“What a beauty it must have been, huh?” She walked toward the wooden porch steps and carefully toed the first one. Her boot went straight through the wood like it was wet cardboard. “Well, I guess that settles that,” she said as she backed away.
“Yes. And don’t forget, it’s condemned. Which, seeing it now, seems like it was the right move. Such a shame, though.” I paused and lowered my voice to a whisper. “So many things are so sad about this place.”
My eyes moved down to the worn white piers that were still in the water, the cold autumn lake lapping against them in the wind. I followed a line out to the center of the water, as I tried to picture the steam yacht that Amelia and John rode during the night of their disappearance. I could feel a heaviness in the air that surrounded the house, like it remembered. Like it was in mourning. And sadly, the house would be put out of its misery soon.
“You’re thinking about the little boy and his mom, aren’t you?” my mom said as she kicked aside a pile of leaves on the driveway.
“Of course I am,” I replied.
She gave me a look before she patted my shoulder. “But what is it that you’re really looking for?”
I want to know that Amelia didn’t give up. That she didn’t do something to John. That she kept fighting, even when it felt hopeless.
“To solve a family mystery,” I said to her with a small smile, my lips closing around all that I wasn’t ready to say.
She shook her head. “All right, kiddo. If you want to go with that, I can deal.” She glanced over at her bike and took her sunglasses out of the pocket of her cracked leather jacket. “Now I really do have to go. The estate sale company is coming to the house at nine tomorrow morning. Don’t be late.” She stared at me from behind her black glasses.
“Seeing as how I have beat you there every morning, even though I live three times as far away, I will be on time,” I said.
“Have a safe drive home, kiddo,” she said with a laugh before she sped away.
I didn’t get back into my car right away, although I knew I should leave to avoid traffic. I stood on the patchy grass, bumpy with spots of chickweed and clover, and stared at the lake. I pictured John running through the gardens and Amelia watching from a distance, and I couldn’t imagine how anyone wouldn’t be happy there, in such a magical place.
* * *
After the twins were in bed that night, I collapsed on the couch next to Luke. His laptop was perched on his lap and his eyes were glazed over as he stared at the screen. I thought about asking him about work, but lately that had just been a source of stress. His division had recently changed what they could sell, and it meant that he had to work twice as hard to sell the same amount as last year. He had warned me when the change happened at the beginning of the year that his commission checks might decrease, a prospect which terrified me. We were already teetering on the edge of just getting by, and anything less would push us into crisis mode.
“How was Wisconsin?” he said without looking up.
“Well, I saw Monarch Manor. Or what’s left of it.” I told him about the rotting front porch and how all of it seemed mid-crumble, like it had been falling to the earth when someone pressed Pause. “I want to spend more time investigating the accident. I feel drawn to it, in a way I can’t quite describe. But it’s like I was supposed to find that picture, supposed to learn more about these people.”
He slowly looked at me, his mouth twisting to the side as he adjusted his tortoise-rim glasses. “It’s a pretty neat mystery,” he said evenly.
I played with the strings on my gray zip-up hoodie, winding them around my index finger. “I know. And I have to at least try and see what I can dig up. Especially because the little boy looks like Will. Because . . . because I’m the only one who cares anymore.”
He considered this, shifting on the couch to face me a bit more. The glow from the television across the room flickered across his glasses, obscuring his eyes. “Don’t take this the wrong way—I’m not trying to sound like an asshole when I say this—but don’t you have enough to worry about? With everything going on with Will, and the estate sale, and stuff around the house?”
I gave him credit for not glancing around the room, although I’m sure he wanted to. Charlotte had attempted to do a puzzle earlier, which Will had thwarted, sending pieces scattering everywhere. Their clothes littered the floor from when they had changed into their pajamas (hastily pulled out of the laundry pile still waiting to be folded on the dining room table), and stacks of papers from school—fund-raisers, flyers, PTA announcements—all rested on the end table next to me.
