Johanna's Secret

by Maya Northen Augelli

  I know the majority of today will be encompassed by my novel, which is exactly what I hoped for. I do want to ask Billy about the wall in the back, but that can wait until later. I set the timer for another hour and a half and dig back in under the spell of my invisible muses. Finally after over four hours of writing I emerge, feeling dazed and suddenly aware of my stomach growling in an embarrassingly loud manner. It’s 3:30 in the afternoon, and so far my sustenance consists of a bowl of instant oats and two cups of coffee. I suddenly remember I’d told Greg that I’d talk to him in the morning, and pull my phone out of my purse. He’s texted me twice, a couple of hours apart, and I feel pretty awful about not replying.

  “Good morning!” the first reads. Too late to reply to that, I think sheepishly. “Dinner tonight?” the second one reads. I feel suddenly unsure, despite having agreed the day before. I spent the better part of yesterday with him and I’m quite ready to get into the habit of seeing him every day. I also hoped to see if Billy and Grace want to come take a look at the back wall. I decide there is no harm in being honest with him and inviting him to join. “If they can’t make it, am I still invited?” he teases. I have to admit, he makes me smile. Billy accepts with what sounds like anticipation. “I can’t promise what I’ll be able to tell you from looking at the wall through a vine, but I’ll do my best,” he assures me. It will be good to see him again. He’s become a bit of a fatherly figure to me, checking in every couple of days, not only to see if I need anything with the house, but also just to see how I am. Grace replies shortly after that she’s coming as well.

  We opt for Chinese takeout and inspect the wall while we wait for the delivery. Billy pulls the vine back as best he can, examining the paint that almost successfully covers up the old door frame. “This paint isn’t all that old. At least considering the age of the house.” “How old is ‘not that old’?” I wonder out loud. “Maybe thirty years. Forty tops.” “So this was done recently? While Linda lived here?” “I’d say so. But certainly before I was here. I don’t remember a door ever being here.” “Well, she was a gardner. Perhaps she didn’t like the look of it. Or maybe she too, saw it as a safety concern.” “But with the inside door locked…” “She was alone, a young mom with a young child. She might have wanted to take extra precaution,” Greg chimes in. “Odd that she never mentioned it to me, though,” Billy ponders. “Or the lock, for that matter. But this was before my time. Maybe she figured it was good enough and didn’t want to bother me with it. But I’d have been willing to fix it up for her, so that she didn’t have to keep it covered with ivy. The lock, I don’t know. That’s just strange.” Grace took her turn, “Your sister noticed it right away, right? So it’s not possible that it simply didn’t get her attention.” “In fairness, Nan is more attracted to shiny objects than to mysterious items. I’m guessing it’s uniqueness is why she noticed it. But, that would have been Geraldine’s room. I’m not a mom, but I would most certainly inspect my baby’s room high and low, especially if I thought there was a safety concern.” Grace nods agreement. “And it was definitely open in one of the pictures you found?” “Yes,” Greg answers. “But my grandfather wrote that Julienne had locked it. The girls were having nightmares about monsters, or at least that was the reason she gave him.” “And she wrote nothing about the outside?” Billy asks “No, other than mentioning that it was the door to the back entrance. Though, we haven’t finished the whole journal. Perhaps he mentions it again later.”

  “This paint is not ninety years old,” Billy gestures back to the wall beneath the vine. “There look to be only two coats of paint, and if the second person painted over a ninety year old layer, it would be peeling. Especially since they didn’t seem to know much about outdoor paint,” he chuckles. “The outside could just be a coincidence. A weird one, but still…”. I was hoping tonight’s inspection would lead to something more promising, but it feels like another dead end. Greg shakes his head. “I’m not convinced.” We look at him, waiting for a further explanation or alternative theory. “If you felt unsafe, would you use a pretty, ornate lock on the inside door that could be opened with a key, or would you get rid of the actual outside entrance, which would eliminate the need for an inside lock all together?” “But she didn’t say she felt unsafe,” I remind him. “She told your grandfather it was about the girls’ nightmares. Basically, it was decorative to make them feel better.” “And he didn’t believe her. Just like we don’t, almost a century later.” He’s right. Despite our best efforts to come up with some coincidence in which these events could all be unrelated, nothing seems plausible. The trouble is, we can’t quite connect them either.

