I pull out my phone and Googled the shelter. There, on the front of the website, is a picture of Roscoe. Underneath it reads, “I’ve been here 221 days. Please, help me find a furever home! Follow me on twitter! Like me on Facebook!”. Oh what the hell. I clicked his twitter feed. I have to admit, whoever is overseeing this dog’s PR is doing quite an endearing job. I go back to the shelter site and clicked on the “more information” button. Pictures of Roscoe running through a field, looking like the star of a dog food commercial, the sun shining on him, a “smile” on his face. There is a video of him playing with a chew toy and another of him with some shelter mates. I take a screenshot of the photos and text it to Greg. He said he wanted a dog, so let’s see how serious he was, I figure. For some reason, Roscoe tugs at my heart. 221 days is a long time to be sitting in a shelter without a family.
My phone buzzes almost immediately in reply. “Where is he? Let’s go see him!”. Then a follow up, “Also, good morning,” a smiley face at the end. I give Greg the details from the website. “I’m going to call. Would you have time to go with me today if they can fit me in?” I am glad he couldn’t see my eyes involuntarily widen. I sent him the picture as a gesture - and I have to admit, a bit of a test. But, he sounds true to his word about wanting a dog, and I reply that I’ll be happy to go with him. “But I wouldn’t go unless you’re really considering it. He’s been there 221 days, and I wouldn’t want to get their hopes up.” “I really like him. Let’s go.” That seems to be about as solid of an answer as I’ll get from him. “We have an appointment at 11 AM!” comes the reply a few minutes later. We. I have to be careful. If Greg gets this dog, it is his, not ours. I try to think of a way to gently make it clear to him.
He knocks on my door at exactly 10:45. I don’t know where the shelter is, but I assume it can’t be far. I don’t think I’ve seen him quite this light-hearted since we’ve met. He talks animatedly from the moment I step out of my house until we pull up at the shelter. The shelter is clean, and obviously well-maintained, and the staff seem to genuinely care about the animals - all good signs. There’s a young man, early 20s probably, playing tug-of-war with a scraggly mutt that seems to have an intense grip on his end of the rope. On the other side of the room is a woman, probably a few years older than me, talking to a few of the cats in their cages, smiling at their “conversation”.
Greg briskly makes his way to the front counter. “Hi, I have an 11 AM appointment to see Roscoe?” The auburn-haired young woman behind the counter types something quickly into her computer and looks up, “Greg?”. He nods. “Just a moment. We had him out for a walk, but he should be back by now.” She heads down the hallway, past the tug-of-war game and the cat woman. A few minutes later, she emerges with a dog looking much like the Roscoe I saw on tv treading quickly by her side. “Here he is!” she brings him forward rather dramatically, smiling at him as she bends down to pet him - most likely to ensure he doesn’t jump or do anything else to jeopardize his chances.
Greg crouches down, bending his head towards the dog. “Hi Roscoe,” he pats him on the back and Roscoe’s tail wags, his tongue hanging out of his mouth. “You’re welcome to take him out back,” the auburn-haired woman suggests. “He loves to play outside, don’t you buddy,” she smiles down at the dog again. He is either a staff favorite, or she is quite an actress.
I follow along dutifully as Greg and Roscoe stroll down the hall. I presume she thinks we were buying the dog together, and I don’t know if that has a positive or negative effect on Greg’s chances of being accepted as the new owner. My hunch tells me they wanted the dog to go to a stable environment with as much time for love and attention as possible. “He seems sweet,” Greg comments. “I wonder why he’s been here so long?” It takes me a moment to realize he was addressing me and not the staff member. “Maybe he just hasn’t found the right match yet,” I shrug and bend down to pet him. Roscoe licks my hand. “I must smell like breakfast,” I laugh. “He’s a big kisser,” chimes the auburn hair woman - Jessica, I noticed her name tag reads. Turning to Greg, she says, “I think your wife is right. These dogs just have to find the right family, and he hasn’t yet.” Greg slides a glance at me and smiles. Jessica keeps talking, “Roscoe hasn’t been tested with small children yet, and I think that deters people. He’s not unfriendly, but he’s young, and young dogs like him jump. People don’t tend to like that around their babies.” Understandable, I think.
