The Orchard House

by Heidi Chiavaroli

  “Only I didn’t. It felt good—even for a minute—to know what you knew all the time. To know that comfort, that acceptance. And if I’m going to be honest, it felt good knowing that for just a second I was taking your place.” She sniffed. “I’m the one who kissed him. It was my fault.”

  I breathed in deep, my heart hammering against my rib cage, longing to break free. Even now, I longed to run out of the school, race through the hills Louisa so often ran to as a child and then a young woman. But I didn’t. Adults didn’t run. They stayed.

  We were quiet for several moments before I got up the courage to speak words that didn’t completely blame and condemn. “It’s not really fair to take the full responsibility. It didn’t look like he was exactly fighting you off when I got there.”

  “You’re right. I was surprised when he didn’t. Surprised, and I’m sorry to admit it, just a little bit thrilled.” She pressed her lips together. “I’m so sorry. I’m sorry for my selfishness, my jealousy.

  “He stayed away for a long time after you left. We couldn’t find you, had no idea where to look. After he got home from the war . . . well, it almost felt like we were different people. We’d grown, and when we finally accepted that you weren’t coming back . . .”

  “You found comfort in one another.”

  Victoria nodded. “Sure, I felt bad about what happened, but as the months passed, I got angry at you too. You didn’t even give us a chance to explain. You didn’t give me a chance to say I’m sorry. You didn’t give us a chance, Taylor. We were family, and you ran out of our lives without a second glance.”

  I stood, fire in my belly. “That’s not true. You have no idea what I went through, how lonely I was. I couldn’t come back, Victoria. I didn’t want to find what I expected all along—that if I came back, I would just mess things up for everyone—including myself.”

  “Family sticks together, even when it’s hard.”

  “There’s only one problem with that concept,” I said.

  “What?”

  “By that time I’d convinced myself I’d never really been a part of the family.”

  “How can you say that?”

  I rubbed my brow, figured since we were being open and since I was already wading, I might as well wade deep. “Mom started pulling away from me after you two argued about that date at Main Streets. Remember, the night I met Will?”

  She nodded. “It doesn’t mean she didn’t love you, though.”

  “You used to write letters to Louisa, right?”

  “What?” But the look on her face said it all. I saw the betrayal, the hurt, and I knew there was no turning back.

  “At Sleepy Hollow. I found them.”

  She lowered herself to the nearest chair, hunched over in it, and wiped her forehead. I figured now was about the time she regretted asking me to come back to Concord. “How . . . ? That was private.”

  “Why leave it for anyone to see, then?”

  “Decent people don’t go fishing through things left at burial sites,” she snapped.

  “I never claimed to be decent,” I shot back with just as much venom. “I only read one, but it was enough. And you know what you wrote, Victoria?”

  “Those were private thoughts. I was a young teen. You can’t possibly—”

  “You wrote that you wished I wasn’t your sister after all.” I shook my head, my chest on fire. “I hated feeling like a charity case. Hated it even more knowing that we could never be true best friends again. I’d always be wondering if, deep down, you wanted to get rid of me.”

  “Taylor, we were sisters. It’s only natural to feel what I felt. You shouldn’t have read the letter.”

  “I wished I hadn’t, but by then it was too late.”

  “How could you cling to that? It was a rough patch, something sisters go through.” Victoria rubbed her temples.

  Lunchtime was almost over. We’d have to go back in to face a room full of eager writers. I’d have to teach, pretend like this conversation never happened.

  “I stopped writing those letters after you left, too.”

  “Are you trying to make me feel guilty?”

  “No! Taylor, will you just get over yourself for one second? I’m trying to explain, to do the hard work in repairing our relationship because despite everything, I still love you. I never, ever stopped thinking of you as my sister. Through the good and the bad, in the end you are the only one I have.”

  My bottom lip trembled, but I couldn’t tell if it was from lingering anger or some other emotion. I didn’t speak, thought I’d only mess everything up more—if that were possible.

