Gathering there together, as was our usual evening ritual, was strange with a guest. My parents used to have parties when Ivy and I were little girls. But as the money grew tighter, there were fewer and fewer gatherings. I’ll admit, that night was exciting because of his presence, even though we all sensed the gathering storm.
Our rituals were sacred to me. Every night, after dinner, we’d gather as a family in the drawing room and end the day with entertainment and comfort. This was the best time of the evening for all of us, even restless Ivy. Though old and well used, the furniture in the drawing room was beautiful, and I always made sure to place fresh flowers in the most curious and delightful places, as our mother used to do. In the fall I replaced the flowers with colorful leaves, and in the winter, pussy willows from the marshland by the lake.
Usually, I’d commence walking up and down the room with books piled on my head, while father smoked his cigar.
Then I’d take out my sewing, and we’d watch Ivy perform.
Ivy, whose lifelong dream was to become a famous actress, would write terribly melodramatic stage plays, and then act them out for us on a platform Father had built especially for her. She was quite good, even if her heroines were overwrought and usually died at the end of her plays, at which time Father and I were obliged to act quite sad.
With Lawrence as our guest, I did not practice my posture. I sat down and took out my sewing so Ivy could begin her dramaturgy. I knew Father and Lawrence had things to discuss, and I was curious about them. But I didn’t want to take any time away from Ivy, because I knew how she looked forward to her own practice. Though I made fun of her acting sometimes, I wanted to support her.
Ivy preformed her monologue that night—this time, from Romeo and Juliet:
“...and, when I shall die,
Take him and cut him out in little stars,
And he will make the face of heaven so fine
That all the world will be in love with night
And pay no worship to the garish sun....”
I noticed the way Mr. Lawrence could not take his eyes off my sister.
I took a better look at him myself. His hair was light, and his features were soft yet strong. It was his laughter at the end of the evening that made me begin to feel I knew him. That perhaps he could be a friend.
As the evening drew to a close, Mr. Lawrence made pleasant conversation. The Scotch Father had served brought a blush to his complexion.
“Are you working on anything new, Everett?” he asked.
“He’s working on a glorious botany book, you know. Drawings and such of plant life. You should see it,” said Ivy, interrupting.
“I’ll make sure to take a look,” he said, looking at Ivy. It was then that he turned his attention back toward my father. “Everett, thank you for this delightful evening, but as the time grows late, I fear we must get down to business.”
“Yes, yes, of course,” said my father, who guided Mr. Lawrence into his study.
I went about cleaning the kitchen and making sure Ivy was settled and not staying up all night reading Photoplay magazine until her eyes popped out of her head. I was looking forward to getting back to my novel, Bleak House, which was waiting patiently on my nightstand with other books. Books are my only passion. Father and Ivy used to go off on their excursions, never knowing that I was relieved when they were gone. That I’d wear my nightgowns all day and read from dawn till dusk.
It was very late when Father ascended the stairs and went to his rooms. I hurried out of bed, flew down the stairs and then brought his bedtime tea back up.
“Here you are, Papa. See, I will always bring your tea. No matter how late I must stay awake,” I said, placing the cup by his lamp and pulling the quilt up tight around him as I fluffed his pillows. He didn’t complain or tell me not to fuss over him like usual.
“Is something wrong, Papa?” I asked.
He settled back against the pillows and took his tea. The cup clattered in the saucer. I held his hands steady as he took a sip, and then guided them back to place it safely on the nightstand once again.
“I suppose I could tell you that everything is fine. But you are Rosemary Lillian Adams. Not Ivy. And you deserve the truth.”
“You are scaring me, Papa. What did Lawrence say?”
“Just a bit of trouble with money. But don’t worry too much, Rose. I’ll sell the new book any day now.”
“I can sew more dresses, Papa. And I should be charging more for the lace collars anyway,” I said, sitting on the bed next to him.
