by Sarah Jio
A PLUME BOOK
BLACKBERRY WINTER
SARAH JIO is the author of The Violets of March, a Library Journal Best Book of 2011, and The Bungalow. She is also a journalist who has written for Glamour; O, The Oprah Magazine; Real Simple; SELF; Cooking Light; Redbook; and many other publications. She is the health and fitness blogger for Glamour.com and lives in Seattle with her husband, their three young children, and a golden retriever named Paisley, who steals socks. Learn more about Sarah at sarahjio.com.
Praise for Blackberry Winter
“Compelling and heartbreaking, Blackberry Winter is a novel that captures the reader from the first pages as the cold white storm takes hold. Sarah Jio’s story of sudden desolation, maternal love, and a mystery that still resonates a lifetime later is beautifully told and as ultimately uplifting as the green shoots of renewed spring. Highly recommended to anyone who enjoys dual time narratives with a satisfying conclusion.”
—Deborah Lawrenson, author of The Lantern
“Sarah Jio once again delivers a beautiful, page-turning novel that captures the reader’s heart. Through the frost of a mother’s soul and the thaw of second chances, Blackberry Winter explores the remarkable power of the past—not only in its ability to haunt but, when fed with hope, to redeem.”
—Kristina McMorris,
author of Letters from Home and Bridge of Scarlet Leaves
Praise for The Violets of March
“Masterfully written.”
—The Star-Ledger (New Jersey)
“Feed the kids before you settle in with journalist Sarah Jio’s engrossing first novel, The Violets of March. This mystery-slash-love-story will have you racing to the end—cries of ‘Mom, I’m hungry!’ be damned.”
—Redbook
“Refreshing…lovable.”
—First for Women magazine
“[T]his will become a source of healing and comfort for its readers.”
—Costco Connection
“Mix a love story, history, and a mystery and what takes root? The Violets of March, a novel that reminds us how the past comes back to haunt us, and packs great surprises along the way.”
—Jodi Picoult,
author of Sing You Home and House Rules
“[A] rich blend of history, mystery, and romance…Fans of Sarah Blake’s The Postmistress should enjoy this story.”
—Library Journal
“Mystery meets romance in this absorbing debut novel…Readers will be enthralled from the start of the dual story lines, all the way through to the satisfying conclusion.”
—Woman’s Day
“[An] endearing tale of past heartbreaks and new beginnings. The story’s setting and sentiment are sure to entice readers and keep them captivated page after page.”
—Romantic Times
“In a sweet debut novel, a divorcée visiting her aunt on gorgeous Bainbridge Island, Washington, finds a diary dating to 1943 that reveals potentially life-changing secrets.”
—Coastal Living
“The Violets of March is a captivating, bittersweet tale of what happens when the long-buried truth finally makes its way to the surface. I didn’t want this book to end!”
—Kelly O’Connor McNees,
author of The Lost Summer of Louisa May Alcott
Praise for The Bungalow
“This book had the perfect mix of adventure, mystery, romance, and sorrow.”
—First for Women magazine
“A heartfelt, engaging love story set against the fascinating backdrop of the war in the Pacific.”
—Kristin Hannah, New York Times bestselling
author of Home Front and Night Road
“Sarah Jio whips romance, history, and a page-turning mystery into one mesmerizing South Sea dream.”
—Carol Cassella, national bestselling
author of Oxygen and Healer
“The Bungalow is a story as luscious as its exotic setting. Ms. Jio has crafted a wartime story of passion and friendship, loss and mystery. It’s also a story of discovery—discovering one’s own heart, and of finding a second chance long after all hope is gone. You’ll remember the sparkling water and yellow hibiscus long after the last page is turned, and will want to start searching for your own lost bungalow and the parts of yourself you’ve long since forgotten.”
—Karen White, author of The Beach Trees
“Seasoned with mystery and awash in the glory of the South Pacific, this stirring wartime romance explores the uncompromising power of long-lost love. Readers, pack your bags and set sail for enchantment in Sarah Jio’s The Bungalow!”
—Sarah McCoy, author of The Baker’s Daughter and
The Time It Snowed in Puerto Rico
“[The Bungalow is] extraordinarily real…a true page-turner.”
—WomansDay.com
“In this rare piece of historical chick lit, a sweeping love story unfolds between a young nurse and a mysterious soldier.”
—Marie Claire
Blackberry Winter
A NOVEL
Sarah Jio
A PLUME BOOK
PLUME
Published by the Penguin Group
Penguin Group (USA) Inc., 375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014, U. S. A. • Penguin Group (Canada), 90 Eglinton Avenue East, Suite 700, Toronto, Ontario, Canada M4P 2Y3 (a division of Pearson Penguin Canada Inc.) • Penguin Books Ltd., 80 Strand, London WC2R 0RL, England • Penguin Ireland, 25 St. Stephen’s Green, Dublin 2, Ireland (a division of Penguin Books Ltd.) • Penguin Group (Australia), 250 Camberwell Road, Camberwell, Victoria 3124, Australia (a division of Pearson Australia Group Pty. Ltd.) • Penguin Books India Pvt. Ltd., 11 Community Centre, Panchsheel Park, New Delhi – 110 017, India • Penguin Group (NZ), 67 Apollo Drive, Rosedale, Auckland 0632, New Zealand (a division of Pearson New Zealand Ltd.) • Penguin Books (South Africa) (Pty.) Ltd., 24 Sturdee Avenue, Rosebank, Johannesburg 2196, South Africa
Penguin Books Ltd., Registered Offices: 80 Strand, London WC2R 0RL, England
First published by Plume, a member of Penguin Group (USA) Inc.