I did look around for both of our benefit, slowly taking in the work that would never be done, the chores that would never end, before turning back to him. “Yes, I do. I have more than enough to worry about. But I want to worry about this, too.”
He opened his mouth to say something but then closed it, turning back to his laptop. “Then you should do it. If it will make you happy,” he finally said.
I nodded and waited for him to say more, but he never looked away from his computer. Although he studied some kind of spreadsheet, his face flashed with doubt and concern.
I quickly gathered the papers on the end table and stacked them together as I walked toward the kitchen. I made a half-hearted attempt to go through them before I opened the trash and shoved them inside.
* * *
I tried to sleep that night but couldn’t. I lay in a half-awake, half-dreaming state where my real thoughts were mixed with dreamy encounters, like what I should pack for the twins for a snack the next day as a unicorn walked through my kitchen. I opened my eyes and glanced at the clock: 3:15 am. Luke’s side of the bed was empty, still rumpled from where he had gotten up the day before. He must have fallen asleep on the couch while working. Again.
Some days, it felt like we were two people living in the same house but in different orbits. Occasionally, our paths would circle close enough to barely touch, but only for a moment, before we were pulled away by the choices we had made and the circumstances we could not control.
The room was flooded with light from the full moon in the sky. I peeked through the side of the plantation shades and saw it was a huge orange ball of fire in the sky, directly above the house next to us. One benefit to living in such an old house was that it was built before any of the current codes, so it was taller than any new house, and it always seemed like we were reaching up to the sky.
I lay back down and tried to sleep, but I kept thinking back to my conversation with Luke. The guilt of focusing on something other than the twins seeped into me like groundwater. Yet shouldn’t I allow myself to do something interesting? I had given up so much over the years: my body, my career, my sense of self, friendships. My sanity.
I sighed and kicked the covers off my legs. I tiptoed out of our bathroom and into the hallway. (Another quirk of our house. There wasn’t a bathroom upstairs when the house was built, so someone, at some time, had built one in the master bedroom . . . except they built it where you walked through the door. So the only way to access our bedroom was through the bathroom.) I winced as the uneven floors creaked under my feet, even though I tried to step in spots that I remembered were silent.
I slowly pushed open Charlotte’s door, smiling when I saw she was twisted perpendicular to her bed. She was always a fidgety sleeper, kicking her legs and spinning around in her sheets as she slept. I gently moved her back onto her pillow and brushed the sweaty strands of hair from her cheek. I leaned down and kissed her forehead, taking in a deep breath. She smelled like laundry detergent and toothpaste, with the faintest, sweetest odor of little-kid perspiration.
She rolled over again and threw an arm over her face. “Pancakes,” she muttered. She had always talked in her sleep, so much so that whenever she had a nightmare and asked to sleep in our room, I let her lie next to Luke while I went into her bed. I never could sleep with her chatting all night long, but he snoozed right through it.
&nb
sp; “Sweet dreams, my amazing, silly girl,” I said as I gave her another kiss on her head and tiptoed out of the room.
Next, I went into Will’s room. I was startled at how peaceful he looked. He was curled on his side, his hair flopping over his face. No anxiety, no worry, no meltdowns imminent. Just a child sleeping, resting.
“Are you at least happy in your dreams, baby?” I wanted him to answer so badly, to tell me what to do to make his life easier, to bring him peace. To say anything, really. For me to hear his voice.
The full moon outside lit up his room as I gently lowered myself onto his bed, curling my hand around his palm, so that he was holding my finger. I put my head next to his on the pillow, closed my eyes, and breathed in the smell of his little-boy hair, a mixture of shampoo and playground dirt.
And I made a promise to him that I wouldn’t stop fighting for him, that I would find out what I was supposed to do to help him. Then, I whispered a promise just between me and the moon, to John and Amelia. I promised that I would find out what happened to them, even if their story didn’t have the happy ending that I so wished for.
I watched the full moon move across the starless sky for far too long that night, the promises I made to myself and to others lingering in the air and whispering against the tall eaves of my old house.
