And her defensive words would not serve my marriage well. For I would believe them true, believe that I was in the right and my husband in the wrong, and it would only create a further divide between us.
Instead, I prayed as I worked to clean the mess I’d made, tossing out the ruined currant liquid and scrubbing splatters of red goo from the stovetop, counters, pans, jars, and floors. Again, despite having failed me once, I looked to Mrs. Cornelius’s book for a simple breakfast that might redeem me in my husband’s eyes and Mr. Inglewood’s.
I cleaned myself last, settling by the waning light of the large parlor window to write a letter to Mother. Though we seldom mentioned him, I couldn’t help but write of John, of how he loved Mother’s currant jam. Then, because she was far away, and it felt safe, I told her a bit of the afternoon’s events and felt better for it, though I knew I would probably not mail the letter in the end.
It grew dark and I lit the candles, falling asleep in the parlor so I might not miss Nathan when he came in.
There was no fear of that. For he made every sort of ruckus when he entered, slamming the door so that I jumped awake from where I slept upon the sofa. I rose, gathered a guttering candle, and brought it to the foyer. “Nathan?”
“Leave me.” His words were slurred and I knew what that meant, though I hated what it portended for us.
Still I tried. “How was your dinner?”
He took off his hat and hurled it at the coatrack, missing by many feet. “How the deuce do you think it went? How can someone be expected to invest in a man who can’t keep order in his own home?” Anger frayed the edge of his words as he headed for his study. Words that seemed to pinion me in the pit of my belly and thrust the blame of the world upon my shoulders.
For a small moment, I believed it. I did feel bad about the jam and my part in Nathan’s distress, really I did. But he needn’t be so angry. He’d known I was not perfect from the beginning, and I knew that he wasn’t. Yet part of marriage was bearing with one another, was it not? And that meant forgiving when we witnessed those shortcomings.
Shortcomings. As if my attempting to make my husband currant jam were a shortcoming.
For a moment all the layers I’d wrapped around myself since I’d met Nathan unraveled, and I saw what I was becoming. A shadow of my former self. But who had I been to begin with? I’d come to Concord looking for a place to belong, a place to find my independence and pursue my passion for literature. I’d thought that Nathan was a part of that plan. I loved him, perhaps to a fault. But was I allowing myself to wither away, to be choked and snuffed out in the name of that love?
I dragged in a long breath, wanting more than anything to make peace. With both Nathan and myself.
“I am preparing a beautiful breakfast for tomorrow. Mr. Inglewood will come, won’t he?”
“No,” he snapped. “He’s leaving first thing in the morning.”
“Well, if a simple misunderstanding put him off so, perhaps he is not a wise partner to begin with.”
He went to his cupboard, pulled out a bottle of whiskey. Something hard knotted in my chest at the sight of the alcohol. Yes, I had long suspected. Maybe even known after seeing the shining glass beside him that night in this study. But to voice it seemed to breach the trust we had established as husband and wife. How many times had I dusted that cupboard, wondered if it contained what I feared, yet chosen not to open it? Not to let suspicion taint our new marriage? Now, though, I couldn’t argue with the evidence. And he wasn’t even bothering to conceal it.
I stepped forward. “You promised.”
He ignored me.
I placed a hand on his arm. “Nathan, this is not the answer. There is a better way for us to work—”
“I said leave me!”
I did not see his hand coming. Nor did I anticipate the power behind it. Black came over my vision, and I fell to the floor, partly from the force of it, partly because it put me in a state of shock and my limbs simply gave out.
I reached out a shaky hand to steady myself on the side of his desk.
“Johanna . . .” I felt his arm on my shoulder, but I flinched. “If you did not persist in harping on me . . .”
I couldn’t dredge up words to defend myself. What’s worse, I felt the start of an apology on my lips. Something. Anything to make it right between us again.
He helped me to my feet as if it were a chivalrous act. And once I regained my balance, I left the room to hide myself away in the bedroom, pathetic tears soaking the pillow.
I had known better, hadn’t I? I had seen his true form once before, had chosen to ignore it. I thought I’d been extending grace, but perhaps I’d only been extending my own naiveté. Believing what I wanted to believe. Hoping for something beyond what I knew to be real.
Now it was too late. And I hated myself for it.
The next morning Nathan was gone when I woke. One glance into the looking glass proved the horrors of the night before, and I collapsed back into my bed and chose to sleep away the day. Night came, and I rose to walk around the moonlit house, sat on the porch for an hour or so, listening to the crickets and owls chanting a melody just for me.
Words swirled in my head, something like a poem forming, nonsense trying to create sense from some well deep inside me. I prayed. I asked for wisdom. And then when the grandfather clock struck twelve, I went back up to bed.
My last thought before I dozed off was the very acute feeling that I had somehow let John down.
“I’ll fix it, John. I promise,” I mumbled, half-asleep, into my pillow.
I would. This would not be the course of my life. I would be a better wife, not harp on Nathan so, try to be more understanding. I would fight for what was mine.
Everything would be fine.
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
Work is such a beautiful and helpful thing, and independence so delightful, that I wonder there are any lazy people in the world.
