Johanna's Secret

by Maya Northen Augelli

  I feels like I’m in high school again, chatting with my girlfriend about what to wear on a date. Or potential date, I remind myself, still not convinced of his intentions. As much as I hate to admit it, it’s kind of fun to feel this young again, for my momentary worries to be what to wear and how often to text a guy. “I think we should find you a new outfit,” Grace announces. She seems as excited about my dinner as I am, and equally as happy to be palling around shopping. I shake my head at the new outfit. “It feels like it’ll jinx it.” It sounds silly as soon as it comes out of my mouth, but it’s how it feels. “Maybe if I somehow manage to get to date number five,” I joke. Kidding aside, I don’t want to look like I went out shopping for a new outfit just for our dinner. Though, I reason, I haven’t known him long at all, and he has no way of knowing what’s part of my usual wardrobe, and what I purchased today. “Well, at least you’re admitting it’s a date. That’s progress!” Grace says lightly. She smiles her brilliant smile, and I once again wonder why it’s me, and not her, that Greg has singled out. With her personality and good looks, she could be in Hollywood. If she’s single, I don’t hold out much hope for myself. “Well, I don’t want to push him away by seeming uninterested,” I admit. “But he doesn’t need to know what I think just yet.”

  It’s amazing, I think, the psychological games that we play, all to get someone to ultimately like us for who we are in the first place. Unfortunately, my years of experience as a therapist seem to go out the window when it comes to my own life. Like so many of my patients, emotions take control. After Brent left, I was a mess, until one day I told myself I wouldn’t allow it anymore. That’s when I decided to make the move and become a hopeful novelist. From that point on, I analyzed everything to death. I pushed aside all of my training and practical advice that said to be in the present moment, to let emotions run their course, and to move on naturally. When Brent started texting me more frequently, it strengthened my resolve to push forward and shut off my emotions. Then I met Greg and, despite myself, I’ve started to be able to feel again. It’s made me even more skeptical. I analyze in even greater detail, petrified of being fooled, of letting someone in only to hurt me. Grace has seen it plain as day and, to some extent, so has Greg. It’s why he asked me if I’d been hurt, I assume.

  “Can we stop in here?” Grace asks, steering towards the glass doors of a shop displaying brightly colored summer apparel and a ‘SALE’ sign in the window. “I need a new sun hat desperately. Maybe we can look for a new outfit for your fifth date as well.” Deciding not to belabor the argument, I follow her inside. Thirty minutes later, Grace is a hat and three tops poorer, and I’ve acquired two new sundresses.

  We wander the streets of this artistic enclave for the next hour or so. Grace suggests grabbing a bite to eat before we headed back, and I realize I’m actually quite hungry. Greg said the restaurant is twenty minutes away, which means that at earliest, we probably won’t be eating until 7:30. While I don’t want to spoil my dinner, I’ll be ravenous if I skip lunch altogether. We stop at a Parisian-themed cafe Grace says is known for their baguettes. I opt for a baguette filled with sundried tomatoes and several types of cheese. A glass of wine is tempting, but I know it might make me sleepy, and I can’t risk not feeling awake tonight.

  Chapter 9

  Grace drops me off around 5 PM, giving me more than enough time to get ready. Despite myself, I’m excited, and admittedly a little anxious, about the evening. Knowing I have plenty of time, I do a quick ten-minute meditation to calm my brain, and to fill up a few extra minutes - I’m not good at waiting around. Feeling slightly less nervous, I begin sorting through my closet for something to wear. I did some wardrobe clean out before the move and, though I still have plenty to choose from, I temporarily regret paring it down significantly. The two new dresses jumped out at me, but I refuse to choose them. I settle on a blue-green cotton halter dress. It’s simple, but certainly hints that I had made at least some effort. It feels form fitting enough to show what figure I have, and still loose enough to be casual and mature. The thin, nude-colored belt matches a pair of wedge sandals I like, and the outfit, at least to me, looked pretty and feminine without screaming “high maintenance.” The decision on what to do with my hair is a trickier. It’s naturally wavy and tends to take on a frizzy quality when not well-groomed. I think about straightening it, but that will take considerably longer and, considering the last time I saw Greg I was digging through a dusty attic in old clothes, doesn’t seem necessary. Some anti-frizz gel seems to keep it under control tonight, luckily. I silently curse Nan and her shiney, poker straight hair. Even Cat’s curls usually fall naturally pretty. I got the in between hair that couldn’t make up its mind. I reason with myself that both times I’ve seen Greg so far, I made no effort to impress, the first time due to Grace’s last minute decision to go to dinner, and the second simply because of the task at hand.

