by Sarah Jio
Table of Contents
A PLUME BOOK THE BUNGALOW
Title Page
Copyright Page
Dedication
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
Acknowledgements
A PLUME BOOK
THE BUNGALOW
SARAH JIO is a journalist who has written for Glamour; O, The Oprah Magazine; Real Simple; SELF; Cooking Light; Redbook; Parents; Woman’s Day; 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 www.sarahjio.com.
Praise for The Bungalow
“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
“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
“A gem . . . True escape fiction that can take you away.”
—WGBH-TV
“Masterfully written.”—The Star-Ledger (New Jersey)
“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 right book finds you at the right time. The Violets of March will become a source of healing and comfort for its readers.”
—Costco Connection
“In The Violets of March, debut author Sarah Jio beautifully blends the stories of two women—one of the past, one of the present—together to create a captivating and enthralling novel of romance, heartbreak, and redemption.”
—Times Record News (Wichita Falls, Texas)
“Jio’s debut is a rich blend of history, mystery, and romance. Fans of Sarah Blake’s The Postmistress should enjoy this story.”
—Library Journal
“[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
“A perfect summer read for an escape into a fictional character’s challenges with the charm of a local Northwest setting.”
—425 Magazine
“Refreshing . . . lovable.”
—First for Women magazine
“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 a few great surprises for the reader along the way.”
—Jodi Picoult, author of Sing You Home and House Rules
“The Violets of March is a captivating first bloom of a novel, with tangled roots, budding relationships, and plenty of twists and turns. But perhaps the biggest revelation of all is that Sarah Jio is one talented writer!”
—Claire Cook, bestselling author of
Must Love Dogs and Best Staged Plans
“Sarah Jio’s The Violets of March is a book for anyone who has ever lost love or lost herself. A fresh, satisfying, resonant debut.”
—Allison Winn Scotch, author of
Time of My Life and The Memory of Us
“An enchanting story of love, betrayal, and the discovery of an old diary that mysteriously links the past to the present. The Violets of March is a delightful debut.”
—Beth Hoffman, author of Saving CeeCee Honeycutt
“A romantic, heartfelt, and richly detailed debut. The Violets of March is the story of a woman who needs to step away from her shattered life and into the magic of Bainbridge Island before she can find herself again. Sarah Jio delivers a gem of a book, perfect for reading on the beach or under a cozy quilt.”
—Sarah Pekkanen, author of
The Opposite of Me and Skipping a Beat
“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
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, January 2012
Copyright © Sarah Jio, 2011
All rights reserved
REGISTERED TRADEMARK—MARCA REGISTRADA
LIBRARY OF CONGRESS CATALOGING-IN-PUBLICATION DATA
Jio, Sarah.
The bungalow : a novel / Sarah Jio.
p. cm.
ISBN : 978-1-101-56567-4
1. Older women—Fiction. 2. Reminiscing in old age—Fiction. 3. United States. Army Nurse Corps—Fiction. 4. World War, 1939 – 1945—Fiction. 5. Americans—French Polynesia—Fiction. 6. Bora-Bora (French Polynesia)—Fiction. 7. Life change events—Fiction. 8. Washington (State)—Fiction. I. Title.
PS3610.I6B86 2012
813’.6—dc22 2011026872
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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For Jason, with memories of our own island bungalow.
I love you.
Tuck a slip of paper into a flimsy envelope, seal it with a swipe of the tongue, then send it on its way. That letter might be handled by dozens of people and journey a thousand miles before reaching the intended mailbox, where it nestles anonymously between pages twenty-nine and thirty of some unwanted catalog, lying in wait for its unsuspecting recipient, who tosses the catalog, with its treasure tucked inside, into the recycle bin with a flick of the wrist. There, next to poorly rinsed milk cartons, an empty wine bottle, and yesterday’s newspaper, a life-changing piece of mail quietly awaits.
That letter was for me.