CHAPTER 9
AMELIA
Long after Eleanor had left the veranda, Amelia remained, rocking in one of the same white wicker chairs that she sat in as a child. Being there, in that safe place, reminded her of a time when the world was beautiful and full of possibility. Before she knew how cruel people could be and the terrible choices she would be forced to make. In the city, she was reminded of it on every block, on every corner. But behind at Monarch Manor, all of that pain seemed far away, hazy, like she was looking at it through the dense fog that rolled across the water in the morning.
She thought of her sisters and their sun-kissed youth. Of her teenage years, tangled with Matthew Cottingsley, who lived on the estate next door, and who had once been her closest friend. Of her adulthood and Henry, and John, and . . . darkness.
She took a deep breath and looked around at the familiar porch, unchanged through the years. And she thought back to when it all began, to when she first saw the estate and tried to reach through time and pull out a whisper of that joy.
* * *
The first time Amelia saw Monarch Manor, it was raining. Long, dark sheets of water fell from the sky, roughing up the surface of the lake around her in the steam yacht as she traveled from the train station in Williams Bay to the house. She could barely make out the uneven horizon of the Queen Anne jutting above the trees through the water that dripped down into her eyes from the roof of the yacht. She sighed and draped a shawl over her head, her curls limply falling around her shoulders, as her nanny, Mrs. Brown, shot her a disapproving look.
As the boat drew closer to the lakeshore, a deckhand appeared on the white dock, shielding his face from the water. He held out his hands as a crew member tossed him a knotted rope, and he wound it around one of the pristine white posts, newly painted after the house was completed. Only then did Amelia lift her chin and gasp at the full sight of the house.
“Mama, is that really it?” She reached forward and grabbed the sleeve of her mother’s yellow printed dress, tugging on it.
But Mary was motionless, a statue nailed to the bottom of the rocking boat.
Conrad saw her expression and walked over, putting a hand at her elbow. “Welcome home, darling,” he said. He swept a hand toward the house, like a vaudeville performer showing off his newest skill.
Mary slowly turned toward him. “It’s . . . breathtaking.”
Conrad gave her a wide smile and looked up at the house with pride. It was no secret to anyone that he had wanted his own estate on Geneva Lake. When he was just a child, after the Great Chicago Fire in 1871, he and his parents had traveled to the area when their house burned. His parents’ friends the Sturges family had generously offered space at their lake cottage. After the destruction and heat of the city as it burned, the lake became the most beautiful sight he had ever seen, and he had carried that feeling with him throughout adulthood. The Sturges family eventually built a large estate called Snug Harbor, and Conrad often dreamed of being their neighbor or sharing a piece of their paradise. Until finally, he did.
Conrad looked down at Amelia, who still clung to her mother’s sleeve. “Imagine all of the adventures you and your sisters will have here, Lia.”
Amelia wrinkled her nose at the nickname, even though she secretly didn’t mind when he called her it. At ten years old, she was practically a grown-up and should be called by her full name, not something fit for a child. At the back of the boat, seven-year-old Jane began to cry, wailing that she was hungry and cold.
“Stop it,” Amelia hissed before Mrs. Brown gave her another disapproving look. She couldn’t help but roll her eyes. Jane had cried the entire train ride from Chicago to Williams Bay, sniffling that the maids hadn’t packed her favorite dresses and that her hair bows were certain to get crushed in the perfectly packed steamer trunks. With Jane, there was always something to cry about. When Mrs. Brown didn’t think anyone was listening, Amelia heard her whisper to one of the maids that Jane should have been named Mary Mary Quite Contrary.
Mrs. Brown leaned down and hissed something indistinguishable to Jane, who quieted her sobs. Amelia hid a smile. She knew what the nanny had likely threatened: helping the kitchen staff scour the pots and pans after that evening’s dinner. Their father had announced they would be served a delicious pork roast. It was their mother’s favorite, but the staff’s least favorite due to all the grease and fat.