  “I stayed away from writing after you left. When Will and I began dating seriously, I vowed to never write again.” She shrugged. “Now it sounds kind of stupid, but back then I figured it would do as my penance—taking your boyfriend, in some ways taking the life you’d planned for yourself.”

  I wondered if it made her feel better. And now did she expect me to release her from this self-inflicted guilt?

  “I think you did your time.” I felt her gaze heavy upon me, and I acknowledged the hollow feeling inside my chest—disappointment, not in her, but in myself. I needed to give a little here. Yes, I’d been wronged, but did I truly intend to cling to one minute of betrayal for the rest of my life?

  It had rocked my last sixteen years. What did I want my next sixteen to look like? Who did I want to be? Would I let the continued fear of betrayal and disappointment ruin a possibly beautiful thing?

  I thought of Mom and the cancer trying to eat away her body. I thought of Dad and Maddie and Caden and all of us holding hands around the dinner table. Of Victoria’s declaration that she loved me, that I was the only sister she had.

  If I wasn’t careful, I might throw it all away again. For me, there was only one shot at this family thing, and it was here, now.

  I tamped down my doubts and opened my mouth.

  “Victoria, you were a great writer.”

  She shrugged, wiped at her eyes. The light from the window shone upon her dark head, highlighting a few gray hairs at her roots. I was reminded of how we grew older, how this part of our life could be a sweet time if I only opened myself up a bit.

  Sisters.

  I hadn’t wanted to think it was possible. But here, now, I wondered if new beginnings were indeed possible. If family was possible.

  That idea I’d been so frightened of filled my chest. Hope. But this time it seemed attractive, near foreign after I’d stifled it for so many years.

  I breathed deep and plunged. “I . . . I’m sorry about your laptop.”

  She nodded, and I took it as a sign of forgiveness. But it didn’t seem enough. What would be enough? And why, suddenly, did I want it?

  Then I had an idea. An idea I didn’t think through quite fully, but an idea I felt might heal a big part of us. I didn’t ponder, didn’t deliberate. I leapt.

  “You should write again. Maybe . . . we should write together again. Think we’re too old for the Pickwick Club?”

  Her mouth fell open. “You—you’re serious?”

  “I think I am.”

  She laughed, but it turned into a sob. Tears wet her cheeks, and the backs of my own eyelids burned.

  “I don’t know what to say.”

  “You better say something before I change my mind.”

  “Yes. Yes, of course I’d like that.”

  I swallowed down a lump in my own throat. “Good. We can start tonight.”

  “But I haven’t written anything.”

  “We can write together, if you want. After supper. Maybe Maddie can join us.” I didn’t know if the girl would be open to the idea. Truthfully, I didn’t know if I was open to the idea. Was I ready for any of this?

  Victoria swiped at her eyes again. Nodded. “I think that would mean a lot to her. It would mean a lot to me.” She glanced at her watch. “I’ve been meaning to show you something.” She got up, went to the bottom drawer of the desk, and slid it open. �
�I admit I was half-hoping you’d find this and ask me about it, but I guess you’re not as much of a snoop as I would be.”

  I stared at a small book of papers, bound with string. It was yellowed, fragile. “What is it?”

  “A book of poems. By a woman named Johanna Bancroft. I didn’t have a chance to read them all. I wanted to come back to them when I had time and could really think about what it means.” She pointed to the fireplace. “In the fall we noticed some of the mortar was crumbling. When the workers went to repair the bricks last week, a couple were so loose they took them out . . . and found this. But the crazy part is, it’s dedicated to Louisa. There’s a note in the front and everything.”

  “No way.”

  She handed me the little book. I took it carefully, almost frightened to handle such an old document, the edges of the paper crumbly.

  The front simply read Poems by Johanna Bancroft.

  I opened to the first page, squinted at hazy script at the top, written in weathered ink: To Louisa. “How’d you manage to even read this?”

  Victoria smiled. “Remember that class I took on rare manuscripts? It came in handy.”

  I gave the book to her. “What’s it say?”

