shade of My Own Tree

  On the Right Side of a Dream

  Girls Most Likely

  Copyright

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons, living or dead, is
entirely coincidental.

  THE SECRET WOMEN. Copyright © 2020 by Sheila Williams. All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the nonexclusive, nontransferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse-engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins e-books.

  Cover design and illustration: Kimberly Glyder

  FIRST EDITION

  * * *

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

  Names: Williams, Sheila (Sheila J.), author.

  Title: The secret women : a novel / Sheila Williams.

  Description: First edition. | New York : Amistad, 2020

  Identifiers: LCCN 2019054637 | ISBN 9780063005150 (trade paperback) | ISBN 9780062934246 (ebook)

  Subjects: LCSH: Mothers and daughters—Fiction.

  Classification: LCC PS3623.I5633 S43 2020 | DDC 813/.6—dc23

  LC record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2019054637

  * * *

  Digital Edition JUNE 2020 ISBN: 978-0-06-293424-6

  Version 04202020

  Print ISBN: 978-0-06-293422-2

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