Blackberry Winter: A Novel

by Sarah Jio

  He stepped back and sighed. “It’s nothing,” he said. “I thought I remembered something, but…”

  “It must be difficult,” I said, “to be here again.”

  His eyes glimmered. “It must have destroyed her, losing me the way she did. It would have destroyed my wife to lose one of our children. She would have never been the same.”

  “To have searched for you the way she did, she must have loved you very much,” I said.

  Warren nodded, before starting his descent down the stairs. I followed, keeping my hand near his elbow to help steady him.

  “I’ll take you back now,” I said. “You must be tired.”

  He didn’t seem to hear me. He looked right, then left, as if he could sense something, feel something.

  “Warren?” I asked. “Are you OK?”

  He walked back to the stairs in silence, then stopped in front of a few boxes nestled against the wall. He knelt down and pushed them aside, exposing the paneling along the crumbling lath and plaster. Dominic and I watched as he traced the grooves in the wall, as if operating on muscle memory. Moments later, we heard the creak of a hinge, and Warren pried open a tiny door. A secret compartment. My heart beat faster.

  He pushed his hand inside the little space in the wall. I knelt beside him and watched as he pulled out a feather caked in dust. He twisted it between his fingers and smiled to himself before setting it on the hardwood floor. Beside it, he set an apricot-colored pebble, a penny, three white shells, and a tattered ace of hearts. “I found it downstairs,” he said, marveling at the card. “Mama let me keep it.”

  Mama.

  I watched as he reached inside the wall again, this time pulling out an envelope. He held it up to me with a trembling hand. In faded ink were the words “To Daniel.” He turned to me. “Claire, could you please read it to me?”

  I nodded, lifting the edge of the yellowed envelope. I pulled out the delicate page inside and unfolded it, looking at Warren before casting my gaze on the first line:

  My dearest Daniel,

  My world ended the day you disappeared, my sweet son. Whoever took you away also stole my heart, my life. I lived to see you smile, to hear you laugh, to share your joy. And the world seems less beautiful without you. I know you are near. I feel it in my heart; I believe you will come back to this place. Our special place. And when you do, I want you to know how much I love you, even though I may not be here to tell you so.

  One day we will be reunited, my child. One day I will sing to you again and hold you in my arms. Until then, I will be loving you, and dreaming of you.

  Your loving mother,

  Vera

  Here was little Daniel before me. I could see him as Vera once had. Soft, plump cheeks where wrinkles were. Blond curls instead of white wisps. Bright blue eyes unclouded by age.

  Warren looked up to me. “The café,” he said. “It’s being destroyed?”

  I nodded. “I’m so sorry, Warren. Dominic is selling. He has to—”

  “How much is the offer?”

  “I’m sorry?”

  “The developer who wants to buy it, how much have they offered?”

  I shook my head. “I don’t know. Dominic didn’t say.”

  “I’ll double it.”

  I couldn’t contain my smile. “Really, Warren? You’d do that?”

  He smiled. “I can’t let them tear down my childhood home, now, can I? And didn’t he say that his family needed the funds? Might as well put this old Kensington money to good use.” He looked around the little room. “Yes, that fine young man can keep things just as they are. I won’t change anything.” His eyes looked misty. “Well, except one thing.”

  “And what’s that?”

  “The name,” he said. “I will change it to Vera’s Café.”

  “Oh, Warren!” I exclaimed, hugging him tightly. “She’d be so proud.”

  I glanced at Vera’s letter a final time, and a sentence at the bottom of the page caught my eye. A postscript. I’d overlooked it somehow.

  “Wait,” I said. “There’s something I missed.”

  P.S. Daniel, don’t forget Max. I found him in the snow. He’s missed you.

  I shook my head in confusion. “Max?”

  Warren looked astonished. He reached inside the wall again, a little deeper this time. A moment later, he retrieved a child’s teddy bear, ragged, with a tattered blue velvet bow.

  “Max,” Warren said, adjusting the dusty bow. “I dropped him, the night she came for me.” His chin quivered. “She wouldn’t let me go back to get him.”