  I hear my phone buzz on my nightstand. “If you cancel on me now, I’ll never forgive you,” I think. With relief, I see it’s a text from my dad. “Hi honey, just wanted to see how you’re doing. Oh also, mom and I are thinking of coming up in a few weeks, would that be ok?” “Hi dad! I’d love to have you guys visit. Nan is coming up the weekend after next, so unless you all want to share a bed, that’s probably the only bad weekend.” “Don’t want to take up two weekends in a row with family visits. How about the last weekend of the month?” “Any time is good, but the last weekend sounds great. I’m headed out to dinner, but I’ll text you tomorrow. Love you guys.”

  I glance at the clock. It’s 6:30, which gives me plenty of time to finish getting ready without having to sit around feeling anxious. My phone buzzes again, and this time it is Greg. “Leaving my house soon. See you in a few.” True to his word, fifteen minutes later I hear a knock on the door. Despite myself, I feel my heart jump. “Oh Christ,” I scold myself. “You can’t possibly be this nervous. It’s just Greg. You hung out with him for hours yesterday.” I open the door, and see him standing there looking even more handsome than I remember. I decide the dress I chose is a good choice. He’d said nice jeans were fine, but he’s wearing gray pants and a short sleeve button up shirt. “Come on in.” I open the door wider. “I just have to grab my jacket and I’ll be ready to go.” I hadn’t considered the fact that no jacket I owned even remotely matched what I’m wearing, and I pick the best option I can quickly find. “This will have to do,” I murmur, swinging it over my arm, and hoping it isn’t needed.

  “You look really nice,” he smiles. Whether he heard my distress at not having a suitable jacket, or just decided to offer the compliment, I’m not sure. I’m not used to receiving compliments from men lately, and I struggle to reply. “Thanks, so do you.” Ugh. That sounded so… uninspired. As we approach the car, he holds the car door open for me.

  As with the day before, conversation flows easily enough, though he seems a little quieter. We talk about how we’d spent our day and plans for our upcoming weeks, and before I know it we were at the restaurant. Greg’s right about the views - it overlooks the coastline, and I can hear the water lapping down below. It’s at that point in the day when the sun is beginning to fill the sky with color - hints of pinks, yellows, and oranges grace the horizon. “It’s pretty up here,” I admire. “Even nicer than I remember it actually,” he agrees. “I haven’t been here in several years. Last time was for a family gathering. I hope the food is still as good as the view.”

  We’re seated at a table by the window, overlooking the water below. Greg pulls out my chair before finding his own. “Are you a wine drinker?” he asks as he examined the menu. I nod enthusiastically, thinking that a glass of wine (or several) might help my nerves. I usually like a robust red wine, but I’m by no means an aficionado, and so leave the choice to Greg, who luckily shares my preference. “Want to share an app or two?” he asks after examining the menu for a few minutes. “I’m afraid that when it comes to appetizers, I’m pretty pre
dictable, but I’m willing to expand my horizons if you see something you like.” I do a quick scan. “If it were up to me, I’d choose the veggie egg rolls and the calamari.” “Perfect,” he confirms. “Let’s start with those two.”