Prologue
“Hello?”
Startled, I opened my eyes at the sound of a familiar voice—pleasant, but sorely out of place. Jennifer, yes, my granddaughter. But where am I? Or rather, why was she here? I blinked a few times, disoriented. I had been dreaming of sandy beaches and coconut palms—the place my unconscious mind always tries to visit, but this time I was lucky enough to find it in the archives of my memories.
He was there, of course—in uniform, shyly smiling at me as the waves fell into the shore. I could hear them—their violent crash, followed by the fizz of a million bubbles kissing the sand. Closing my eyes tighter, I found him again, standing there amid the fog of sleep that was lifting, too quickly. Don’t go, my heart pleaded. Stay. Please stay. And he obediently appeared again with that beckoning grin, those arms outstretched to me. I felt the familiar flutter in my heart, the longing.
And then, in an instant, he was gone.
I sighed and looked at my watch, scolding myself. Half past three. I must have dozed off while reading. Again. Spontaneous sleepiness was the curse of the elderly. I sat up in my lounge chair, a bit embarrassed, and retrieved the novel I’d been reading before the exhaustion hit. It had fallen from my hands to the ground, spine side up, its pages fanned out in disgrace.
Jennifer walked out onto the terrace. A truck barreled by on the street, further disturbing the peace. “Oh, there you are,” she said, smiling at me with her eyes, smoky brown, like her grandfather’s. She wore jeans and a black sweater with a light green belt around her slim waist. Her blond hair, cut to her chin, reflected the sun’s rays. Jennifer didn’t know how beautiful she was.
“Hi, honey,” I said, reaching my hand out to her. I looked around the terrace at the pale blue pansies in their simple terra-cotta pots. They were pretty enough, peeking their heads out of the dirt like shy, repentant children who’d been caught playing in the mud. The view of Lake Washington and the Seattle skyline in the distance was beautiful, yes, but cold and stiff, like a painting in a dentist’s office. I frowned. How had I come to live here, in this tiny apartment with its stark white walls and a telephone in the bathroom with a red emergency call button beside the toilet?
“I found something,” Jennifer said, her voice prying me from my thoughts, “in the recycle bin.”
I smoothed my white, wispy hair. “What is it, dear?”
“A letter,” she said. “It must have gotten mixed in with the junk mail.”
I attempted to stifle a yawn, but it came anyway. “Just leave it on the table. I’ll look at it later.” I walked inside and sat down on the sofa, turning my gaze away from the kitchen to the reflection in the window. An old lady. I saw her every day, this woman, but her reflection never ceased to surprise me. When did I become her? My hands traced the wrinkles on my face.
Jennifer sat down next to me. “Has your day been any better than mine?” In her last year of graduate school at the University of Washington, she had chosen an unusual subject for a class-assigned article: an obscure work of art on campus. Donated in 1964 by an anonymous artist, the bronze sculpture of a young couple had a placard that read simply, Pride and Promises. Transfixed by the sculpture, Jennifer hoped to profile the artist and learn the story behind the work, yet an entire quarter’s worth of research had turned up very little.
“Any luck with your research today, dear?”
“Nada,” she said, frowning. “It’s frustrating. I’ve worked so hard to find answers.” She shook her head and shrugged. “I hate to admit it, but I think the trail’s gone cold.”
I knew something about being haunted by art. Jennifer didn’t know it, but I’d spent the majority of my life searching in vain for a painting that I’d held in my hands a very long time ago. My heart ached to see it again, and yet after a lifetime of working with art dealers and collectors, the canvas eluded me.
“I know it’s hard to let go, honey,” I said delicately, knowing how important the project was to her. I tucked my hand in hers. “Some stories aren’t meant to be told.”
Jennifer nodded. “You may be right, Grandma,” she said with a sigh. “But I’m not ready to let it go. Not yet. The inscription on the placard—it all has to mean something. And the box, the one that the man in the statue holds in his hands, it’s locked, and the people in the archives don’t have record of a key, which means”—she paused and smiled hopefully—“there may be something inside.”