First Printing, October 2012
10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1
Copyright © Sarah Jio, 2012
All rights reserved
REGISTERED TRADEMARK—MARCA REGISTRADA
LIBRARY OF CONGRESS CATALOGING-IN-PUBLICATION DATA
Jio, Sarah.
Blackberry winter : a novel / Sarah Jio.
p. cm.
ISBN: 978-1-101-60349-9
1. Women journalists—Fiction. 2. Missing children—Fiction. 3. Seattle
(Wash.)—Fiction. 4. Psychological fiction. I. Title.
PS3610.I6B57 2012
813’.6—dc23
2012010566
Printed in the United States of America
Set in Granjon LT Std
Designed by Eve L. Kirch
Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise), without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.
PUBLISHER’S NOTE
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
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ALWAYS LEARNING
PEARSON
To my sons, Carson, Russell, and Colby, and their assortment of
beloved stuffed animals—a ragged teddy bear, three tattered giraffes,
and a little striped tiger. Being your mother is my life’s greatest joy.
And to mothers everywhere—especially those who have had
to say good-bye to a child.
Blackberry Winter
Table of Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Acknowledgments
Author’s Note
Chapter 1
VERA RAY
Seattle, May 1, 1933
An icy wind seeped through the floorboards and I shivered, pulling my gray wool sweater tighter around myself. Just one button remained. At five cents apiece, it seemed frivolous to think of replacing the ones that had gone missing. Besides, spring had come. Or had it? I glanced outside the second-story window, and listened as the wind whistled and howled. An angry wind. The branches of the old cherry tree thrashed against the apartment building with such force, I jumped, worried another blow might break the glass. I couldn’t afford a repair bill, not this month. But just then, an unexpected sight spelled me from my worries, momentarily. Light pink blossoms swirled in the air. I sighed, smiling to myself. Just like snow.
“Mama?” Daniel squeaked from under the covers. I pulled back the ragged blue quilt, revealing his handsome round face and soft blond hair, which still curled at the ends. His baby hair. At three, with plump, rosy cheeks and big eyes a heart-stopping shade of blue, he was somewhere between baby and boy. But when he slept, he appeared exactly the way he had on the day he was born. Sometimes I’d tiptoe into his room in the early morning hours and watch him, clutching his little brown bear, adoringly matted with a torn ear and a threadbare blue velvet bow.
“What is it, love?” I asked, kneeling beside the small pine bed before casting a cautious gaze back toward the window, where the wind raged outside. What kind of mother am I to leave him here tonight, all alone? I sighed. Do I have another choice? Caroline worked the late shift. And I couldn’t bring him to the hotel again, especially after the incident last weekend when Estella found him sleeping in the ninth-floor penthouse suite. She had shooed him out from the warmth of the duvet as if he were a kitchen mouse caught dozing in the flour jar. It had frightened him terribly, and it had almost cost me my job. I took a deep breath. No, he’d be fine here, my precious boy, warm and safe in his bed. I’d lock the door. The walls of the tenement house were thin, but the door, yes, it was strong. Solid mahogany with a fine brass lock.
We both flinched at the sound of a knock at the door, urgent, pounding, insistent. Daniel grimaced. “Is it him again, Mama?” he said, before lowering his voice to a whisper. “The bad man?”
I kissed his forehead, attempting to hide the fear rising in my chest. “Don’t worry, love,” I said before standing. “It’s probably just Aunt Caroline. You stay here. I’ll go see.”
I walked down the stairs and stood in the living room for a moment, frozen, trying to decide what to do. The knocking persisted, louder now, angrier. I knew who it was, and I knew what he wanted. I glanced at my purse, knowing there wasn’t more than a dollar, maybe two, inside. Rent was due three weeks ago, and I’d been holding off Mr. Garrison with excuses, but now what? I’d spent my most recent paycheck on groceries and a new pair of shoes for Daniel, poor boy. I couldn’t expect him to fit into those baby slippers much longer.
Knock. Knock. Knock.