“Is he a pit bull mix?” I ask her. I can see hesitation creep over her. “Well, we don’t know exactly what he is…” “Oh ok, because I love pitbulls.” “We think he’s most likely staffordshire terrier and Chesapeake Bay retriever,” she says cautiously. I nod and smile. Jessica leaves us alone for a while to play with Roscoe. “What do you think?” Greg asks. “What do you think? He’ll be your dog.” Greg looks a little hurt, but only momentarily. “I love him.” “He’s going to be a lot of work,” I caution. “They said once he gets to know you he’s not so shy.” “That’s ok,” Greg grins. “I could use the exercise. At least he’s housebroken.” His mind seems pretty set. “I wonder what the next step is.” “They may do a home visit. Make sure it’s suitable for him.” His expression becomes worried. “What does that mean?” “You’ll be fine. You have a big house, yard, plenty of room.” “Oh, ok…” He still doesn’t seem sure.
I’m correct. A house visit is scheduled for Monday. We have three days to figure out what to do about the fact that they think we were married. As we leave, Greg’s phone buzzes. “The bank,” he mouths, putting the phone to his ear.
We make our way across town as quickly as we can. The security and background checks for the safe deposit box are complete, and all Greg has to do is sign a couple additional papers. I go along for moral support, and because he’s my ride home, though I suspect I’ll have to wait in the lobby while legalities are completed. “Well, this is either going to be the golden ticket, or a huge disappointment,” he sighs, holding the bank door for me. “Whichever it is, at least it’s yours now,” I reply, trying to assuage his concern. “True. It’s the only thing he left to me that I haven’t dealt with.”
I wait on a bench in the lobby while they take care of official business. Ten minutes later, he emerges holding two envelopes. “Success?” “I guess we’re about to find out. I didn’t want to open them in there.” It makes sense. This could be an incredibly emotional moment for him, and even I suddenly have my doubts about being there when he discovers the contents. I voice my concerns, but he assures me that this was something he wants to do together.
We head back to his house, as it seems to be the only place appropriate for such a task - it had, after all, belonged to his grandparents. As he sets the letters down on his desk, I notice that one is addressed not to his grandfather, but to Millie, his grandmother. My eyebrows raise involuntarily. “It’s from Johanna Sheffield,” he says by way of response, flipping over the envelope to show the return address on the reverse side. The other, which is indeed addressed to his grandfather, appears to be much thicker. It is clearly decades more recent. Perhaps this is the envelope that his aunt had seen the old woman give her grandfather that day.
“Which should we open first?” “Your call,” I reply. “Technically, they’re yours now.” “The one from Johanna.” He sounds certain. Johanna seems to be the piece of the puzzle that makes everything else fit together, and yet we don’t know how. She’d held a secret, one that caused her to cry alone in the park; bad enough that she wouldn’t dare tell her friend, Greg’s grandfather, even as a comfort to herself. Then she went to a party, seemingly transformed to her former self, and was never seen again. Greg is right. His grandmother had saved the letter in a safe deposit box for, what, 50 years? Certainly it holds something significant.
Unlike the letter to his grandfather, the one to Millie had previously been opened. She had indeed read it, and then locked it away. Greg pulls it carefully out of the envelope. It’s faded, bu
t surprisingly intact. I read over his shoulder, both of us transfixed. “So that was her secret. She knew all along.” Greg says finally. “And so did your grandmother.” I regret my comment immediately. I didn’t mean to sound critical about Millie, but she withheld information from his grandfather for years, even knowing how crucial it was to him. Perhaps, she thought the contents of the letter would only cause him pain, and withheld it out of love for him and for Johanna equally. “That’s how she was. Johanna was a good friend. She asked her never to tell a soul, and so she never did.” I read the letter again.
