Cadie thought of Piper and her commitment to letting the fires burn to give rise to a super-species of pine that would repopulate the woods. Would it be possible to restrict forest fires to unpopulated areas, then harvest surviving specimens from those areas to replace trees in more populated areas? On a smaller and much slower scale, it would allow the forest to adapt to the changing climate while protecting populated areas from fires.
It seemed too easy. Or implausibly difficult. But Cadie suspected Thea might buy into this idea. Maybe she could even get Piper on board. Everything was shifting, changing, and Cadie no longer wanted to ignore it. She wanted to stare the future in the face without blinking.
Cadie scooped the beechnuts she had rescued before the fire out of her pocket. She dug three shallow holes about twenty feet apart from each other and placed a seed in each hole. She rubbed the pebbly soil between her fingers. The truth lived in those tiny stones. It held fast in the dust left behind when time eroded rock into soil, in the flecks of gold suspended in shafts of underwater light, and in microscopic particles that coursed through Cadie’s veins.
She pressed sooty earth over the seeds and looked up at the clouds brewing overhead.
The truth can be buried, crushed, or burnt, but it will always rise.
She rubbed a pebble between her fingers then pushed it deep into the blackened earth. One last truth she would hold on to for herself, for Garrett. It only took one match. Garrett’s words settled into the nest in her gut where she knew their sharpness would dull over time. She would tend them and cover them with soft stories. But this new truth would fester in her, just as the old secrets had, until one day it, too, would rise up and free her.
Who-hoooo. An owl broke the silence.
She picked up her backpack and followed the call. The blackened forest floor crumbled under her feet.
Who-hoooo.
All the other creatures had fled. The mice, spiders, crickets, squirrels. The silence they left behind hurt. The owl sat on a charred branch. Its home had been in these woods. Its mottled brown and amber stood out in stark contrast to the black and gray backdrop. Exposed without camouflage, the great bird blinked at Cadie and pulled its square head lower into its shoulders. Its whole body shuddered, as if shaking off a bad memory.
The owl launched itself into the air. Time to start over. The only sounds in the entire forest were the slow flap of wild wings and the pounding of Cadie’s heart.
She pulled Kidnapped out of her bag. Musty cinnamon rose from its pages. The book opened to the pressed maple leaves she once believed had saved her from Clyde.
A high-pitched, erratic flute spiraled down from the charred limbs above her. The melody rolled like water cascading over rocks only to swoop upward at the last second, asking a question that needed no words.
A Bicknell’s thrush. Cadie choked on the ashy air and wiped her wet eyes.
The maple leaves lay flat, perfectly preserved, the serrated edges sharp and precise. Cadie lifted the lacy ghosts out by the stems. All the vigor, the turgor, the mass, long evaporated. She crumbled the leaves in her fist, their only resistance a papery hush. Leaf fragments grabbed the wind and rose above her, catching in her hair, sticking to her lips. She rubbed her hands together over her head as the dusty particles swirled and dispersed in every direction until they were gone, carried away on the breath of a forest ready to be reborn.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
My journey to publication has been long and bumpy, but every rejection, each obstacle, brought new and wonderful people into my life. I have a lot to be grateful for.
Publishing my debut during the COVID-19 pandemic makes me part of a club I never wanted to join. But in the midst of uncertainty, fear, and grief, I found community. To the many 2020 and 2021 debut writers who walked this unpaved path to publication with me—especially Nancy Johnson, Elizabeth Shelburne, Desmond Hall, Alison Hammer, Lainey Cameron, Michael Zapata, Ava Homa, Denny S. Bryce, Lauren Ho, Christine Clancy, Suzanne Park, Natalie Jenner, and Nguyễn Phan Quế Mai’—we share the unwanted but permanent bond of having launched our first novels during a global pandemic. We cried, cursed, commiserated. We pivoted. We lifted each other up and rewrote the book on how to launch a book. And we did it together. I am grateful and proud to have had you all at my side.
To Eve Bridburg, GrubStreet’s founder and executive director, thank you for the home you have created for the writing community of Boston. I’m incredibly grateful for your friendship, leadership, and dedication to justice and equity in the writing world and beyond.
Thank you to GrubStreet’s Novel Incubator and Novel Generator programs, with a special shout-out to Season Six of the Incubator—Milo Todd, Desmond Hall, Sarah Penner, Rose Himber Howse, David Goldstein, Laura Roper, Ashley Weckbacher, Julia Rold, Leslie Teel, and Pam Loring. Your fingerprints are all over my book. I owe so much to GrubStreet writing instructors Michelle Hoover and Lisa Borders for guiding me through all the suspenseful plot points along my writing path. You have both served me well as the “Captain Happens” of my literary journey.