  “Josephine?”

  “Yes,” he said. “All I could think about was how cold he’d be in the snow. It was so cold.”

  I put my hand on his shoulder. “Your mother found him and saved him for you,” I said. “She knew you’d come home.”

  Warren rose to his feet, cradling the little bear in his arms. He pressed his face against the bear’s, tucking his finger under the frayed ribbon, the way he might have done as a boy. It was only fabric, thread, and stuffing, crudely sewn. But to Warren this stuffed creature might have been worth every dollar of his fortune.

  “I’ll be out front,” I whispered, offering him the moment of solitude I felt he needed. “We can leave when you’re ready.”

  He nodded, and I walked out to the front of the café. Dominic tucked his hands in his pockets and looked at me sheepishly. “I’m so sorry for—”

  “Please don’t apologize,” I said. “Everything worked out the way it was supposed to.” I looked back at Warren. “When he’s ready, he has something he’d like to talk to you about.”

  Dominic looked at me quizzically. “He does?”

  I smiled and walked to the door without pausing to see the regret in his eyes.

  “Good-bye, Dominic,” I said, pushing the door open and stepping out to the street. Ethan would be there soon. We were beginning a new chapter—a better one—and every part of me felt lighter because of it. The sun filtered through the trees, and I noticed a barrel-chested robin pecking around near my feet. Bold and unscathed by my presence, she stared up at me with her head cocked to the right. It took a moment before I noticed her nest a few feet away, lying in a mangled pile of loose twigs and swaths of moss on the sidewalk. A single blue egg with a jagged crack along the center lay on the cement, its yolky center spilling out onto the curb.

  Poor thing. She lost her baby, just as Vera had lost hers—I took a deep breath—and just as I had lost mine. It was unfair. It was tragic. But it was life.

  The bird circled the nest, pecking in vain at a twig, before retreating a few feet away on the curb. I could almost feel the moment when she realized her efforts were futile. The moment she let go. She flew into the air, stopping briefly on a branch of the cherry tree overhead as if to memorize the scene, to say a final good-bye.

  I felt the tug in my belly just then, the old ache. I wrapped my arms around the abdomen that had carried and lost a baby. Good-bye, my Daniel. “I will always love you,” I whispered.

  The wind picked up just then, rustling the branches of the cottonwood tree overhead, disturbing its fluffy seedlings and sending them flying through the air. Just like snow. I caught one in my hand and smiled, looking up to the sky as the robin flapped her wings, circled overhead, and then flew away.

  Acknowledgments

  A heartfelt thank you to my dear literary agent, Elisabeth Weed, for her encouragement, guidance, and kindness, always. Elisabeth, working with you is such a pleasure and a privilege. Also, much gratitude and a double-shot latte to Stephanie Sun, whose feedback always make my stories stronger. (Wait, make that a triple!) And, a huge thanks to Jenny Meyer for sharing my books with readers in so many countries—from Germany to Italy, Spain to Turkey, and more (wow!)—and Dana Borowitz at UTA, for representing my books so proficiently in the world of film.

  To my friends at Plume, beginning with my extraordinary editor, Denise Roy, who was immediately enthusiastic about this story, from t
he title to its characters, reading the first draft late into the night so she could give me quick feedback—you are, in a word, amazing, and I adore working with you. To Phil Budnick, Kym Surridge, Milena Brown, Liz Keenan, Ashley Pattison, the incredible Plume sales force, and the many, many others at Penguin who work hard to make my novels successful, I am so grateful for your support and partnership.

  This novel may have never been written had I not heard the haunting song “Blackberry Winter” on the radio by the gifted singer and pianist Hilary Kole (see Author’s Note for the full story). And I may have never heard the song had it not been aired on the truly fantastic Sirius Satellite Radio station Siriusly Sinatra, which always makes me want to write a novel about Frank Sinatra.