The pounding mirrored the beat of my heart. I felt frightened, trapped. The apartment took on the feeling of a cage. The walls around me might as well have been rusted wire. What am I going to do? Reflexively, I looked down at my wrist. Ever since Daniel’s father had presented me with the most exquisite object I’d ever laid eyes on, I’d cherished the gold chain inlaid with three delicate sapphires. That night at the Olympic Hotel I’d been a guest, not a maid wearing a black dress and white apron. As I opened the little blue box and he dangled the bracelet over my wrist, for the first time I felt like someone who was born to wear such finery. It almost seemed silly then, to think I could have, well…I closed my eyes tightly as the pounding at the door continued. I began to unhook the clasp, then shook my head. No, I would not hand it over to him. I would not give up that easily. Instead, I pulled the bracelet higher on my forearm, tucking it safely under the sleeve of my dress. I’d find another way.
I took a deep breath and walked slowly to the door, where I unlatched the lock reluctantly. The hinges creaked, revealing Mr. Garrison in the hallway outside. He was a large man, in both stature and girth; it was easy to see why Daniel feared him so. His stern face was all but covered by a gray, unkempt beard. Only ruddy, pockmarked cheeks and dark, unkind eyes shone through. His breath smelled of gin, piney and sour, signaling that he’d come up from the saloon on the floor below. The strict reign of Prohibition hadn’t yet ended, but most police looked the other way in this part of town.
“Good evening, Mr. Garrison,” I said as sweetly as I could.
He inched closer, wedging his large, steel-toed boot in the doorway. “Save the formalities,” he said. “Where’s my money?”
“Please—let me apologize, sir,” I began in a faltering voice. “I know I’ve been late on rent. It’s been a very hard month for us, and I—”
“You told that story last week,” he said without emotion. He pushed past me and made his way into the kitchen, where he helped himself to the small loaf of bread I’d just pulled from the oven. My dinner. He opened the icebox and frowned when he didn’t find a crock of butter. “I’ll ask you once more,” he continued, his cheeks stuffed. His eyes narrowed. “Where’s my money?”
I clutched the bracelet as my gaze darted past him to the wall, with its scuffed baseboards and peeling paint. What can I tell him now? What can I do?
He let out a deep, throaty laugh. “Just as I thought,” he said. “A thieving liar.”
“Mr. Garrison, I—”
His eyes fixed on me possessively; he moved closer until I could smell the rancidness of his breath and feel the bristle of his beard on my face. He grasped my wrist tightly, just as the bracelet slinked beneath the cuff of my sleeve, hidden from his view. “I thought it might come to this,” he said, his fat, rough hand fumbling with my sweater until he pushed it aside and clutched the bodice of my dress. His index finger tugged at a button. “Fortunately for you, I happen to be a generous man, and I’ll allow you to pay me in a different way.”
I took a step back, just as I heard footsteps on the stairs. “Mama?”
“Daniel, go back to bed, love,” I said as calmly as I could. “I’ll be right there.”
“Mama,” he said again, beginning to cry.
“Oh, honey,” I called out, praying my voice didn’t reveal the terror I felt. “Everything’s all right. I promise. Please go back to bed.”
I could not let him see this, or worse, let Mr. Garrison hurt him.
“Mama, I’m scared,” he said, his voice muffled through his teddy bear.
Mr. Garrison cleared his throat and straightened his overcoat. “Well, if you can’t shut
him up,” he shouted, regarding Daniel with a sinister grin, “then I’ll have to come back. But make no mistake about it, I will be back.” I didn’t like the way he looked at Daniel, as if he were a pet, a nuisance. He turned his gaze back to me, staring at me as if I were a fine flatiron steak sizzling in a skillet. “And I’ll get me my payment.”
I nodded meekly as he walked out the door. “Yes, Mr. Garrison.” I fumbled with the latch as his footsteps pounded down the hall. Before I turned around to face Daniel, I took a deep, reassuring breath and wiped a stray tear from my cheek.
“Oh, Daniel,” I said, running to the top of the stairs, cradling him in my arms. “Are you frightened, honey? Don’t be frightened. Mama’s here. There’s nothing to worry about.”
“But the man,” he sniffled, “he’s a bad man. He hurt Mama?”
“No, honey,” I said. “Mama wouldn’t let that happen.”
I reached down to my wrist and unfastened the bracelet, letting it fall into the protective space of my palm.
Daniel looked up at me in confusion, and I studied his big, innocent eyes, wishing things were different for him, for us. “Mama loves her bracelet, dear one. I just want to keep it safe.”
He considered the idea for a moment. “So you don’t lose it?”
“That’s right.” I stood up and took his hand. “Will you help Mama put it in the secret place?”
Daniel nodded, and we walked to the tiny cupboard below the stairs. He had discovered the space, no bigger than a hatbox, one morning while playing, and we’d decided the special compartment would be our secret from the world. Daniel kept eclectic treasures inside—a bluebird feather he’d found on the street, a sardine can that he’d filled with smooth stones and other odds and ends. A bookmark. A shiny nickel. A clamshell, sun-bleached to a brilliant white. I’d tucked in his birth certificate and other documents in need of safekeeping. And now I placed my bracelet inside.
“There,” I said, closing the little door and marveling at the seamless fit. It blended perfectly into the paneling of the staircase. How Daniel had ever discovered it, I’d never know.