  An unfamiliar “Hello?” makes us all jump. We see the delivery man, bags of food in hand, peeking around the corner. “Sorry, I knocked and no answer,” he shrugs. “No worries, thank you,” Greg replies, swiftly grabbing the bags of food and pressing cash into the palm of the man’s hand before anyone can object. We let our brains, and our theories, rest temporarily while we indulge our stomachs. It doesn’t last long. Not surprising, given the reason for our get together and our collective curiosity. “So Greg, if you don’t buy the excuse she gave your grandpa about the lock, why do you think she did it?” Grace is the first to revamp the conversation between slurps of noodles. “Maybe to hide something?” Greg raises his eyebrows. It’s more of a question than a statement. “Like what?” Billy speaks for the first time in a while. “No idea. But think about it. They vanished without a trace. Their things were still in the house, but only their material things. They left no trace of who they were or where they went. You can’t travel with all of that and not eventually be detected. They had to put it somewhere. Their books, their letters, their journals, their pictures. Suddenly, the lock goes on the door and a few days later, they disappear, never to be seen again.”

  We all sit thinking for a moment. Greg may have a good point. But what could be so important that they’d lock it up and never, presumably, come back for it. “Johanna’s secret,” I almost whisper. “What secret?” Grace looks at me curiously. It occurs to me that Greg and I haven’t shared our latest findings with the others, and I felt slightly guilty. Grace and I started down this investigative path, and I don’t want her to think she’s been usurped. “Greg’s grandfather wrote that he came upon Johanna crying in the park. He went to comfort her, and she wouldn’t tell him what was wrong, only that her family had secrets and that she knew more than anyone thought. He offered to listen, promised he wouldn’t tell a soul, but she said nothing else.” “And that was in the diary?” Greg and I nod in unison. “And you think whatever is behind that door holds the key to the secret?” It does seem pretty far fetched, I realize, but it also, in some ways, makes sense. “Well, if Greg’s theory is right, that they weren’t keeping something or someone, out, but instead keeping something hidden inside, then whatever it was has to be important enough to preserve or protect, personal enough to keep away from anyone else, but not vital enough to everyday life to take with them.” “And if they locked it up, they knew they were leaving voluntarily,” Grace comes to the same conclusion Greg and I had earlier. “Not to sound crude or unsentimental,” Billy jumps in, “But why don’t we get the lock taken off first. Strange that nobody’s done that before. But Linda never mentioned it to me.” “Always the practical contractor, dad,” Grace teases. “It just doesn’t seem right, though, does it?” She looks at Greg and I for support. “Besides, it also looks like it could be worth quite a bit of money and I’d hate to break it,” she appeals to Billy’s practical nature for good measure. I can’t say why, but I agreed with Grace. It feels wrong for us to break the lock and disrupt the history behind it without good cause, and I don’t feel our pure curiosity is a good enough cause. With the outside entrance being walled up, the space itself is useless other than potentially for storage, and it just feels like bad karma somehow. Clearly, Julienne wanted it this way and if Linda had lived here for years without disturbing it, why
couldn’t I? “I think it’s up to Hennie,” Greg says. “She’s living here, and if there is anything… weird…. in there, it could make her uncomfortable. And Billy, of course, it’s your house...” “Nah, I don’t care either way…” he waves his hand. “You don’t think…,” I begin. “No, no, I’m not saying there’s a dead body or anything like that,” Greg quickly confirms. “Oh thank God!” Grace interrupts. “I meant how your sister was having strange dreams and all. She’s right, that is kind of creepy,” he says turning to me, looking a bit sheepish. Clearly he doesn’t want to admit that he’s feeling the same kind of bad vibe I have been. Everyone turns to me, having made me the virtual keeper of the nonexistent key. “Not yet. It is a beautiful, and possibly expensive, lock, and it does feel wrong to destroy what Julienne so purposefully planned. It also feels a bit like opening pandora’s box, and I’m not quite sure I want to do that yet. Let’s see what else we find first. If we find more evidence that it’s hiding something important, then maybe we can see about getting a key made, open it without breaking the actual lock. We didn’t finish reading your grandfather’s journal. Maybe he found out more,” I say looking at Greg.