Eleanor, seated at the front of the boat, walked back and gave her father a kiss on the cheek. “It’s even more beautiful than what you had described.” Then she turned and stepped out onto the slick dock, waving off an umbrella from the deckhand, letting the rain bounce off her shoulders. At thirteen, she had the long limbs and grace of a show horse and none of the awkwardness or sharp edges of most of her friends.
Mary and Amelia huddled together under one of the umbrellas, followed by Jane, Mrs. Brown, and Conrad. Amelia heard her mother’s breath quicken as they walked across the stone path toward the looming estate. With each step, the rain slowed, first from a steady tap-tap to a light mist, to nothing. By the time they reached the large stones that stood on either side of the steps leading to the porch veranda, small rays of sunshine began to poke out of the clouds.
Amelia looked up, and a beam of light hit the top of the tower at the very tip of the estate, making it look like God himself was blessing the house. She stopped suddenly, transfixed at the way the light moved across the wooden carvings at the top, tiny cherubs with huge wings dancing in a row of molding across the top of the roof, anointing the estate.
“Ow!” Jane ran into Amelia’s back and screeched, sobbing once again.
Conrad stood at the bottom of the porch veranda, his suit coat drenched with rain, a smile beaming from his lips. “My love, look.”
Mary took a step toward the east garden and brought her hands to her mouth. It took Amelia a moment to realize what her mother saw. The plants looked like they were moving, brilliant orange, yellow, and black spots waving through the flowers. Monarch butterflies, seemingly hundreds of them, lightly tended to the landscape.
“I’ve already purchased a stack of train tickets for our friends and family, so that we can share this home with everyone, all season long,” Conrad said. He frowned at a sobbing Jane. “Jane, if you don’t stop, we may send you back on one of those train cars. You wouldn’t want to miss the famous Fourth of July celebration this year, would you? I’ve heard the fireworks display goes on for hours and the boat regatta is strung with thousands of red, white, and blue lights,” he said.
Jane immediately stopped, swallowing her next sob, and gave Conrad a brilliant smile. “No, Father.”
“Welcome to Monarch Manor, gir
ls.” Conrad swept a hand back behind him, across the expansive lawn, through the colorful gardens, up to the porch kissed with lake breezes, and the snowfall of butterflies on the yard.
Amelia’s heart felt as though it would burst. She had never loved anything more.
* * *
After lunch, the rain finally stopped, and the sisters ran outside.
“Come on, come on! Before she sees!” Eleanor tugged at Amelia’s hand as they ran across the lawn, black patent-leather shoes caked with mud from the soft ground. As the girls formed a daisy chain of sisters, Amelia held Jane’s hand as they ran toward the brilliant gardens, to get a look at the monarch butterflies up close.
Amelia stole a glance back at the house, where Mrs. Brown was certainly scouring each room looking for them, cursing Conrad and everyone else for bringing her there for the summer. She had made it well known that she disapproved of Conrad building a summer home, as she thought it to be unnecessary and wasteful. Yet everyone knew that it was because she didn’t want to leave her husband, a railroad worker, back in Chicago for the summer. Amelia had heard Eleanor and her friends whispering that he had a reputation for going to the taverns at night and finding comfort in various warm beds around the city. With Mrs. Brown up in Lake Geneva all summer, the whole city would be his playground.
“Watch,” Eleanor commanded as she stood close to a butterfly and held out an index finger, waiting. One came close, flitting very close to her finger, but kept on going. “Picky, picky,” she said with a shrug.
“Look at this one!” Jane began to follow a particularly large and colorful monarch through the milkweed, trampling through the grass and coneflowers with her usual carelessness. She didn’t look back as she went deeper into the garden, until she had almost disappeared from her sisters’ sight.
“Wait!” Amelia called as she hiked up her skirt and began to follow her through the orange and purple blooms, butterflies and grasshoppers scattering around her like confetti. The long flower stems scratched at her ankles and the grasshoppers brushed against and tickled her arms. More than once, she was certain a spider or some other scary insect had bitten her legs, yet it was only the feathery leaves and dry branches of the underbrush.
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