~ LMA
Taylor
“HEY, I WAS HOPING I’d catch you.” Luke stood in the doorway of Bronson Alcott’s school, his now-familiar form shadowing the frame, something in his hand. “Can I come in?”
“Of course.” I shut my laptop, ending my final writing session on the grounds of Orchard House. It had been . . . inspirational and confusing all at once. In some ways, my time here seemed cut short. Much too short.
“I didn’t know if you’d be back, it being the last day of camp and all. I saw this and I thought of you.” He held out a vintage book, no words on the front. I took it from him, recognizing the picture—the automobiles holding families, the mountainous backdrop.
“No way.” I flipped it open to the title page. A first edition John Steinbeck. The Grapes of Wrath. “Where did you get this?”
“I was at my favorite antique shop the other day and it was just sitting on the shelf. A good price, too. I thought of you.”
“I—thank you.” I stood, thinking to give him a hug, but for some reason it felt too forward. Maybe it had something to do with my time with Will the night before, maybe it was something more, but I simply touched his flannel-clad arm instead. “This is beyond sweet. I love old things.”
“I thought so after I saw you hiding that old book the other day.”
I laughed. “You weren’t supposed to see that.”
“I know.”
I gestured to one of the chairs near my desk, and we both sat down. “So if it’s not too intrusive to say, you don’t strike me as the antique-shopping type.”
“And if I recall correctly, you didn’t think I’d enjoy your novels, either. But I’m on my second one.”
I scrunched up my face. “You’re kidding.”
He shook his head. “Long Beach Nights. Kind of steamy for me, but I’m getting into it.”
I smiled. “You have plans this weekend?”
I’d just been trying to make conversation, but as soon as the words were out, it sounded like an invitation.
“I’m thinkin
g about taking Chloe for a walk on the beach and probably church on Sunday, but other than that, nothing. You?”
Church and a girlfriend. Or a wife, though he didn’t wear a ring. Another unexpected twist.
“I guess I have to think about heading back to California.”
“You don’t sound like you want to.”
I shrugged. “Still feels like a lot of unfinished business here, you know?”
“Like that book you and Victoria were hiding the other day?”
“That among other things. Many other things.”
“Well, there’s plenty of extra wood to keep this place warm if you decide to stay another week.”
I looked at my computer, set below the window, and stared out to the steep slope behind Orchard House, the pebbled rock seat just below it.
I sighed, taking in the way the sunlight played off the leaves of the trees, creating pockets of light and dark in the woods beyond. I wouldn’t mind staying here. But was that what was best for Victoria and her family? After last night, I couldn’t see that my staying would help matters. But Victoria and I had just started mending things. There was so much left undone and left unsaid, the least being the mystery behind Johanna Bancroft’s poems.
“Thank you. I guess I’ll have to decide soon.”
“Well, you’ve been great for the kids. Heard more than one talking about you as if you hung the moon and the stars.”
“I enjoyed them.” I cleared my throat. “What about you? Have you done work like this always?”
He shook his head. “I was a police officer. Got shot on a shift one night.” He gestured to his leg. “It’s why I don’t walk so well. But I like to stay busy, even if I can’t do that sort of work anymore.”
“I see.” The small glimpse into his life served to endear him to me all the more. Who was this guy? I couldn’t help but compare him to Kevin, who was as fast-paced about work and life as I was, or to Will, who seemed bent on his own wishy-washy feelings of late.
I looked closer at Luke, saw the weathered lines around his eyes and mouth again, and for the first time appreciated them. He’d been through a lot of life, and I longed to know his story, though I couldn’t understand why.
“You and Chloe have kids?” I asked.
His face colored. “Now that’d be kind of awkward considering Chloe’s my chocolate Lab.”
A laugh gurgled up from my belly. He caught it, and we both let the humor of the situation saturate us. When it finally died down, he stood. “Well, I hope you stay. I mean, I hope this isn’t goodbye.” He held out his hand.
I grasped it, and the warmth shot up my arm and straight through to the end of my toes, surprising me with its intensity.
“Thank you so much for the book. I plan to display it on my coffee table when I get home.”
He winked at me. “I signed up for your newsletter, so I suppose I’ll be hearing from you again soon, regardless.”
I shook my head. If we were in another time, another place . . . if there was no Kevin or California . . . this guy might be a danger to my long-guarded heart. “You definitely will.”
“Okay then. See ya.” He walked toward the door.
I opened my mouth to say something, anything. To ask if I could join him on the beach and meet Chloe. But the words fell off my tongue. Probably better that way. “See you.”
He left and shut the door, but I heard his deep voice talking to someone just outside and I looked out the window to see Maddie on the steps of the school. They chatted for a moment and then he was gone.
I opened the door, settled myself on the steps beside Victoria’s daughter. The spring sunshine soaked through my sweater and I pulled my Converse-clad feet up to the step below the one I sat on.
Maybe I wasn’t welcome here. But I didn’t want this coldness between me and Maddie. “Hey,” I said, glancing at her profile, so much like Victoria’s when we were Maddie’s age.
“Hey.”