  “So, remember when I told you I’d found my grandpa’s journal?” I nod, curious. “He kept it when he was 20 and 21, and in police training. It’s also when he first met my grandma. He talks about how he first saw her at a friend’s picnic, and knew right away that he needed to get to know her. He wrote that he was determined not to leave without setting up a date with her.” “I take it he was successful?” “Almost. He spoke to her and arranged a time to stop by and speak to her at her parent’s house. He wrote that they sat on the front porch and talked for an hour, and that he told her before he left that she was the woman he was going to marry. He asked her if she minded if they took a picture together so that he could have proof that she’d actually let him see her. Told the stranger who took it that she was his wife to be.” “Love at first sight, then,” I muse. “Seems it was. He always told me that, but I never believed him. Thought he was letting all of those years together reconstruct his memory. Turns out he it was true. Guess I’ve always been a skeptic when it comes to love.” He shrugs, as if in apology. “How long were they together?” “He was twenty and she was nineteen when they met. She passed away at seventy nine, so sixty years. Married for fifty eight of them. Grandma made him wait until she was twenty one to get married. Said it drove him nuts. In those days, certain things were, well, people waited until marriage.” He blushes slightly, and I smile in return. “You mean they didn’t have such loose morals back then?” I tease, glad to see him laugh. “Yes, I suppose that’s that I mean.”

  I find his embarrassment both amusing and endearing. As a therapist, it’s a topic that I have to address all of the time, often in a very down to earth manner, so it isn’t a squeamish one for me, even on a first date. Perhaps for him, it’s the fact that he’s talking about his grandparents. It seems, from my years of work, that we as humans like to forget that our parents and grandparents were once hot-blooded kids who desired each other. “I know, nobody likes to think about their grandparents romping around behind closed doors, but if it hadn’t happened, then neither of us would be here.” I give him the biggest smile I can, and hope my joking tone lightened things up a bit. It works, and the change in him from that point on is remarkable. He’s back to the Greg that I’d sorted through the attic with for hours, who had been forthright enough to ask if I’d been hurt in the past and to tell me about his own painful memories, who’d teased me about being suspicious of his character and offered to meet me for coffee to make me more comfortable.

  “Thank you,” he grins. “I’m sorry if I’ve been a bit tongue tied tonight. It’s just that, honestly, I really like spending time with you. I guess I’m afraid of doing or saying something that would push you away. Going through my grandfather’s things is different - it’s my home and my things. It’s my comfort zone. Dating, on the other hand, is not.” “So it’s a date then?” I figure I’ll just address it head on, since we both seemed to be beating around the bush, wondering how the other person feels. “I was kind of hoping it is?” His eyes looked so honest and earnest that, as inclined as I am to tease him further, I can’t bring myself to do it. “I was kind of hoping so too.”

  Our appetizers arrived just in time giving us a natural break from the awkward conversation. For a few minutes we sit in companionable silence, indulging in calamari and egg rolls. “Oh, this sauce is spicy!” Greg exclaims. “I love spicy.” I reach across dipping my egg roll into the offending sauce. The food seems to do the trick. Greg appears more relaxed again, ready to chat and enjoy the evening.

