I am suddenly exhausted. It has been a whirlwind of a weekend, and tomorrow is Greg’s house visit with the animal shelter. He specifically mentioned that he wants me there, and I know how important this is to him, so I agreed. After that, I informed him, I’ll have to hibernate and write for a while. Not only do I need to hit some deadlines, but I need some downtime. I have natural introvert tendencies and too much socializing, high intensity socializing at that, requires recuperation.
I return to the spare room, steaming mugs of coffee in hand, to see Greg still pouring over a journal, though not the one we’d just been reading. “Anything else...?” I train off. I can’t bring myself to use the word ‘good’. This is all so awful. Greg flips back a few pages to a place he’d dog-eared and hands it over to me in exchange for his coffee. I can see the strain in his face. “Thanks,” is all he manages.
The entry is dated 28 December 1925.
I have now missed my monthly course for the second time in a row. I fear I may be pregnant again.
“She said she may be pregnant again,” I exclaim looking up at Greg. “Keep reading,” he encourages. I shake my head in disbelief, but followed his suggestion.
I don’t know how to feel. I’m terrified, of course. Terrified of having a child, of Johanna finding out, of what he’ll do to me if he finds out, which surely he will have to eventually. I can lie to Johanna, tell her it’s Eddie’s. Pretend to be happy. Eddie already wants to marry. He knows about the baby and says we can raise it as our own. He’s such a wonderful man. But James will know. And if he doesn’t, he’ll beat me for betraying him. And God only knows what he might do to Eddie. But after I lost the last one, my little boy, for I just know with all of my heart that he was a boy, I was so sad. After the shock I’d become rather used to the idea and grown fond of the child I carried, despite how it was conceived and who the father was. I’d created a whole story. It was so close to when I’d arrived that I planned to say I’d met someone in England before I left. It was before Eddie came here to be with me. I think I would have fooled them. But James never had to find out. I lost my little boy too soon.
“Holy shit,” I put the journal down. I don’t know if I could read any further. “He must have been after her from the very beginning. She was pregnant twice in nine months!” “I know. This poor girl. It’s a wonder she didn’t kill him.” “And no wonder that someone else did,” I murmur. “You think he was the target, then. When she drove off the cliff.” I shake my head. “I guess we’ll never really know. But she was a woman neglected by her husband for her au pair, already battling postpartum depression after losing her own child, I don’t know how she could have handled it.” “But she had her girls…” Greg starts. “Postpartum depression can be horrific. I’ve seen it plenty with clients. And she had the grief of a miscarriage and an unfaithful husband on top of that.” “That would drive even the sanest person over the edge,” Greg agrees. “And it may have literally done just that.”
“Let’s take a break,” I suggest. The air in the room suddenly feels stifling, and I need a walk outside. We wander into the back yard. The sun is warm on my bare shoulders. It finally feels like summer in Massachusett. “Remember on our first date,” Greg turns to me, “we saw those steps leading down to the beach?” I nod. “I promised you I’d take you back in the daytime.” He had, I recall. “Why not today? We could use some time away from all of this,” he gestures around grandly, and I take it to mean everything that has been keeping us so preoccupied. “You know, I’ve been here for two months now and have yet been to the beach. Let’s go.” The beach is only twenty five minutes away - far enough out of town that we aren’t likely to run into anyone we know, which, as much as I love everyone here, will be a nice change.
Less than a half hour later we are in Greg’s car and heading up the coast. Looking out the passenger window, I reflect on our first date and how far we’ve come in such a short amount of time. I laugh at myself silently, remembering how dead set I’d been against liking him, how hard Grace tried to convince me that it was a date but I refused to admit it. It occurs to me then that he’d referred to the dinner as our first date, and not the morning at the coffee shop. Ha! I thought, I was right about that one! I can’t help myself. “So”, I say, turning towards him, “If the dinner was our first date, what was that morning in the coffee shop?” I flash him a smile. He knows me well enough by now to tell I was teasing him, and I am rewarded with a smile of his own. “Well, that was me trying to convince you to go on a proper first date with me. You know, a first date that you’d agree was a date.” He laughs, and I join him. “Well, you did a pretty good job it seems.” “Are you kidding? You were so set against dating me! I thought I’d never win you over.” It surprises me that he knew this. Grace, I think. “Why do you say that?” “It was written all over your face.” “Oh,” I can feel the color rising to my cheeks. I’d hoped he’d not noticed my apprehension. “What changed your mind?” “The day after our first date, I realized I was waiting to hear from you. That’s unlike me. Very unlike me. I think I knew then that I was a goner.” He leans over and kisses me quickly. “Good.”
The climb down to the beach is more strenuous than I anticipated. Greg had been right that night - trying to do this in dressy shoes in the dark after a couple of glasses of wine would have been a disaster. Even in the daylight, he insists I walk in front of him so that he can catch me if I slip.