“Well, to be honest, Rosemary, we may need far more than my book of plants and your sewing skills. But I must tell you that now may not be the best time to speak about it, because I am very tired. Perhaps the sun will shine on us tomorrow and our financial future will be less bleak. Let’s look at it from a new perspective in the morning...what do you say?”
“I believe it will all work out. And I don’t want you to worry about anything,” I said.
He reached up and placed his hand on my cheek.
“You’ve taken such good care of us. Promise me you’ll keep looking out for Ivy. No matter what. She needs you. Things may get... Well... If I’m busy. Promise me?”
“Of course I will,” I said and kissed his cheek.
“Rose?” he said, stopping me as I went to leave...and stopping my heart because he’d called me Rose and not Rosemary.
“Yes, Papa?”
“I love you.”
Hot, unbidden tears came to my eyes. Father was always lavish with his love for Ivy. It was not the same with me.
“I love you, too, Papa,” I said.
I read my book late into the night and thought about ways to make money. I’d convinced myself that I’d go work at a mill or even become a housemaid. Something that would keep us afloat until our father sold his books.
I woke feeling unworried, and stretched in the silvery morning light.
I heard Ivy’s laughter as she entered our father’s room, and smiled. Though I was sometimes jealous of their closeness, I was happy that morning because I knew Ivy could cheer our father like no other.
But then her voice broke off, and a deep wail began. It grew into a hollow sound that broke my heart before I knew it could be broken. I ran to her, my sister. I ran to her and tried to make sense of what she said to me through her choking sobs.
“He’s dead. Rose. He’s dead!”
She hid her head against my chest. My knees must have gone weak, because I stumbled backward, and we both fell against the wall. We slid down it, together, grasping at one another, staying entangled there until the sun rose too high for us to ignore our reality.
CHAPTER 2
Ivy
I DIDN'T KNOW how to grieve.
While the undertaker began discussing finalities with Rose, I sneaked out the back door. The weather was pleasant, and I imagined my father throwing up his arms as he always did on the warm days of late spring, shouting, “aces-high in the ever-loving sky!” to the blinding sun. The garden he’d recently turned ran wide and deep, leading to a freshly planted field of barley. Beyond that, the road beckoned, the one leading to Albany, and beyond even that, New York City. After squelching the urge to hitchhike, I stretched out across the damp grass and tried not to think about the sound of the casket being transferred to the waiting hearse. The ground held the trace of a chill, and I shivered, closing my eyes as the cold seeped into my dress. What would it feel like to sink into the endless earth? To never feel it under my feet again?
“It’s time to leave, Ivy.”
I blinked up at my sister. She wore a dress she’d sewn the night before, a prim, black buttoned-up number that covered everything but her face and hands. Rose’s eyes were puffy and raw, and her soft blond hair was twisted into a tight, unforg
iving knot behind her head. I wished she’d let it loose, unfurled like Rapunzel’s rope. I could climb it up to the bright blue sky, leaving this awful day behind.
“Do we have to go now?”
She frowned. “I’m going to pretend I didn’t hear that.”
The sun’s rays kissed the top of Rose’s head. I didn’t want to do anything but watch it shimmer. “You should let your hair down,” I said. “You’d feel the breeze if you did.”
Rose grasped my shoulders and pulled me to my feet. “I’m not sure where your mind is at, but the undertaker is ready for the procession to the cemetery.”
Procession? The few mourners from town—some clients of father’s and the odd academic or two—had departed once they’d satisfied their morbid curiosity. Our neighbors, respectful of our privacy, left sandwiches and canned asparagus at the back door, along with a prayer card. I preferred their method.
Rose brushed the dirt from my dress and guided me toward the hearse parked on our cobblestone portico. Dressed in black suits, the undertaker and his men rushed about like a flock of Poe’s ravens, flittering in and out of the house, opening and closing doors, ushering us into the hot cocoon of the hearse’s inner cabin. I immediately opened a window and stuck my head into the spring air. Rose kept her window closed and turned her back to the glass.
