The Orchard House

by Heidi Chiavaroli

  Coming to the water often did this for me. I wondered if it wasn’t why I’d driven all the way across the country to California. Back then I’d wanted a different ocean—one that would be a world away from my problems. Only my problems hadn’t stayed behind. They’d followed me, even if I hadn’t realized it.

  Still, sitting here below the blue sky and the setting sun, the gentle peck of a woodpecker sounding on the tree behind me, my problems—however real—seemed just a bit smaller. As if the turning of the world didn’t depend on my small struggles.

  I wondered about Lorraine’s newfound faith.

  “This spring, I’m feeling it more than ever,” she’d said the other morning. “As much as I’ve always loved nature, now I seem to see God Himself in it all. Maybe because the possibility of death seems more real than ever, or maybe because this winter felt long and spring is giving me hope. New life from darkness. That’s what I’m clinging to.”

  I knew she’d been trying to share something that was important to her, and so I had listened, tried to understand, but ultimately wrote it off to a desperateness that cancer would create in anyone.

  But now, sitting here, soaking in the sun and examining the pink buds on the trees, I came just up to the edge of what she’d been trying to tell me. I couldn’t plunge in, couldn’t grasp it fully, but I felt . . . something. Some sort of hope. Assurance. And it didn’t scare me as I thought it would.

  I slid Johanna’s book out of its sandwich bag, flipped toward the beginning, trying hard to make out the old words.

  OF YOU STANDING AGAINST THE SUNSET

  Of you standing against the sunset

  I will never forget

  the way it wrapped you up tight

  in its orange light

  and set you free,

  inside yourself,

  inside me.

  You bared your soul

  with a story untold

  that crept under your skin

  like a festering sin

  within the walls

  of what withheld

  you from me.

  And then you were free.

  I held your hand

  to have you understand

  and walk into liquid light

  of a promised land.

  To lick your wound

  and soothe the fool

  you thought you’d be.

  But you would not go.

  Your fear undisclosed.

  Those tortured ghosts

  of who you thought

  you should be.

  Kept you from sight.

  Kept you from light.

  Kept you from me.

  Who was this person she wrote of? Was he the same man she married? This poem was at the beginning of the book. Had their love—and marriage—taken a turn for the worse after this was written? Or did it have nothing to do with her actual life?

  I sighed, put the book back, and looked toward the beach, where a man threw a ball to his dog. A chocolate Lab.

  I squinted against the sun, thought I might be imagining things. But no. I recognized the build, the slightly crooked gait. I stood, waved my hand. “Luke!”

  He adjusted his hat. “Well, ain’t this a surprise.”

  I scrunched up my face. “For a guy who likes to read the classics, you have absolutely abominable grammar.”

  He shrugged, but it didn’t dim his smile. “Can’t be good at everything, I guess.”

  The dog—Chloe, I remembered—ran up to me, dropped the soggy ball on my right foot, then excitedly rubbed her nose against my leg.

  “Chloe, sit,” Luke said.

  She obeyed but looked at me as if she couldn’t wait for me to pet her.

  “It’s okay. I love dogs.”

  He made a motion with his hand, and Chloe again stuck her muzzle in my thigh, her tail wagging furiously.

  “You have one?”

  “No. I . . .”

  Why didn’t I have a dog? Kevin had mentioned it once, us getting a dog together. But that seemed like just a step away from having a child together, and I had balked.

  “I don’t,” I finished.

  I patted Chloe for another moment, then grabbed the soggy ball, threw it down the small stretch of sand.

  Luke watched the dog dash along the beach. “What brings you here?”

  “I needed to get away. Victoria and I were arguing.”

  He nodded. “About whether you should stay longer?”

  “Not exactly. I had to tell her something. Something she didn’t want to hear. Something I didn’t want to tell. Now she wishes I never came at all.”

  I expected him to speak some reassurance. Something like I’m sure that’s not true, but nothing came from him. Only silence.