The beach itself is gorgeous. A middle-aged couple, probably in their early sixties, stands hand in hand by the edge of the water. Their hair blows gently back in the surprisingly warm breeze. The woman holds up the front of her long, flowy white skirt to keep the hem dry. I muse on how peaceful and at ease they looked with each other, the world going on around them. The man leans in closer, presumably to say something to her, and she throws her head back in a silent but radiant laugh. I find myself wondering what their past holds. Nobody is without their struggles and sad stories. At least nobody in their adult years. Are they genuinely as content with each other, and with life, as they appear? Greg catches me watching them. “Cute older couples make me happy,” he says, resting his hand gently on the small of my back. I wait for him to continue, as I guess he will. “They give me hope…. that everything you go through will be worth it.”
Further down the beach, a boy of about eight is throwing a stick to a dog - it looks to be a yellow lab. The dog faithfully run each time, retrieving the stick, dropping it at the boy’s feet, and being rewarded with a pat on the head. I see no parents or older siblings with the boy and wonder if he is a local, or the product of irresponsible parents. This isn’t Baltimore, I remind myself. People around here trust each other. I’ve seen kids as young as nine or ten at the market on instruction from a parent. It’s more like the small towns in Europe, where everyone knows each other and, far from causing a child harm, the other adults in the neighborhood watch over all of the kids to make sure everyone gets home safely.
“It’s low tide now,” Greg said, pointing to a line of seaweed further from the water’s edge. “We know the water comes up to at least that point, so I’d say here is good.” We drop our blanket down about halfway between the ocean and the cliffs. It feels good to sit and do absolutely nothing. “If I fall asleep and start to burn, wake me up,” I instruct Greg while lathering myself with SPF 25. “You live by the beach now. You’re not allowed to burn,” he teases. “I’m German, English, and Irish,” I remind him. “I don’t have a choice.” “You’ll get used to it,” he promise. He leans over and gave me a kiss on the cheek before lying down beside me. “We’ll see,” I reply skeptically.
I drift off into a restless sleep in which dreams flood my brain, though I can’t recall any details when I wake with a start. But I am suddenly sure of one thing. “On the way home, let’s stop by Green Goods Cafe.” “Sure, why?” “I need to talk to Claudia.” He gives me a half-smile, which I know means he expects me to explain. “I had a dream
, I know it’s weird. But I feel she’s connected somehow. I’ll explain on the way over, let’s not spoil our afternoon with shop talk.” It has become our phrase for our search, more so around others, but it’s an all around easier way of putting it. We haven’t even told Grace and Billy what we found yet, save for a quick text to Grace suggesting coffee the morning after next, during which I promised to divulge details.
The sun is still high as we pack up our things, but I can feel the wind shifting. After two months here, I’ve grown accustomed to the transition from daytime to evening. The wind, although especially warm today, serves as a warning: it’s getting dark soon, be prepared. “I’ll take the back roads. We’re likely to hit traffic on Route 22.” Route 22 is the “highway” going up the coast, though coming from Baltimore I have to laugh at their generous use of the term. It’s a sometimes two-lane road that winds through the cliffs with a speed limit of 40 miles per hour.
Green Goods looks quiet, but open, as we pull into the lot. I spot Claudia in the window. “Are we going to eat, or just interrogate and run?” Greg teases as he holds the door to the cafe open for me. “They do have good coffee and pastries,” I admit. Claudia waves at me as the hostess approaches us. “I’ll take care of them, Cecilia,” she says, coming up quickly to meet us. Then she adds, “friends of mine.” I wonder if she recognizes me after all. “Henrietta, right?” I nod, surprised. I guess she does. “Claudia,” she extends a hand to Greg. “Greg. Her not so better half,” he laughs, which earns a grin from Claudia. “I was hoping you’d stop by again actually. I’ve been wanting to talk to you, but wasn’t sure how to get ahold of you.” She must have seen the surprise in my face. “About the research you’re doing,” she clarifies. I suppose she’s treading carefully until she knows if Greg is involved or not. “Greg knows all about it,” I assure her. I watch her posture ease visibly. “My grandfather was a police officer who knew the Sheffield family,” Greg adds, confirming his role. “Do you have time to talk for a few minutes? I get off shift in 15.” “Actually, we came here to talk to you.” It’s her turn to look surprised. “Perfect,” she recovers quickly. “In the meantime, coffee, something to eat?”
We order a coffee and croissant each and wait for Claudia to wrap up. When she’s finished, the three of us move into a corner booth for some privacy. “I’m sorry that I didn’t tell you this before,” she begins with a sigh. “Edward Sharpe is my great grandfather.” I cough to stop myself from exclaiming out loud. “I don’t know his story. Or not personally, at least. Only what I hear from family tales passed down over the years. I was two years old when he passed away. I know he got remarried after Julienne died, and they had a child. That child was my grandmother.” “Emma?” I ask incredulously. “Yes, grandma Emma. Now she is a sweet lady.” “She’s still alive?” I stammer. “Very much so. Though she doesn’t speak often about her childhood. Both of my great-grandparents died before I could talk with them. I was five when great-grandma Clara died. My grandma doesn’t have many memories of the Sheffield girls, at least not as girls. Aunt Lucy was about nineteen when she was born, and Aunt Jane was about sixteen. Aunt Scarlett she remembers the most because she was thirteen or so. I think they kept in touch a little at first, and once it got easier with email a little more, though it was mostly just Aunt Scarlett and Grandma. Aunt Jane and Aunt Lucy were pretty old by the time email became common.”