The car moved slowly through downtown Forest Grove. We passed the grocery, where Mr. Madden was sweeping the entryway. He stopped and saluted as our sedan passed.
“Does he know father wasn’t in the armed forces?” Rose asked. I nearly jumped a foot when she said it. I hadn’t noticed she’d moved so close to me.
“I don’t think he knows what else to do.” I saluted him back.
We passed the butcher, the watchmaker, the cobbler—the three men standing in front of their establishments, heads bowed as we lumbered by.
Rose leaned forward to get a better look. “Are they praying?”
“I think so.” A lump formed quickly in my throat. Father had been an eccentric presence in town, but never failed to offer a smile and a tip of the hat to every soul he encountered. They remembered him, and their tribute touched my heart. I twitched with the unexpected desire to embrace the entire town.
We turned down Plum Street, just blocks from the graveyard. Mrs. O’Neill herself stepped out of O’Neill’s Coiffures. Father brought me to her salon the previous fall, where I sat perched at the edge of a lavender stool while the old lady bobbed my hair with a ruler. I’d asked her to make me look like Clara Bow and she didn’t bat an eyelash, humming “Ain’t We Got Fun” the whole time she had the scissors at my neck. I waved and called to her.
“This isn’t a parade,” Rose muttered. She retreated to her dark corner of the cabin.
“But it is,” I said. “Open your window and have a look behind us.”
Mrs. O’Neill joined a group following the hearse on foot. I spotted Mr. Madden, white starched apron still tied tightly around his waist, and Mr. Lawrence, father’s solicitor. He seemed to have come out of nowhere. Mrs. O’Neill offered him a quick smile, and he took her arm.
“Do you think they’ll come back to the house afterward?” Rose asked, worrying at her lower lip. “I don’t have enough to feed everyone. If I’d known we were hosting a reception, I would have made a casserole.”
“Why can’t you just take it for what it is?” I gently chided her. “Don’t you understand? They’re part of father’s legacy.”
The driver rounded the entrance to the small cemetery and parked in full view of the dogwood tree we’d planted next to mother’s grave. It had just begun to bloom, the flowers bursting pink and white as newly hatched chicks. The air smelled fresh, and the bright green grass seemed painted onto the rolling hills by an impressionist’s hand.
The beauty was an insult, an affront.
Rose took a deep breath. “It’s so pretty today.”
“Then why does it hurt my eyes so much?”
Before she could respond, the townspeople caught up with us, and we all walked over to where the men were finishing up their digging. I could hardly look at the upended earth.
We had no minister, but no one seemed to mind. The undertaker said a few words, and townspeople formed a line to pay their respects. They patted our arms and shared quick remembrances. And then they were gone.
It was time to lower our father into the ground. Rose stepped forward, but then she whipped her head around, her expression panicked. “I forgot the flowers to toss. We have nothing to send him off, Ivy.” She began to cry. “How could I have done that?”
“It doesn’t matter,” I said. “Please, let’s just go.”
Rose wiped under her eyes with trembling hands. “It’s tradition. We did it for Mother, and we’ll do it for him. Don’t you want to say goodbye properly?”
No, I wanted to scream. I don’t. Instead, I snapped a few branches from the dogwood tree, careful to keep the blossoms intact. “Here,” I said, handing them to her. “Now you won’t break with tradition.” I turned, unable to watch, and walked back to the hearse.
A tall, lanky man leaned against the hood, deep in conversation with the undertaker. When I approached, I realized it was Mr. Lawrence. He noticed me and straightened up, removing his fedora. In the sunshine his hair was the color of burned oatmeal, and the smattering of freckles on his nose made me want to hand him a tin can and send him down the road to kick it.
“My condolences, Miss Adams,” he said, dipping his head.
“You said that already.” I liked that both men looked away, my sharp words making them uncomfortable. An anger had flared inside me, hot and destructive, burning away the last of my courtesy. I glared at them.
The undertaker excused himself and escaped into the car. Mr. Lawrence and I leaned back against the sedan, watching Rose as she bent to place the flowers on my father’s casket.