  I couldn’t take it. “Have you ever felt like your presence—even if you don’t intend it—is harmful to someone else?”

  He looked at the sand at his feet, nodded. “You want to walk?”

  “Sure.” I put my pocketbook strap across my chest and buttoned my sweater against the slight chill of the open water.

  Chloe came back to us, dropped the ball at Luke’s feet. He scooped it up, threw it again. She ran after it with enthusiasm, her legs kicking up sand.

  “I didn’t tell you how I was shot.”

  I didn’t speak. I didn’t want to break this connection, the small bit of himself he seemed about to unveil.

  “It was a young kid. Drugs were involved. It was the most intense chase I’d ever been part of, ending with a shoot-out, just like the movies. There were a few of them shooting at us, but the one who shot me was eighteen. He’s still in jail. Might be for a good long time.” He pulled his baseball cap lower and I wished he’d take it off so I could see him more fully.

  He didn’t. “His aunt wrote me. She had raised him, felt awful bad about what he’d done. Maybe it was a mistake, but I started spending some time with her. At first, it seemed like we were helping one another grieve. She was mourning her nephew; I was mourning my leg and my career. But after a time, it became apparent she still had some complicated feelings about what happened that day. We decided to part ways.” He lifted his gaze to me. “So yeah, I know what you mean about trying to help but just making things worse by being around. But that doesn’t mean that leaving’s the answer.”

  “It was for you.”

  “For us, tragedy brought us together. You and Victoria . . . you’re family. That’s different.”

  “The Bennetts adopted me when I was thirteen. Sometimes I think what Victoria and I are is more complicated than being sisters or family.”

  He nodded, and though he didn’t ask more, I found myself spilling my heart to him, telling him everything. Maybe it was that he’d shared a piece of himself with me, or maybe it was some unseen force that drew me to him, but I told him about growing up with the Bennetts, about falling in love with Will, about finding him and Victoria that day in front of the garage.

  I’d never voiced what had happened to anyone, not even Kevin, not even my counselor. Speaking it all out into the open gave me a surprising sort of release, a freedom I hadn’t known I needed.

  Luke listened, nodding once in a while. When I ended with what had happened last night between me and Will and how I had just told Victoria that afternoon, he grimaced, and I felt his sympathy and understanding—something else I hadn’t realized I’d needed—or wanted—so badly.

  For a long moment, he said nothing. We reached the end of the sand and, without discussing it, continued along the wooded path around the pond. Chloe clung to her ball, setting it down now and again to sniff out trees along the edge of the path.

  “So you think you should go back to California so you won’t be in the way of your sister and her husband.”

  I inhaled deep through my nose, let out my breath on a long sigh. “I came here thinking how hurt I’d be. Now I feel like I’m hurting everyone else.”

  Luke gestured for me to go ahead of him as the path narrowed. “Seems to
me your sister’s problems didn’t start when you came to Concord. It’s likely they’re not going to end when you leave. I understand she’s angry now, but my guess is she’s going to need you. Soon. Let her cool down, then talk to her.”

  “You make it sound so simple.”

  “I saw the way you two worked together this week. Even when you were in the school, hiding that old book. You have something together. Keep searching for it.”

  I couldn’t help but smile at his simple wisdom. I opened my mouth to tell him about Johanna’s poems but stopped short. As far as I knew, Victoria hadn’t disclosed what we’d found to anyone. In some ways, this discovery felt like the last thread that held us together. I closed my mouth, suddenly unwilling to share it.

  Yes, history and the Alcotts had always been more Victoria’s obsession than mine. But maybe it was my turn to find out more about Johanna, to show Victoria I cared about what we’d found. That I cared about her.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

  Respect and esteem must be the foundation, but above and beyond must be an abiding love that makes all things possible and without which no marriage is a true one, no household a home.