  We spend the next half hour talking about the possibilities behind the door, and then about Josh’s upcoming visit. Finally, around 10 PM, Grace and Billy head home. They’ve barely closed the door when Greg put his arm around my waist and pulls me close. “I thought they’d never leave,” he smiles and kisses me. It’s the same deep kiss we shared in his living room the day before. This time, we have no time constraint and no excuse for pulling away. When I finally take my lips from his, catching my breath, I realize it’s past eleven o’clock. “Slow, remember?” I tease him. He returns an expression of mock hurt but then smiles and nods. “I have a feeling I may really regret having said that,” he jokes back. “I hate to leave, but I should get going soon,” he concedes after a few moments. Stifling a yawn, I realize I, too, am exhausted. He is about to head out the door when he turns and looks at me, his eyes unusually serious. “Hen, it’s just you and me, right?” It takes me a moment to understand. “Yes, Greg, it is.” I smile as I watched him leave. Just like that, I have gotten myself into a relationship when I least planned.

  Chapter 12

  I awake the next day as though emerging from hibernation. Rubbing my eyes, I check the clock again, thinking I must have misread it. Is it really 8:45? Why on earth had a I slept so long? Perhaps I was just running around too much, I thought. When I came up here, it was more or less to pull back from the world and concentrate on my writing. I pictured sitting quietly at my desk most of the day, getting in my writing zone, inspired by the New England scenery and small town ambience that surrounded me. I imagined having to force myself to take breaks, walking in the garden or into town just to avoid isolation. I’d hoped that maybe I’d eventually get to know a couple of the local shop owners and they’d become my ‘friends’ while here. I knew that Billy and I hit it off and had hoped maybe he’d stop in once in awhile for a cup of coffee if maybe he, too, needed some company. I never imagined him turning into a surrogate father, his daughter - who I hadn’t even known would be in town - like a substitute sister. I sure as hell hadn’t expected a boyfriend. And yet as my mind creeps back to last night, our dinner gathering, our brainstorming, and Greg’s parting words repeating in my ears, I know I am happier now than I’ve been in a long time. Despite all of the distraction, my novel is moving along remarkably well. Whether it will actually be published remains to be seen of course, but my editor, Samantha, seems to think it’s promising. She is, in fact, surprised at the lack of editing that she’s felt it needs so far. Perhaps my personal happiness is inspiring my writing as well.

  Glancing at my phone on the nightstand beside my bed, I see two texts from Greg. He certainly is reliable. “Good morning, beautiful! What are you up to today?” the next one, half an hour later: “Ugh, have to fill in for someone during the day today, but I’m done at 5:30. Was hoping to see you tonight maybe?” A knot forms in the pit of my stomach. Was I misinterpreting what he’d said last night? He seems more shy than usual about asking to see me. Only one way to find out, I tell myself. “Good morning! Slept in, sorry. Tonight sounds good.” “Great! Thank God, I was worried I’d upset you last night. I don’t want to overwhelm you. I just really wanted to make sure we were in the same place with this.” I sigh with relief, not realizing I’d literally been holding my breath waiting for his reply. “You didn’t upset me at all, promise,” I assure him. “Phew! Why don’t we cook in. I could stop at the market on my way back from work, grab some stuff and bring it over.” Cooking in sounds like my speed. My body is clearly telling me to put on the brakes a bit, and that includes the continual dining out. I feel bad letting him go to get the food after working all day when I basically have no plans to leave the house. “I’ll go to the market, just let me know what you’d like. You’re working.” “No way, I suggested dinner, it’s my job to get the food.” We agree on a Mexican theme, and he promises to bring everything we’d need. I’m in charge of margarita ingredients only, which seems simple enough.