  “‘To Louisa. You didn’t just give me wings; you gave me a voice and a space to use it. You are the sister I never had. John would be pleased. Johanna.’”

  “Did you look into it at all? Who is she?”

  Victoria shook her head. “I’ve read every Louisa May Alcott biography and I don’t remember a Johanna Bancroft being mentioned once. But I didn’t spend too much time on it yet. I’ve been . . . distracted.”

  I couldn’t tear my gaze from the page Victoria had just read, couldn’t focus on what exactly she was so distracted with.

  “Well, we definitely need to get to the bottom of it,” I said.

  She beamed at me. “I was hoping you’d say that.” I realized then that somewhere in the space of the last half hour, I was letting walls crumble. They weren’t anywhere near disintegrated. Somehow I didn’t know if I wanted this relationship with Victoria again. Did I want the hassle of caring for a sister again? A best friend? Did I want the aggravation of trying to build trust again?

  I looked at the little bound book in her hands, a creative collection of something between two women. How had it found its way behind the bricks of the fireplace, tucked away for all these years? Who was this Johanna, and how had Louisa made a difference in her life? And what, if anything, did it mean to me and Victoria?

  “You might think I’m crazy,” she said. “But I feel like it’s more than coincidence that this came to me the week before you came home. As if Someone bigger wanted us to discover this.”

  I fought from rolling my eyes. Either Mom’s newfound religion was rubbing off on Victoria, or she had written one too many letters to Louisa. Maybe Victoria’s willingness to believe in the supernatural hadn’t disappeared as I thought.

  But I knew better. The one time I believed in an angel had eventually turned into the biggest disappointment of my life.

  I looked at the little book, at the careful writing that dedicated the book to Louisa, and I couldn’t deny the draw of it. Whoever this woman was, she had known Louisa Alcott. It had landed in Victoria’s hands, and she had chosen to share it with me.

  For the first time in a long time, I felt I was part of something special. I couldn’t describe it or explain it, for certainly I’d been a part of unique projects before. Each book that I wrote and worked on with my publishing team felt special. But this . . . this discovering of something that held so much meaning to Victoria and me for so long—this was different. Especially now, when we’d just started connecting.

  I wondered if she would have shared the book with me if I hadn’t reinstated the Pickwick Club.

  The door behind us opened, and we both jumped. Luke stood at the top of the steps. “Did I interrupt something?”

  Victoria stood, indeed looking guilty. “Luke. Not at all.”

  “Nicole asked me to check on you. The campers are getting antsy.”

  Victoria glanced at her watch and cringed. “We’re late.” She handed the book to me. “Think you can find a safe place for this while I get them started?”

  I tried to protest, but she was gone before I could form the words. I stared at Johanna Bancroft’s book, wanted it out of my hands in the worst way.

  Luke’s footsteps came up behind me. “You okay?”

  “Yeah.” I placed the fragile book carefully back in the bottom drawer of the desk, straightened, and smiled at him. “Nice day out, huh?”

  His gaze lingered on the drawer, but to his credit, he didn’t mention it. “Beautiful.” He nodded toward the laptop. “How’s the writing going?”

  “Good. Really good. I think I just may have you to thank for that.”

  He cocked his head to the side in an endearing sort of way. “Yeah?”

  I stuffed my hands in my pockets. “Yeah . . . you know what you said about facing my problems in my story? I tried it, and funny thing is, I think it’s helping my real-life issues.”

  He smiled, the gesture revealing straight, but not perfect teeth. “I’m happy I could help. But you know, I just finished reading Monterey Winds. I’m not sure I should have messed with a good thing.”

  “You’re joking.”

  He scratched his freshly shaven jaw. “I kid you not. It was amazing. Helps that I’m a Steinbeck fan, of course.”

  I laughed. “Of course.”

  An awkward silence passed between us, a strange sort of tension seeming to ping-pong across the room. “I better get to the kids,” I finally said.

  “Oh. Oh, sure. I’ll see you around.”