Dearest Millie,
My worst fears have been confirmed. I knew he was sneaking out to her at night. I’d hear him go down the back staircase after he put the girls to bed. He thought I was asleep. One night, I followed him, hiding by the back of the house in the dark, and watched him go into the carriage house. It isn’t her fault, poor thing. She didn’t ask for this. But she could say nothing. He’d have fired her and sent her back home to face that awful man she used to work for. The days after he goes to her she’s quiet and withdrawn. Sometimes she has bruises on her arms. Yesterday, I found her in the bathroom crying. She’d thought we’d all gone, but I ran back up to my room to grab my hat and heard her whimpering. I found her sitting on the bathroom floor looking ill. She was sick to her stomach, and at first, I thought she’d come down with a virus. But she kept holding her stomach (which I now notice looks slightly swollen) and saying, “I’m so sorry” through her tears. What a terrible God we must have to take my child from me and burden her with this one under the worst circumstances. My heart breaks out of self pity, for her, and for the girls, who must surely find out eventually. Scarlett is too young to understand, but the older girls will figure it out. Please Millie, I beg you, don’t tell a soul.
Your faithful friend,
Johanna
Greg fumbles through his thoughts out loud. “Julienne was pregnant. That’s why she ran away. She was ashamed, or scared.” “And she knew everyone would blame it on Sharpe. It wasn’t just her reputation she was protecting, but his too.” “He must have gone with her. I’m sure they weren’t planning to take the girls, but then Johanna and James vanished, and they had no choice.” “And now there’s another child. An old man or woman now, if they’re even still alive.” “They’d be... “ he calculated “close to 90.” “And what was that about ‘sending her back to that awful man?”
There is so much to take in. Julienne had been pregnant, seemingly preyed upon by James Sheffield. Johanna had known. Did Julienne realize that she knew? And perhaps, the most startling of all, Greg’s grandmother had known the whole time. We’d spent weeks focusing on his grandfather - what he’d known, the information he’d collected, his journals, and yet here it was, practically under our noses, locked in the safe deposit by Millie decades ago.
“Something terrible must have happened to Julienne in England - something worse than an unwanted pregnancy by the man who assaulted her. She was willing to deal with all of that, willing to go into hiding for the rest of her life to not have to face whatever had happened in England. I say as much to Greg. “We know from what Cat found that her former mistress was a famous writer married to a Sharpe - presumably a relative of Edward. That a child she was the nanny to had drowned, and that the mistress didn’t blame her, helped her leave. Gave her the trunk with the lock. She must have been afraid the husband would go after her if she went back.” Greg nods. “Time to see what’s behind door number two.” “Do you need a break?” “No, I might as well get through it all now. Whatever it is, I can deal with it.” He takes a long inhale. I can tell his trust was wavering a bit. Not in me, but in his past, and his grandparents. He’d taken everything his grandparents, and his grandfather especially, had told him as truth, and now, he is questioning it.
Slowly, he pulls back the sealed flap of the second envelope. As he draws the letter out, I can see even at a distance the similarity to the letter I’d found at home.
Dear George,
By the time you read this, if you have followed my instructions, I am gone. I have so much to say, and yet am not sure where to begin. First, let me say thank you. For helping us, being our friend all those years ago, and for keeping my identity secret even now.
You should know, Lilianna and Scarlett are safe. They are alive and well, though perhaps by the time you read this things will have changed - we’re not so young anymore, you know. I wanted to tell you all those years ago, Scarlett and I did, but Julienne and Eddie wouldn’t let us. They said it wasn’t safe. I didn’t understand then, but I do now. They would have blamed it on Eddie, and Julienne would have been sent home. Us girls would have had nobody at all.
