Chapter 33
“What are you doing?” John asked as he slid out of his snow boots and placed them by the front door.
“I’m reading my aunt’s journal again.” Lesley pulled her knitted cap lower on her head, covering her ears. She had left New York and the snow behind, or so she thought. This December had been the coldest winter Georgia had seen in over fifty years, and the one when she didn’t have any hair.
“Why do you keep combing over that thing?”
He walked behind the couch, pulled her hat off, and kissed her bare head. A ritual he had started when her hair fell out from the chemotherapy. His little way of showing her she was still beautiful to him, even when she didn’t feel that way.
The past several months had been hard on her, trying to regain full control of her speech and motor skills while undergoing therapy. Her doctors told her she might never be able to ride a bike again. She didn’t see that as such a tragedy.
With each treatment, and each therapist appointment, John had been by her side, taking care of her every step of the way. Now, after five months, her treatments were finally over, and her battle with cancer won. He had been there for better and for worse, and they hadn’t even said their marriage vows yet.
She pulled the chain with the key out from under her shirt. “Because the answer to this key has to be in this journal somewhere.”
She’d begun to wear it around her neck when the treatments had zapped all her energy. Some days getting off the couch had proved an extreme task, but when she did have energy, she walked around, sticking the key in random holes.
“You’re obsessing.” He grinned. “Don’t you have a wedding to plan?”
“You know I’ve already got that figured out. Besides, there isn’t much more I can do until the spring anyway.” Lesley fingered a page in the journal. “I just can’t believe how sad my aunt’s life was. Listen to this.” She smoothed out the page and began reading…
May 12, 1940
Papa has died. I cannot say this saddens me. I suppose a part of me is sad that I am a parentless child, if one can consider nineteen a child.
What saddens me more than my Papa being dead is the part of me that has died with him, the parts of me that have died these past nineteen years because of his abuse and hatred. Lila has not stepped foot back in this house since she married Gentry, and I cannot blame her. She said she loved me, but not enough to return. Even for a visit.
I understand. Still, I miss my sister, and hate my Papa.
I went into his room earlier while he slept. His whiskey glass sat overturned on his bed sheets, and pillows surrounded his head. He has led a miserable, drunken life since Momma died and has made mine a living hell.
When I left his room, Belle stood in the hallway. I turned to watch her go into the room and pick up Papa’s overturned whiskey glass. As she tucked in the sheets around him, she froze then glanced back at me. Our gazes locked as a look of understanding flashed across her face. Belle did not say a word, nor did I. She walked out of the room to call the doctor.
Dr. Barnwell declared Papa’s death due to a blood clot. I did not bother to correct him.
As sure as the sun shines high in the sky, I am finally free.
Lesley closed the journal and placed it by the stack of medical bills that kept piling in. “Can you believe that? My aunt was a murderer.”
“Honestly, I can’t say that I blame her. If what she wrote in that journal was accurate, I can see how she’d reach her breaking point,” John said.
Bea brought her some warm coffee and then sat next to the sofa in a rummage sale find—a worn leather recliner. Bea and Leo had moved back in after Lesley returned from the hospital. The old couple said it was time for them to take care of her, like she had taken care of them during the summer by making sure they were safe at the assisted living center.
She didn’t want them lifting a finger for her, but she was glad to have their company. John stayed busy most days with work, and the kids were in school.
Though her strength wasn’t what she had hoped it would be to run Rosalyn as a Bed and Breakfast, the manor itself wasn’t yet furnished to be a B&B. When he and the children moved in, John had replaced a few of the very worn pieces of furniture with some things from his old house, and he swapped some of the others with a few donated pieces, but they still needed a slew of new furniture to make the house complete.
She glanced back at the stack of papers. Between her medical bills and the few left of Sandra’s, neither of them had the funds to restock the house in nice furnishings. They barely had the funds to stock the house in bread. She eyed the Bible and contemplated what she’d just read.
“Bea?” Lesley called on her roommate who sat beside her in pleasant silence. “Do you remember much of Myrtle’s father?”
“No, I can’t say that I do. I was a baby then, but my ma told me he was of the devil.”
“So, why do you think she stayed here?” John asked.
“What do you mean?” Lesley glanced at him.
“I mean, you just read she killed her father. Why not sell the house? Leave?” John took her coffee mug from her and stole a sip.
“Good question. I haven’t read that far.” She reached for the book again.
John nudged her side. “Let’s read it after breakfast. I’m starving.” He stood and helped her stand too.
“Sure.”
She let John escort her into the kitchen, as she thought about her aunt. How many mornings did Myrtle have breakfast in this house alone? Did she ever get to see Samuel again? Lesley watched John, his happy go-lucky demeanor filling her heart, and curiosity weighed heavy on her soul. Had her aunt ever got to experience this kind of love again?
****
June 10, 1940
Papa lay in the ground in the family cemetery beside Momma. I pray his soul can finally have peace. I pray mine can as well.
I have saved enough money to voyage to France and find Samuel, but with the war overseas, travel is not wise. I pray daily for his safety, that he lives somewhere secure, and works as a famous artist, leaving breadcrumbs, so I can find him.
I also scout the papers daily, looking for any sign of him…a famous painting with his initials, his name, anything. I have found nothing, but I know he is there, and I know he still loves me…because I finally found the courage to open his letter.
****
July 3, 1940
Nothing matters anymore. Not the house, not the farm, and not my life…
I opened the morning paper just like I did every morning to look for anything on Samuel. I gasped, and my fingers trembled when I saw the picture of myself in print, lying in the grass. Under the photo, the caption read Most Beautiful. Samuel’s signature adorned the bottom of the portrait.
My heart walloped frantically in my chest. “He’s finally made it!” I screamed into the air.
Belle came running. “What is it, Angel?”
“All of his hard work has paid off.” I waved the paper at her. “Look, right here.” I pointed to the picture.
“My Gawd, that’s yous.” Belle held a hand to her chest.
“Yes, yes it is.” I held the newspaper steady. “The article says his drawings are being recognized by art galleries all around Paris. ‘Best of the century’ one art critic has deemed. Samuel’s work is the best of the century.” I jumped and shrilled in excitement, pride in him filling my chest.
“Now yous can go find him. You can leave,” Belle said.
“Oh, my gosh! I know. I can find him. But where in Paris?” I read on, and skimmed my fingers down the article to get a better idea of where he might be.
My finger froze on one word…killed.
“No, no, no.” I held a hand to my mouth and fell to the couch, the paper clutched in my hand, crinkling on the side.
“What is it, Angel? Tell me.”
My breathing came out ragged, heavy. “Samuel signed…” I took another deep breath as tears filled my eyes. “With the French Foreign Legion…for money. He was sent to war…and killed by the Germans. His work was found only by accident…when the photographer for the French opened Samuel’s belongings.” I stopped to catch my breath. My heart pounded erratically, and I felt as if I might throw up. “The man…” I swallowed the bile down. The man had found an abundance of drawings, all of the same “mystery woman.”
I dropped the paper and heaved my breakfast into the skirt of my dress.
“There, there, Angel.” Belle patted me on the back. “It’s going to be okay.”
Okay? How could this be okay? My heart fell to the floor next to the paper where my own picture mocked me.
My body trembled, and I wiped my mouth with the sleeve of my dress. The portrait looked nothing like me now. The past four years had been harsh; I hadn’t realized how harsh.
No one would recognize me in the pictures, and that’s the way I wanted it to stay.
I feel the last part of me has died. My heart beats with no meaning. My lungs take in oxygen with no purpose. I will not take my own life, but I do not see much reason to enjoy the time I have left…
Samuel is dead, and so am I.