  ~ LMA

  Taylor

  I DIDN’T MAKE PLANS to return to California. Instead, I gave Victoria her space and accepted Lorraine’s invitation to go to church with her and Paul on Sunday morning.

  I wasn’t sure what I expected. I’d been to church here and there for funerals and weddings, but standing beside Mom with this group of strangers singing about a God they’d given their hearts to, a God that was both just and loving all at once, I couldn’t quite take it all in.

  In some ways, I felt like I didn’t belong. And in some ways, I wished to give myself over to it, for just a short amount of time, even. Forget myself and sing from a place deep within, a place that threw all my insecurities and fears aside and fell at the feet of this mysterious Being whom Mom seemed to be so certain existed in the midst of her trials.

  On the way home, she reached behind her from the passenger seat. I placed my hand in her own smooth, cool one and squeezed.

  “I’m glad you came this morning. And I’m glad I haven’t heard anything about you leaving just yet.”

  I couldn’t see her face as she spoke the words, and I thought that somehow it made it easier for her to speak them.

  I wondered if she often wanted to speak words to me when I was growing up in the Bennett home, if she just didn’t know what to say or how to say it. I sure hadn’t. There was no rule book about fostering and adopting your daughter’s best friend. Or in my case, your best friend’s mother.

  “I’m glad, too,” I said. And I meant it.

  When we pulled into their driveway, I didn’t see Victoria’s car. Again. I didn’t miss the look Lorraine and Paul gave one another.

  “Did she go back home?” I asked.

  Lorraine nodded. Paul clenched his jaw.

  “That’s not good?” I asked. Wasn’t it good that she and Will work things out, talk things through?

  “It never seems to be.” Dad got out of the car, nearly slamming the door behind him.

  Mom and I didn’t move from our places.

  “It’s hard on him,” she started. “Seeing one of his daughters hurt like this. Will’s . . . changed. We want our grandchildren to have a father, our daughter to have a husband. But at what cost?”

  There were lines I couldn’t clearly read between, but I didn’t prod further. Instead, we went inside, enjoyed a light lunch of chicken salad. After, I went upstairs to my old room and flopped on the bed with Johanna’s poems, ignoring my story and deadlines and all other obligations.

  Why I thought this was the thing that would bridge the divide between me and Victoria, I didn’t know. But there had to be something—some clue as to Johanna’s story and her connection to Louisa. Could it help Victoria and me heal our own relationship?

  I read through the entire book of Johanna’s poems without finding one more trace of evidence to point me in the direction of who this woman was. The poems were largely about lost love. They were sad and deep, and though I was left feeling emotion, I didn’t feel especially uplifted or inspired after reading them. If only I’d found something to bring to Victoria—some new piece of information for us to share once again.

  Who was Johanna Bancroft?

  I tapped my fingers on my stomach, wondered how to go about finding more. Victoria had shown me John and Anna Pratt’s family history on a printout from ancestry.com. I opened my laptop and pulled up the website. After signing up for a free trial, I got to work, searching Johanna Bancroft’s name.

  The problem, it seemed, was finding the right Johanna Bancroft. After no definite leads, I tried Johanna Suhre instead. Minutes passed as I went down rabbit trail after rabbit trail, eliminating each possibility by time frame or location. When I had exhausted all the search results, I stood and stretched, feeling the need to be free of the tiny room.

  I grabbed my keys and wallet, wondered if Luke might be at Walden Pond again this afternoon. As I drove south, I tried to think of other avenues I could explore to unravel the mystery behind Johanna. Victoria hadn’t found anything in her biographies, but there must be something somewhere. Whoever had hidden the poems—be it Johanna or Louisa or someone else—had wanted to hide them for some reason. But why?

  Nothing in the biographies, but what about letters? The idea gripped me with ferocity and I pulled over, tapping the steering wheel of the rental. I’d seen a book at the Orchard House gift shop this past week. Something about Louisa’s letters. In less than five minutes, I pulled into the rather crowded parking lot of Orchard House. Strange how I’d only been away from it for a day, and now, being here, I realized I’d missed it.