We left in the middle of the night. We hitched a ride up the coast and ended up in New Hampshire, though to me it seemed like some foreign land. Julienne lost the baby - I didn’t know that then. Eddie just said she was sick, and she was crying out in pain and there was blood. I didn’t know what my father had been doing to her. How could I, I was only six. I think Lili knew. Or she knew he was “doing something bad,” as she used to say. They made us call them Aunt and Uncle in public - said it was safer. We acted like a family even at home. I don’t think Scarlett even remembers our parents. Sometimes, I think she’s the lucky one.
Julienne got pregnant again - this time out of love. She had the baby when I was 11. We named her Mable. I say we, because it was a decision made as a “family”. She only lived for about six months, poor thing. But she fared better than Julienne, who didn’t survive the birth. Eddie raised us alone for the next five years. Finally, when I was sixteen, he married a woman named Clara. She was nice, and she helped us as best she could, but she wasn’t mama or even Julienne.
Clara adored Eddie. Eddie liked her well enough and needed a wife and a mother-figure for us. Julienne was the love of his life. Mable was the second. He was never the same after their deaths. Don’t let the gossip fool you. Eddie was a great man. Best thing that ever happened to us, and to Julienne. He died of lung cancer in 1986.
You probably wonder about the other girls. As of the time I write this, Lil is in a senior living center in New Hampshire under the name Lucy Croftwell. Scarlett, is not far away - about an hour up the coast, happily married with three children and eight or nine grandchildren. I’ve lost count in my old age. She went by Cecilia after we left town, but insisted on reverting to Scarlett as an adult. I guess she figured once Eddie passed, there was no need to hide anymore. Her last name is now Flemming. Eddie and Clara had one child together named Emma. We’ve mostly lost touch over the years, though I still hear from her at holidays occasionally. Her husband’s last name is Simeon, though she may still go by Sharpe. She never wanted to change her name. I think she was quite proud of what we all manage to endure together.
I don’t know what happened to mama and my father that night. I have my suspicions. I believe Julienne and Eddie knew. Especially Eddie. I’m not sure Julienne knew the whole story. Eddie was the only one to witness it. I try to remember my father, before all of this happened, but I find it hard. Mama was a good and gentle soul. She didn’t deserve this, and I forgave her a long time ago for anything she did wrong.
In this envelope is a key. It goes to a door in the cottage, in the room where us girls used to sleep. There were only two copies, and my daughter is under strict orders not to make more. She is moving to Italy soon with my granddaughter, and so I suspect it will stay locked even after I am gone. Please use this key. Julienne locked everything up before we went. It seemed like the only safe place. We had the only key, and we were long gone. The rest of our story is, I am sure, among those belongings. I opened it once, to take a peek, but I have not looked through. I could not. I guess I never wanted to know. Our story, and everything behind that door, is now yours, our only friend, who kept searching when everyone else had given up.
God bless you and your family,
Annaleigh Jane
Sheffield
Greg sets the letter on the desk. It’s all there, or almost all. “I think this calls for a drink,” he say finally. I don’t know if he means in celebration, or to digest it all. When he comes back with two glasses of Makers Mark on the rocks, I presumed it’s the latter. We sit in his study sipping our bourbon. It wasn’t 4PM yet, and as a rule, I try not to drink before five, but this seems a reasonable exception.
“Ok, let’s sort out what we know,” Greg suggests finally. “Where do we start?”. “Well, we know they left on purpose, and that all except Julienne lived a reasonably long life. We know why they left, more or less. I think it’s safe to assume that Eddie knew about whatever happened to Johanna and James that night, and that he wasn’t responsible for it, but thought he’d be blamed regardless.” “Which he probably would have been.” “I agree. Chief of Police and his wife disappear; only one to see it is a mysterious foreigner new in town, who seems to be coming around their property often, which Sheffield doesn’t like.” “And the part about forgiving her mother?” Greg shakes his head in a “your guess is as good as mine” gesture.
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