“I loved your first page.”
That morning, all the campers had chosen a piece of their writing to share. Maddie’s was the best by far. Yes, she was one of the older kids, but she had that certain something—the same thing Victoria had had at her age.
I wondered if it were possible for my sister to find it again. I wondered if there was a way for me to help her find it.
Maddie squinted up at me. “Really?”
I nodded. “I know good writing when I see it. You remind me a lot of your mom.” I smiled. “Maybe you don’t want to hear that, but it’s true. Your writing . . . it’s authentic, honest. Your mom used to write like that too.”
“What happened?” she asked, surprising me with the first real avenue of communication between us.
“I . . . don’t think it’s my place to go into all that.”
She sighed, blew out a breath that fanned her dark hair. “I actually kind of know what happened. She told me when she told me about you.”
I searched for words to respond to this revelation but was at a loss. Did Victoria tell her daughter everything? Or did she leave out details?
The scent of woodsmoke wafted to my nostrils. “I must have been a bit of a surprise. I’m sorry I wasn’t around more to see you and Caden.”
She shrugged. “It’s not like I knew any different. Mom and even Grandma and Grandpa kept quiet about you. Dad too.”
Her last sentence lay heavy between us, pregnant with meaning. This was why Maddie was hostile to me from the beginning. She knew about the history between me and Will. To her, I was a threat to her parents, a threat to her family.
“I saw you two last night.”
I almost missed her whispered words, thought to ask her to repeat them but couldn’t get over the shock of what they might mean.
“I want to hate you, but I don’t.” She pulled her knees up to her chest. “I saw you pull away and slap him, and I feel like . . . like you wanted to do the right thing. I know I’m just a kid, but I feel like I understand.” A tear ran down her cheek and I wanted to put an arm around her, comfort her somehow, but was afraid she’d push me away.
“How did you . . . ? I thought you were home.”
“I snuck out, rode my bike downtown. Mom would kill me if she found out. I was texting Dad and he said he was working at the café. I just wanted to talk to him alone, but then I saw him talking to you. I followed you guys.”
“Maddie.” I rubbed my temples, felt the very adult temptation to lecture her about how dangerous it was for a young girl to be out at night alone riding her bike. Yet what right did I have over Victoria’s daughter’s life?
“Are you going to tell Mom?”
“I don’t think my tattling on you will do much for whatever sort of aunt/niece relationship we’re going to have, will it?”
“I meant about you and Dad. Last night.”
Oh. That. “Yes. She needs to know. I only wish it hadn’t happened.”
“I know. I—I saw. He’s different than he used to be. Or maybe he’s not. Maybe I just can see more. It’s like he’s running from something.”
“You are far too intuitive for a thirteen-year-old.”
She gave me a sad smile. I squeezed her arm. “It’s probably why you’re such a great writer.”
She stood. “I’m going to tell Mom I snuck out. But I thought you should talk to her first about . . . you know.”
“I’m sorry, Maddie. I wish things weren’t like this. Maybe it would have been better if I hadn’t come, I don’t know.”
“If it makes you feel any better, their problems started long before last week.”
I watched her walk away, back into Orchard House, probably to look for Victoria.
It was time for me to talk to my sister.
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
If we did not love one another so well, we never could get on at all.
~ LMA
Taylor
“I AM STUFFED.” Victoria leaned back in her chair, the barest remnants of asparagus and mushro
oms left on her plate of seared scallops. “Thanks for suggesting this. It’s nice to get out with just us, though I wish Mom were up to it.”
White tablecloths and rustic wooden chairs combined to make 80 Thoreau a cozy but elegant place to relax and eat. “She’s been tired. Do you think she’s up for her chemo next week?”
“She doesn’t really have a choice.” Victoria lifted her pinot grigio to her lips. “I don’t want to pressure you, but I think it would mean a lot to her if you stayed a little longer.”
I blew out a long breath. “I’m not against it, but before you go inviting me to stay, we need to talk.”
“Okay, but first can I show you what I found today?” She took out a few folded sheets of computer paper.
“Uh, yeah, sure.” Telling Victoria her husband kissed me wasn’t ever going to be easy, but I was grateful for another delay. I slid my empty plate to the side and looked at the papers she put between us.
“So I looked into John and Anna Pratt’s genealogy and found no Johanna. I was sure there would be something; then I got to thinking that there must be a clue in at least one of the biographies written about Louisa May Alcott. I searched my favorite—you know, the one by Madeleine Stern? There were several Johns in the index, and I thought I’d just write them down and we could research them one by one, you know? But one—John Suhre—stood out from the rest.” Her eyes sparkled, and for the first time since I arrived, I saw a glimpse of the passion that had flowed from within her as a teenager. A passion for writing and history, a passion for all things Louisa May Alcott.
I found myself catching it. “Is this our John? What did you find?”
“I thought he might be it because from the sound of Johanna’s dedication, the John she referred to was dead. This John seemed to fit the bill. I remember reading about him years ago. Stern doesn’t say a lot about him, though, besides that he was a stoic blacksmith Louisa took care of during her time as a Civil War nurse.”
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