“So what it is?” I asked. “Is it money? Gambling?” I paused, my heart lifting ever so slightly. “Did he sell a book?”
“It concerns your father’s estate,” Mr. Lawrence said, staring at the damp ground. “I’d like to speak with you and Rose privately. We could go to my office, or I could accompany you home.”
“From the look on your face, it ain’t good news. Why not spit it out right here?”
“Your sister should be with you. Your father expressed concern that you two aren’t very...close.” He stepped in front of me, blocking my view of Rose as she began to tidy up mother’s grave. “Today, it’s necessary to bridge that chasm. I don’t mean to frighten you—”
“You’re doing a pretty good job.”
“But these things are never easy, and your father was an unusual man.”
“He was a good man.”
“I know,” he said. “I didn’t mean to imply otherwise.”
“Just so we’re copacetic.” I felt something on my cheek and swatted at it. It was a tear.
Mr. Lawrence reached into his pocket, pulled out a clean handkerchief and handed it over. “I have a poor memory for quotations, but there are a few that stick with me. I’ve got one I think you might know. Do you want to hear it?”
“I’m going to anyway, right?”
He reddened and cleared his throat. “‘For in that sleep of death, what dreams may come.’”
“Hamlet,” I said quickly. I knew Shakespeare’s plays inside out and upside down.
“It always appealed to me because of its optimism,” Mr. Lawrence explained. “It doesn’t have to be the end, Ivy,” he added gently. “Not entirely. I believe those who’ve passed on still have a stake in our affairs from the other side.”
I nodded, unsure of how to respond to his kindness. The thought did provide some comfort, but it wasn’t until we were riding home, the three of us silent in the shadowy cave of the hearse’s cabin, that
I realized he’d misinterpreted Hamlet’s words. The dreams of the dead were not of the living, they were of regret for the sins of life, the unfinished deeds, the mistakes that could never be fixed.
* * *
We convened in father’s study. The afternoon had grown chilly, and Rose started a fire and fixed some tea. I should have helped her, but once I’d settled into father’s comfortable leather chair, I didn’t want to move. I could still smell the last cigar he smoked.
Mr. Lawrence drained his teacup and placed it on the mantel. He refused our offers to sit and began to pace, file folder in hand. “Your father lived a colorful life before marrying your mother. I suppose I should start there.”
Though I didn’t like the idea of father telling Mr. Lawrence his secrets, the care with which he chose his words bothered me more—he knew what was to come next would be distressing. I glanced over at Rose. Her pale face and wide, fearful eyes meant she’d come to the same conclusion.
“Go on,” I urged.
Mr. Lawrence stopped moving, took a breath and looked at me directly. “Your mother was your father’s second wife. His first marriage produced a son, and your father has left the management of his estate to this man.”
“That can’t be true,” Rose said after his words sank in. Her voice sounded weak and faraway.
“I don’t understand,” I added. “Why would he have kept something like this hidden?”
Mr. Lawrence placed the folder on my lap. “I’m not certain. I’ve only just learned of it. Perhaps you should read this, and then we’ll proceed.”
Rose got up and sat next to me, and I placed the document between us. I read through it a few times, but the repetition wasn’t necessary—for something that would change our lives so irrevocably, it was remarkably straightforward.
In his beautiful handwriting, all measured slopes and perfect loops, our father had clearly communicated his wishes. He’d left the management of his estate to this man, a son he’d sired six years before marrying our mother. Asher John Adams. It was an untouchable name, mysterious with a dash of history, and so naturally one my father would choose. To my surprise I felt a stab of affection for this lost half brother, the unending possibility of him stretching my imagination. I pictured him dark and mysterious, with a certain Valentino exoticism. I’d studied the great actor in the theaters of downtown Albany, memorizing the way he crushed his eyebrows and widened his eyes at the same time, the magnificent strength as he folded his arms, muscles rippling. My brother would look like that.
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