  I slid my laptop in my bag before opening the drawer one more time to see Johanna Bancroft’s mysterious book. I wondered why I felt so very much alive when just a week earlier, I’d considered everything in this town dead to me.

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  I find it impossible to invent anything half so true or touching as the simple facts with which everyday life supplies me.

  ~ LMA

  Taylor

  “HOW ARE YOU TWO DOING?”

  I looked up from my laptop screen to see Mom standing at the threshold of the dining room, a cup of tea in her hands.

  Victoria blew a piece of hair out of her face. “It’s been a while since I’ve written anything besides promotional materials for Orchard House.”

  Mom’s smile warmed the room. “It will come, honey. I can’t tell you what it means to me to see both of you together again, doing what you love.”

  I tried not to make my grin too tight, too forced. This, writing with Victoria, was a bit of a stretch for me. I’d thought it could be a way for us to start rebuilding broken bonds, but this Pickwick meeting was nothing like our old ones. I glanced at Victoria, saw the same forced smile on her face, which in a strange way made me feel slightly better.

  “I’m heading up for the night. You girls enjoy.”

  We responded with our own good-nights, but I didn’t go back to my computer screen. “Maddie didn’t want to join us?”

  “She has a project due Tuesday she has to work on.”

  I shrugged. “You all are staying here again tonight?”

  Victoria bit her lip, nodded.

  “You’ve changed,” I said.

  She leaned back in her chair. “How so?”

  “You’ve lost something . . . a fire. I feel like it’s still there, but it’s as if time and life have buried it.”

  She huffed. “Well, you’ve pegged that one right.”

  “I’m sorry,” I whispered. Though I couldn’t say exactly what I was sorry for. For pegging her so well? That I had spoken it or that she had changed in the first place? Certainly not that I hadn’t been around to be by her side through whatever life had thrown her way. And if I was honest with myself, was I sorry? Or did I secretly think she deserved the hard turns life had dealt her?

  “You know, I
’m not the only one who’s changed.”

  I raised my gaze to hers, met it with an openness that I knew held a bit of a challenge. “I know I’ve changed. And I’m okay with it.” I was weak before, too dependent on others. Somehow breaking away had freed me. For too long I’d locked myself up, forced myself to behave lest I be loved less. Escaping to California had set me free at the same time that it locked me in a prison of resentment. How was that possible? How could I be free yet yearn to belong? Why was it I so desperately wanted to depend on only myself yet still longed for another to bear my burdens?

  She looked at the table. “Will and I . . . we’re taking some time apart, Taylor.”

  While I’d sensed that something was wrong—maybe even between her and Will—I never guessed it was this serious.

  “You’re . . . separated?”

  “Temporarily, yes. Maybe permanently. I don’t know.”

  “What happened?”

  “I wish I knew.” She sniffed, and her bottom lip trembled.

  “Victoria . . . I’m so sorry.” And I was. No matter what had happened in the past, it felt small compared to this—the potential ruin of a marriage, the potential devastation of a family.

  “It’s not your fault. Will’s not the same person he used to be . . .” She shrugged. “I’m not sure he’ll ever get past whatever happened in Iraq. I’m not sure he’ll ever open himself up to me.”

  I thought to get up, to put my arms around her, but I couldn’t summon enough strength in my legs to stand. “I—I wish there was something I could do to help.”

  She let out a derisive snort. “Do you really?”

  “You can’t think I’m happy about this.”

  “In some weird way I wonder if I didn’t have it coming.”

  “You mean because of . . .”

  She nodded. “I gave up writing, thought that was penance enough. But it wasn’t enough. Maybe nothing would ever be. Maybe Will felt it too.”

  Something within me broke down then. I went to her end of the table, crouched down, and put an arm around her. “I don’t know a lot about penance and God and how all that works, but I do know that you have a beautiful family, that no matter the circumstances surrounding its beginning, at one time you and Will loved each other. And I know by watching Mom and Dad that love isn’t always easy, that it might take work. Maybe you and Will should go talk to someone.”