  I entered the gift shop among a crowd of tourists and searched for the book I’d seen. There. The Selected Letters of Louisa May Alcott. Selected meant far from complete, yet maybe somewhere within I would find a clue. I noted the book beside it, similar in cover. The Journals of Louisa May Alcott. I scooped that one up too and purchased them both.

  It was likely a long shot that I’d find anything. Victoria knew the details of Louisa’s life better than I did, and she hadn’t remembered anything about Johanna. More so, if there was something, a Google search online would have fleshed it out. I was likely wasting my time, but doing something—in a way, I realized, trying to reach out to my sister—was better than doing nothing at all.

  I continued to Walden Pond, but this time I just sat in my car, poring over the books. I searched both the indexes for a Johanna Bancroft or Johanna Suhre but found nothing and decided to settle in with the journal, thinking if our mystery woman was in any way important to Louisa, it would be within the journal.

  I was a fast reader, and the sun rocked near the horizon when I finished it. While it had fostered a renewed appreciation for the woman who had written Little Women and her continuous struggle to improve and master herself within her lifetime, I hadn’t found one clue or reference concerning Johanna. Realizing I was short on sunlight, I opened the book of letters.

  I was a quarter of the way through when I found it. I sat up, blinking, wondering if my brain was playing tricks on me. I read the sentence again, nearly squinting in the fading light.

  It was a letter from Louisa to her younger sister May while she was in Europe. It was dated November 1865. It appeared May was in Boston, and Louisa was cautioning her sister to be mindful of their parents.

  Johanna does well with them, but I fear a time is coming when I will not be able to pay her. I know your art is important to you, as it is to all of us, and I know you care for Papa and Marmee, but I beg of you to see to them more often than you do.

  I dog-eared the page even as I remembered how Victoria used to cringe when I did this very thing. I dialed Mom’s number.

  “I hope I didn’t wake you,” I said. I knew she often took naps in the afternoons.

  “No, not at all. Was just making supper. Should we exp
ect you?”

  “I think so. Is Victoria there?”

  “No. I tried calling, but she didn’t answer. Dad was going to head over to check on things.”

  “I wanted to show her something. You think she’d mind if I show up on her doorstep?” As soon as the words were out of my mouth, I wondered if my plan wasn’t a mistake. I didn’t want to barge in on her space, her family, especially if Will was there, especially if they were trying to work things out. But she couldn’t ignore me forever. And if Dad thought there was reason enough to check on her, then maybe it wasn’t such a bad thing if I was the one checking.

  “I don’t see why not.” She gave me her address and simple directions.

  I pulled up to Victoria’s home ten minutes later. A blue colonial with a farmer’s porch and attached three-car garage. It suddenly hit me that Victoria hadn’t yet invited me to her home. That perhaps I wasn’t welcome here. That perhaps me showing up this soon after our argument was the worst thing I could do for our relationship.

  I looked at the passenger seat, at the dog-eared page from The Selected Letters of Louisa May Alcott, and opened the door. The interior light came on and I glimpsed the name of Madeleine Stern, one of the biographers Victoria had mentioned the day before. Surely this discovery would mean something to her.

  I clutched the book at my side, made my way up the neatly landscaped cobbled path. Solar lights shone on either side, the scent of fresh mulch lingered in the air. I climbed the front stairs, noted a porch swing in the far corner.

  How many nights had she and Will sat out here, swinging, enjoying the home and family they’d made together? Surely my arrival hadn’t ruined all that. Surely they could work things out.

  I rang the doorbell. Once, then again. Maybe they weren’t home after all.

  I was about to turn around when the porch light came on. The sound of a door squeaked open. I turned and saw Maddie behind the storm door, her face tight behind the tiny lattices of the screen.