  Thank you to the friends who have cheered me on—especially those who are mothers. Big hugs to you, Sally Farhat Kassab, Camille Noe Pagán, the lovely PEPS gals, and so many others. I also want to mention two very special friends who have rebounded from disappointment and loss in recent years—both have been a tremendous inspiration to me as women and mothers: Lisa Bach, your great strength and resilience amazes and inspires me. And Wendi Parriera, you have taught me so much about faith and hope in the face of the unthinkable.

  To my parents, for too many reasons to list here, but especially to my mom, Karen Mitchell, for her blackberry pies and making life lovely for her children and her grandchildren; and to my dad, Terry Mitchell, for his dedication to his children, for our jogs together, and for all those long walks to that old cemetery where childhood curiosity blossomed into literary inspiration. To my brothers Josh and Josiah, and my sister, Jessica, my dearest friend who is a profound inspiration to me in motherhood and life—love to you all.

  I am continuously grateful to my husband, Jason, for being the type of supportive spouse who encourages me in my writing and who loves to celebrates all the little (and big) things in life with me. J, I love traveling on this journey with you. And, my beloved sons—Carson, Russell, and Colby—this book is for you.

  Finally, to my readers: Thank you for welcoming my stories into your lives, for reading them with your book clubs, and for telling your friends and families about them. I have many more to come—some in progress, others just little glimmers in my mind—and I can hardly wait for you to read them.

  Author’s Note

  One morning, while in the car with my husband and our young sons, an intriguing song came on the radio. I had never heard it before, but I was instantly transfixed by the melody, and the singer’s haunting voice. I turned to my husband, who was driving: “This is a beautiful song!” I exclaimed. “Do you know it?” He shook his head. I glanced at the radio, and the screen read, “Blackberry Winter by Hilary Kole.” The title made my heart flutter. As a lifelong Northwesterner, blackberries are special to me. I get nostalgic when I think about the after-dinner walks I took with my parents and siblings during the summers of my childhood. We’d all take bowls and tromp through the woods near our home, scouting for blackberries. My sister and I would eat the majority of them, and the rest would find their way into one of mom’s famous pies or cobblers. Summer just wasn’t summer without berry-stained fingers.

  That day in the car, I pulled out my phone (which, ahem, happens to be a BlackBerry) and e-mailed myself the name of the song and its artist. I wanted to read the lyrics, but mostly, I wanted to know the origins of the title. What is a blackberry winter? Later, at home, I sat down at my desk to do some research. I learned that the term is old-fashioned weather jargon for a late-season cold snap—think of plunging temperatures and snowfall in May, just when the delicate white flowers are beginning to appear on the blackberry vines.

  I couldn’t get the words “blackberry winter” out of my head, and that night, I began to sketch out the concept for this novel. The story came to me quickly and vividly: Vera and Daniel and the little apartment they shared in the 1930s; his beloved teddy bear lying face-down in the cold snow; Claire and her curious reporter’s mind and her own deep pain and grief; snowflakes falling on the spring cherry blossoms.

  For the next many months, I lived and breathed Blackberry Winter. At the heart of this story, for me, were the raw emotions of motherhood. I began writing the novel when I was pregnant with my third son, and I channeled Vera and Claire’s pain and often heartbreaking experiences. I thought a lot about how it would feel to lose a child, and what I would do. Then, in a heartbreaking turn of events, shortly before I finished the book, one of my dearest friends, Wendi Parriera, lost her two-year-old son to a rare form of brain cancer. It broke my heart to watch her say good-bye to her precious boy, and I wept with her on the phone as she held her son against her chest in the final hours of his life. But, I also saw her strength, and the light in her eye—the one that told me how thankful she is to have been the mother of this beautiful child, and how excited she is to know, with certainty, that she’ll be seeing him again, in heaven. Wendi reminds me, always, that motherhood—life—no matter how short, is a gift.

  While my characters’ challenges are great and their stories tragic, like my dear friend, I like to think that they found their own sense of peace and truth—swirling in a late-season snowstorm and hidden among the protective thorns of the blackberry vines.

  Thank you for reading. I hope this novel touches your heart in the same way it touched mine.