I’m incredibly grateful to the many folks who have read drafts and offered feedback and encouragement, especially Jennifer Dardzinski, Angela Alvarez, Hank Phillippi Ryan, Omar El Akkad, JM Cools, Ashley Shelby, Louise Miller, Michael Zapata, Lise Gordon, Eileen Marks, Tina Fox, Kim Michelle Richardson, Louise Miller, Kate Moretti, Julie Abbott Clark, Erin Bartels, Sherrill Bounnell, Carrie Dunn Clarke, Kate Racculia, Kathleen Barber, Kim Savage, Kelli Estes, Erin Harris, Donald Maass, and Amaryah Orenstein. A special shout-out to firefighter Chad Stamps, Dr. Ginger Barrow, and Caroline Reilley, PNP, for offering their professional expertise. I’m forever grateful to Carol Reid, my high school English teacher and Margie Hodor, my middle school English teacher, who both taught me to love words, think in metaphor, and honor grammar, and to Lawrence Zoller, my middle school science teacher who instilled in me an abiding love of ecology, and of birds in particular.
Thank you to my many writing mentors: Peter Geye, who mentored me through that first finished draft and the querying process; Paul Lisicky, my Tin House mentor; Victoria Griffin, my RevPit mentor; and Rachel Barenbaum, my Novel Incubator mentor.
Thank you to the booksellers who read early galleys of my book, especially to Kathy Crowley and Miriam Lapson, my early champions at Belmont Books, and Pamela Klinger-Horn at Excelsior Bay Books. I’m grateful for the support of several writing communities, including GrubStreet, the Women’s Fiction Writers Association, the Women’s National Book Association Boston Chapter, Tin House, and the community at The Writer Unboxed, especially Therese Walsh and Heather Webb.
A huge thanks to Amy Brady, editor in chief of the Chicago Review of Books and creator of the Burning Worlds newsletter, whose passion for literature that engages climate science inspired me to believe there might be an audience for this book. Amy, you are my literary superhero.
To my critique partner Milo Todd, you are a talented writer, editor, and advisor, but more importantly, you are a brilliant friend, a wise, kind soul with an infinitely generous spirit. (And your gingerbread-baking skills are legend.) I can’t wait for the world to read your books.
To Nancy Johnson, my writing soulmate, I’m so grateful to have been walking this path with you in almost perfectly synchronized lock-step. One of the greatest treasures of my writing journey has been finding you. Your talent, kindness, wisdom, and friendship inspire me daily. Celebrating our debut launches together is the cherry on this amazing publishing cake.
To my film agent, Addison Duffy of United Talent Agency, thank you for jumping on this project right from the start, before I even had a book contract.
I am incredibly grateful to have landed at Forge Books. The entire team—especially Alexis Saarela, Sarah Reidy, Eileen Lawrence, Lucille Rettino, Linda Quinton, Jennifer McClelland-Smith, Patrick Canfield, and Sara Pannenberg—has championed Waiting for the Night Song with the enthusiasm every writer dreams of. To Katie Klimowicz, my cover designer, thank
you for envisioning my book with elegance and style.
To Kristin Sevick, my editor at Forge, thank you, thank you, thank you for believing in me enough to buy this book. Your keen editorial mind elevated my story and strengthened my characters. I trust in your judgment and vision, and I love working with you.
I could write pages extolling all the reasons I’m grateful for my agent, Stacy Testa of Writers House. Stacy called me on Halloween, just as early trick-or-treaters were hitting the streets. I was staring at a pumpkin-shaped bowl full of Kit Kats when she offered me representation and changed the course of my literary life. Stacy is a sharp, insightful editor and a savvy businesswoman with an uncanny ability to answer every message immediately. She is funny, brilliant, kind, and fiercely devoted to her writers. Thank you for believing me, Stacy. And know that I think of you and smile every time I see a Kit Kat.
To my power team of amazing women—Betsy Walsh, Eileen Marks, Jenny Rappole, Ginger Barrow, Julie Mays Sudduth, Christy Hartmann, Heather Chadwick Ramirez, Darian Neckermann, Clara McEleney, Lauren Gibson, Heather Klinkhamer, Rita Tomaz, and Nicole Schaefer, thank you for always asking when—not if—my book would be published. And a special thanks to Jennifer Dardzinski, who has been by my side since we were kids. Everyone should be so lucky to have such a steadfast and loyal friend who is willing to read endless drafts and give honest, helpful feedback.