  I never understand men’s need to do everything for women when dating. Sure, at first it makes a good impression but if you plan on it being anything more than casual, things will eventually shift anyway. If things work with Greg, surely he won’t be the only one ever to go grocery shopping, and I won’t want him to be. I’m getting way ahead of myself, though. He had suggested coming to my house and cooking, and perhaps he feels it only right for him to bring what we need. We. I smile to myself. What am I getting myself into?

  I spend the day occupied as best I can, anticipating the evening’s dinner with Greg and theorizing about the door in my spare room. Greg’s suggestion seems the most logical if, in fact, Julienne had an alternate reason for locking it at all. The obvious cover up of the outside entrance just didn’t add up. Could someone, somehow, have known that there was something important behind that doorway? Could they too, have felt unsafe with the back entrance? But why? Billy said it had been done around that time that Linda lived here, but before he’d taken ownership. Was it really as simple as an aesthetic dislike for the door? Perhaps we were making too much of it.

  I try to clear my mind and work, but to no avail. Someone has to know something. I should have taken home Greg’s grandfather’s diary when he’d offered it. But no, I did the right thing. Looking through it in Greg’s house, which had once been his grandfather’s, is one thing. Taking it from it’s rightful owner and reading through it at will is another. Besides, while Greg told me much of the contents and offered it to me, it was, I believed, with the premise of reading from where he left off. What if there were things earlier on that he didn’t want me to see? I doubt it, but as a journal keeper myself, I’m always concerned with invading people’s privacy.

  As if on cue, my phone buzzes. “I heard from Della, my colleague. She asked if I could scan in the letters and send them to her. I’m not sure it will work since some of the writing is so light, but it’s worth a try.” Della. She sounds exotic. I feel my stomach twist slightly. Just a colleague, I remind myself. And of course she has an exotic sounding name - she teaches languages for a living. I agree with Greg on scanning the letters. They are a bit old and faded as it is, and scanning almost always distorts documents at least a little. He’s right though - this is our best shot at getting them translated, or at least the best one we have so far. “If you bring yours over tonight, I could try to scan them,” I suggest. “Tonight, let’s try not to talk shop,” he replies, a smiley face added for emphasis.

  I’m excited to get the letters translated. Of course, there could be nothing to them, but the fact that his grandfather, who’d been close to Julienne, had a letter written in French stuck in his journal, tells me this likely isn’t the case. I also know that it could cause some conflicting emotions for Greg, depending on the contents. What if it was some sort of love letter? He’d kept it all those years, a
fterall. What if it held something even more upsetting? What if he knew what had happened to them - helped them even - and had taken the secret to his grave? It occurred to me that until this point, we’d only known what happened until the night they disappeared. If his grandfather knew anything further, he hadn’t said a word. Had he stopped investigating? It seemed unlikely. With the house empty, he could come and go as he pleased trying to find clues. Surely he would have been able to find something. It struck me as odd that he had not. Maybe we just haven’t discovered it yet. Enough, I tell myself, and force myself to get back to my writing.

  My concentration is broken by a knock on the door. I must have gotten lost in my work for hours, despite my timer. Had I just not heard it ring? Hit it automatically, the way you hit the snooze on an alarm, and kept going? I take a quick glance at the clock as I rush out of my room towards the stairs: 5 PM. If it’s Greg, he’s early, and if he gave me a heads up, I missed it. I am working and writing for almost five hours, and am in need of some time away from the computer.