“Well, I admire your spirit, sweetheart,” I said, clutching the gold chain around my neck, the one that held the locket I’d worn and kept safe for so many years. Only one other soul knew what was tucked inside beyond the protective guard of the clasp.
Jennifer walked back to the table. “Now, don’t forget this letter,” she said, holding up an envelope. “Look at this gorgeous stamp. It’s from”—she paused, reading the postmark—“Tahiti.”
My heart rate quickened as I looked up, squinting to see the letter in Jennifer’s hands.
“Grandma, who do you know in Tahiti?”
“Let me see it,” I said, inching closer.
I scanned the simple white envelope, damp from its brush with a milk carton and speckled with crimson dots from last night’s cabernet. No, I did not recognize the handwriting, or the return address. Who would be writing me from Tahiti? And why? Why now?
“Aren’t you going to open it?” Jennifer said, hovering over me in anticipation.
My hands trembled a little as I turned the envelope over again and again, running my fingers along the exotic stamp, which depicted a Tahitian girl in a yellow dress. I swallowed hard, trying to purge the memories that were seeping into my mind like rising floodwater, but mere mental sandbags could not keep them out.
Then, powerless to resist, I opened the envelope with one swift tear.
Dear Mrs. Godfrey,
Forgive me for my intrusion. It has taken me many years to find you. I understand that you were an army nurse stationed in Bora-Bora during the war. If I am correct, if you are indeed the woman I seek, I urgently need to speak with you. I was raised in the Tahitian islands, but have only now returned, with a mission to solve a mystery that has troubled me since girlhood. A horrific murder occurred on a quiet stretch of beach on Bora-Bora one evening in 1943 I am haunted by the tragedy, so much so that I am writing a book about the events that preceded a happening which, in many ways, changed the island forever.
I was able to locate the army employment records and I noticed that you were blocked out on leave that day, the day of the tragedy. Could you, by chance, remember something or someone on the beach that night? So many years have passed, but perhaps you recall something. Even a small detail may help in my search for justice. I pray that you will consider my request and get in touch. And, if you ever plan to visit the island again, there is something of yours I found here, something you might like to see again. I would love nothing more than to show it to you.
Yours Truly,
Genevieve Thorpe
I stared at the letter in my hands. Genevieve Thorpe. No, I did not know this woman. A stranger. And here she was, stirring up trouble. I shook my head. Ignore it. Too many years had passed. How could I go back to those days? How could I relive it
all? I closed my eyes tightly, willing the memories away. Yes, I could just ignore it. It wasn’t a legal inquiry or a criminal investigation. I did not owe this woman, this stranger, anything. I could throw the envelope into the garbage can and be done with it. But then I remembered the last few lines of the letter. “If you ever plan to visit the island again, there is something of yours I found here, something you might like to see again.” My heart, already in poor condition, raced at the thought of it. Visit the island again? Me? At my age?
“Grandma, are you all right?” Jennifer leaned in and wrapped her arm around my shoulder.
“I’m fine,” I said, composing myself.
“Do you want to talk about it?”
I shook my head and tucked the letter safely inside the book of crossword puzzles on the coffee table.
Jennifer reached for her bag and began fumbling inside. She retrieved a large manila envelope, wrinkled and worn. “I want to show you something,” she said. “I was going to wait until later, but”—she took a deep breath—“I think it’s time.”
She handed me the envelope.
“What is this?”
“Look inside,” she said slowly.
I lifted the flap and pulled out a stack of black-and-white photos, instantly recognizing the one on top. “That’s me!” I cried, pointing to the young woman dressed in white nurse’s garb, with a coconut tree in the distance. Oh how I had marveled at the palms the first day I set foot on the island, almost seventy years ago. I looked up at Jennifer. “Where did you find these?”