“Jane is Annaleigh, right? It’s her middle name,” Greg finally speaks up. “Oh yes, sorry. Annaleigh was a mouthful for us kids. Aunt Lucy is Liliana, of course, though I sometimes still heard Aunt Scarlett call her Lil. Annaleigh was still a bit leery about us using her real name. Of everyone, she seems to have packed it all in a box and hidden it away.” Greg and I exchange glances. That is almost literally what she’d done. “So I don’t know much,” Claudia continues, “but I know great-grandpa Eddie was a good man. I don’t think he could have hurt a fly. A gentle soul. And the way my aunts talked about him, on the few occasions they have been around, they adored him. He was more of a father to them than their real father had been, from the sounds of things. Especially Aunt Scarlett. She barely remembers her parents.” “So you’ve met them? The Sheffield daughters I mean?” “A few times. At Grandma Clara’s funeral, and one Christmas Aunt Scarlett and her kids came down. I met Aunt Jane and her daughter a couple of times. After that, it seems our families have only gathered at funerals - first Aunt Lily’s, then Aunt Jane’s.” Claudia pauses, looking pensive for a moment.
So Annaleigh had died. After her daughter and granddaughter had moved to Italy, presumably. “Scarlett, is she alive?” I interject. “Oh she’s alive and kicking,” Claudia laughs. “She was always the feisty, defiant one. You know, I should make more of an effort to see her and her family. She’s feisty, but she’s old, and she can’t live forever.” The last of this seems to be said more to herself than to us. Greg turns to me, and I nod approvingly, reading his thoughts. “Well, we may have the perfect opportunity for you to do just that,” he offers. Claudia’s eyes light up. “Really?” We tell her about the chest full of photos and diaries, how it had been locked up in what was now my spare room for nearly 100 years, and still sits there, waiting to be given a more permanent home. It is, after all, rightfully Scarlett’s as much as it is anyone’s. “Oh, she would absolutely love that!” Claudia beams.
Chapter 18
Three weeks later, I hug Claudia as she gets into her car. Back inside, Greg is watching out the front window. He looks not quite sad, but thoughtful. “You ok?” He smiles weakly and nods. “We did the right thing. And I still have grandpa’s journal, and the letters from Annaleigh and Johanna.” “Yes. And the rest really do belong with Scarlett now. She sounds like the type of woman who will enjoy sharing them with her kids and grandkids. Or at least some of them.” Some, I assume, the more sinister portions, would be hers and hers alone.
“Claudia all set?” Grace comes up with a pot of coffee to refill our cups. “Yes, she just pulled away. She said she’s going straight to Scarlett’s - didn’t feel right going through them without her.”
I sit down on the couch next to Greg, Grace in the armchair next to us. It has been an exhausting couple of weeks. I’ve spent the past two weekends hosting Nan and then my parents. We’ve now just handed over the entire contents of Julienne’s chest, along with the chest itself , with the lock back in the proper place, over to Claudia. It feels almost surreal.
“What are you going to do with the door in the spare room now?” Grace asks. “I haven’t thought about it, to be honest. It’s kind of, I don’t know, spooky, to have a stairway to nowhere there though.” “Dad did say he could get the back door opened up. He said it doesn’t seem like that great of a cover up job and should be pretty easy to revert.” “I might. Although I guess it really could be a little bit of a security hazard,” I muse. “This isn’t Baltimore,” Greg teases me, kissing me on the head. “No, no it most certainly is not,” I joke back. “But good enough to get you to stick around for a little while?” “Maybe,” I grin, looking down at the sapphire ring on my right hand that he’d surprised me with after I’d eyed it in a store window. “Just maybe.”
Acknowledgements
Despite my modest success as a non-fiction writer, my first novel was truly a family affair, and it wouldn’t be published without the support and dedication of those who helped me along the way. A huge thank you to my parents, Michael and Lora Northen, for their editing efforts, brainstorming, and being my sounding boards, and to my brother Elijah Northen for the cover artwork and design, and for the overall creative inspiration he provides. Much gratitude as well to my Aunt, Paula Brach for her editing help. A big thank you to my husband, Brian Augelli, for his continued support of my creative pursuits. And of course gratitude to all of the above for their love, encouragement, and support.
This publication wouldn’t have been possible without the help of Book Baby and especially Karen Schober, who helped me every s
tep of the way me through the publishing process, making it not only less scary, but exciting and fun.
A final thanks to Anne Kaier, Erika Madden, and Jessica Powers for taking the time read this book and offer their endorsements. Putting a first novel out into the world can be a nerve wracking process, and the support and encouraging reviews from established authors whose opinion you value goes a long way in making that leap less scary.
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