  Chapter 1

  “I guess this is it,” Joel said, leaning into the doorway of our apartment. His eyes darted as if he was trying to memorize every detail of the turn-of-the-century New York two-story, the one we’d bought together five years ago and renovated—in happier times. It was a sight: the entryway with its delicate arch, the old mantel we’d found at an antique store in Connecticut and carted home like treasure, and the richness of the dining room walls. We’d agonized about the paint color but finally settled on Morocco Red, a shade that was both wistful and jarring, a little like our marriage. Once it was on the walls, he thought it was too orange. I thought it was just right.

  Our eyes met for a second, but I quickly looked down at the dispenser in my hands and robotically pried off the last piece of packing tape, hastily plastering it on the final box of Joel’s belongings that he’d come over that morning to retrieve. “Wait,” I said, recalling a fleck of a blue leather-bound hardback I’d seen in the now-sealed box. I looked up at him accusatorily. “Did you take my copy of Years of Grace?”

  I had read the novel on our honeymoon in Tahiti six years prior, though it wasn’t the memory of our trip I wanted to eulogize with its tattered pages. Looking back, I’ll never know how the 1931 Pulitzer Prize winner by the late Margaret Ayer Barnes ended up in a dusty stack of complimentary books in the resort’s lobby, but as I pulled it out of the bin and cracked open its brittle spine, I felt my heart contract with a deep familiarity that I could not explain. The moving story told in its pages, of love and loss and acceptance, of secret passions and the weight of private thoughts, forever changed the way I viewed my own writing. It may have even been the reason why I stopped writing. Joel had never read the book, and I was glad of it. It was too intimate to share. It read to me like the pages of my unwritten diary.

  Joel watched as I peeled the tape back and opened the box, digging around until I found the old novel. When I did I let out a sigh of emotional exhaustion.

  “Sorry,” he said awkwardly. “I didn’t realize you—”

  He didn’t realize a lot of things about me. I grasped the book tightly, then nodded and re-taped the box. “I guess that’s everything,” I said, standing up.

  He glanced cautiously toward me, and I returned his gaze this time. For another few hours, at least until I signed the divorce papers later that afternoon, he would still be my husband. Yet it was difficult to look into those dark brown eyes knowing that the man I had married was leaving me, for someone else. How did we get here?

  The scene of our demise played out in my mind like a tragic movie, the way it had a million times since we’d been separated. It opened on a
rainy Monday morning in November. I was making scrambled eggs smothered in Tabasco, his favorite, when he told me about Stephanie. The way she made him laugh. The way she understood him. The way they connected. I pictured the image of two Lego pieces fusing together, and I shuddered. It’s funny; when I think back to that morning, I can actually smell burned eggs and Tabasco. Had I known that this is what the end of my marriage would smell like, I would have made pancakes.

  I looked once again into Joel’s face. His eyes were sad and unsure. I knew that if I rose to my feet and threw myself into his arms, he might embrace me with the love of an apologetic husband who wouldn’t leave, wouldn’t end our marriage. But, no, I told myself. The damage had been done. Our fate had been decided. “Good-bye, Joel,” I said. My heart may have wanted to linger, but my brain knew better. He needed to go.

  Joel looked wounded. “Emily, I—”

  Was he looking for forgiveness? A second chance? I didn’t know. I extended my hand as if to stop him from going on. “Good-bye,” I said, mustering all my strength.

  He nodded solemnly, then turned to the door. I closed my eyes and listened as he shut it quietly behind him. He locked it from the outside, a gesture that made my heart seize. He still cares…. About my safety, at least. I shook my head and reminded myself to get the locks changed, then listened as his footsteps became quieter, until they were completely swallowed up by the street noise.

  My phone rang sometime later, and when I stood up to get it, I realized that I’d been sitting on the floor engrossed in Years of Grace ever since Joel left. Had a minute passed? An hour?

  “Are you coming?” It was Annabelle, my best friend. “You promised me you wouldn’t sign your divorce papers alone.”

  Disoriented, I looked at the clock. “Sorry, Annie,” I said, fumbling for my keys and the dreaded manila envelope in my bag. I was supposed to meet her at the restaurant forty-five minutes ago. “I’m on my way.”