To my childhood friend Stephanie Zerhusen, who spent never-ending summers climbing trees, building forts, splashing in creeks, running through the woods, and concocting outlandish plots with me, thank you for being the Daniela to my Cadie (but without the murdery parts).
A huge thanks to my in-laws Pat and Rich Dalton for their unwavering optimism about my book and their cheerful willingness to entertain my kids at “Camp Dalton” so I could write.
To my parents, Ross and Barbara Carrick, I am so fortunate to have grown up in a home full of love and books and writing and inspiration. My father has published three genealogy books, and my mother ran a puppet theater, for which she wrote all the scripts. Thank you for the endless stories you read to me, and especially for the ones you made up on the spot. I feel like the luckiest girl in the world to have had you both as my parents. To my sister Susan Jarecha, you may be younger than me, but I have always looked up to you. Thanks for always being available to share a long-distance glass of phone wine and a good long talk—and for putting up with me that awful year when I was thirteen.
To my four kids—Mikaela, Bronte, Chaney, and Everett—you are by far the most compelling, complicated, brilliant characters I have ever created. You push me to be better, do better, try harder, learn more, and take risks. With your giant hearts and mighty spirits, you have become my role models. Also, I sincerely apologize for all the missed calls and text messages, and for all the times I said, “I’ll be right there. I juuuust need to finish this one paragraph.” The good news: I finally finished the last paragraph! The bad news: I started another book.
I never could have written this book without the love, support, and infinite patience of my husband, Sean Dalton. That first day we met, when you saw me asleep with my head in a chemistry textbook, you woke me up with the nerdiest pick-up line in history: “Studying by osmosis?” Thirty-two years and four kids later, our nerdy chemistry is still going strong. Although I never included your thoughtful suggestions about adding aliens or dragons in my book, I appreciate the custom cocktails you invented to match the themes in my writing. Thank you for always believing in me and this book, even when (especially when) I doubted myself. I love you.
And, lastly, to the real-life Summer Kid—the boy who sat alone on the end of his pier reading, fishing, and daydreaming—I have no idea who you are or what your name is, but as I paddled by your pier, summer after summer, you inspired a story in my mind that took on a life of its own. I hope your world is rich and full of the adventure I imagined you to be dreaming of.
BOOKS BY JULIE CARRICK DALTON
Waiting for the Night Song
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
As a journalist, JULIE CARRICK DALTON has published more than a thousand articles in The Boston Globe, BusinessWeek, The Hollywood Reporter, Electric Literature, and other publications. She contributes to Dead Darlings, Writer Unboxed, and Chicago Review of Books. A Tin House alum and graduate of GrubStreet’s Novel Incubator, Julie holds a master’s in literature and creative writing from Harvard Extension School. She is a frequent speaker on the topic of writing fiction in the age of climate crisis. A mom to four kids and two dogs, Julie is an avid skier, hiker, and kayaker. She also owns and operates a small farm in rural New Hampshire, the backdrop for this novel, her debut.
Visit her Online at juliecarrickdalton.com, or sign up for email updates here.
www.facebook.com/juliecarrickdalton/
twitter.com/juliecardalt
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CONTENTS
Title Page
Copyright Notice
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
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Acknowledgments
Books by Julie Carrick Dalton
About the Author
Copyright
This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, organizations, and events portrayed in this novel are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.
WAITING FOR THE NIGHT SONG
Copyright © 2020 by Julie Carrick Dalton
All rights reserved.
Cover photographs: lake by Kelly Knox / Stocksy; sparks by Bernatskaia Oksana / Shutterstock.com
Cover design by Katie Klimowicz
A Forge Book
Published by Tom Doherty Associates
120 Broadway
New York, NY 10271
www.tor-forge.com
Forge® is a registered trademark of Macmillan Publishing Group, LLC.
The Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data is available upon request.
ISBN 978-1-250-26918-8 (hardcover)
ISBN 978-1-250-26919-5 (ebook)
eISBN 9781250269195
Our ebooks may be purchased in bulk for promotional, educational, or business use. Please contact the Macmillan Corporate and Premium Sales Department at 1-800-221-7945, extension 5442, or by email at [email protected].
First Edition: 2021
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