  “So I found something interesting in my grandfather’s diary. Two things in fact,” he begins. “The first has to do with Johanna.” “The police chief’s wife?” He’s piqued my interest, as he knew he would. We know so little about her other than that she was a stay at home mother who had had a miscarriage followed by what seems like depression. We also know that she felt better, by all accounts, the last night she was seen alive. “He wrote that he saw her one day, sitting in the park all alone, crying. The first time, he didn’t say anything. He thought it would appear disrespectful to be seen comforting another man’s wife. Especially the wife of his boss” “He was probably right,” I interject. Greg nods. “The second time, he started to worry. He’d overheard from the chief that she’d had a miscarriage, and was concerned that maybe she was having health trouble. From what he wrote, he went to sit next to her, and she let him. Told him she was just sad all the time. She wouldn’t say why, and he didn’t want to press her. She only said that her family had secrets and she knew more than anyone thought she did. Said she’d rather die than tell anyone…” “So maybe someone found out her secrets? This whole time we’ve been focusing on just about everyone else. Did he think it was Johanna they were after?” “I have no idea. He told her that if she wanted to confide in him, he’d never tell a soul, that she’d have his protection as a police officer and a friend, but she wouldn’t.” “And she couldn’t tell anyone else on the police force, of course, if it might speak ill of her husband.” “Exactly.” “But if it were her secret, why would someone burn down the barn? Why would Julienne and the kids leave? And Sharpe… I can’t even figure out where he’d fit in, other than just bad luck at happening to be associated with Julienne.” “I’ve been thinking, and I honestly don’t think Sharpe was as key a player as everyone thought he was. Maybe he was just a young, lovestruck man who followed a beautiful young woman. I know people say he’d never have given up his studies and all that. But people do odd things for love, and maybe she was more important than even his schooling.”

  Once again, he makes a good point. There’s no hard evidence that Sharpe was involved in anything. The best we, or anyone it seems, can project is that it was odd to follow someone across international waters and then just disappear. Still, I thought there was more to him than we know. Greg read my mind. “But if he followed her all the way here, why would he just disappear. Wouldn’t he be going mad looking for her?” “Unless he knew where she was.” I surprise myself with the suggestion, but continue on. “Think about it. Suddenly, Julienne has three girls in her care that nobody else seems to want to claim, and the oldest one is just ten years old. Being an au pair at nineteen is one thing. Stepping in as a full time, single parent to three kids that are not yours, when your only source of income in a foreign country has suddenly vanished into thin air, is completely different. Maybe she asked Sharpe for help, and he loved her enough to give it.” “They disappeared as a family?” Greg raises an eyebrow, but seems to be letting the suggestion sink in. “Why not? From all your grandfather has written, and everything we’ve read, she was very close to the girls. Like a big sister perhaps. Their only family is an aunt and uncle who didn’t visit once after their parents disappeared and never offered to take the children in. Certainly, if they couldn’t be of help to their own nieces, they weren’t going to do anything for Julienne. And with only two relatives who weren’t really looking for them in the first place, and a police investigation that was lackluster at best, it wouldn’t be that hard to disappear.” “It’s a small town, and surely even then, word spread fast. Wouldn’t they be recognized? Especially since Julienne and Edward would presumably have foreign accents.” “Possibly, but there was no social media to mark everyone’s whereabouts every five minutes in those days. The only person visiting them regularly was your grandfather, and they could be several towns away and disguised by the time anyone noticed they were gone. If their own family and the police force, whose chief was part of that family, wasn’t looking for them, why should a stranger in another town be concerned about them?” Greg nods slowly, taking it all in.

  “So you said there were two things that you thought I’d find interesting. Johanna was the first. What was the other?” I ask. “Oh I almos
t forgot! I found a small piece of paper with writing on it. It’s faded, but it looks like it could be written in French, though that’s said from my incredibly limited knowledge of the French language. It fell out of the back of his journal when I opened it. It’s addressed to him though, that much I could see.” “I didn’t realize your grandfather spoke French.” “To my knowledge, he didn’t. I’d never heard it at least.” “Maybe he learned a little from his visits to Julienne,” I suggest. Suddenly, I remember the paper I’d found in the French revolution book. “It’s like the one I found!” I exclaim a little louder than I probably should have, and I cover my mouth with my hand, causing Greg to laugh. “One what?” “Small piece of paper with French writing. Or what looks to be French. It was in one of the books that was left in my cottage. It fell out of a book about the French Revolution that had been left there, so I figured a former owner perhaps had been French or spoken French and taken some notes that they forgot where there. But this is too much of a coincidence.” “I have a colleague who may be able to translate them. I’ll ask her. French isn’t her best language, but mine is limited to food products, so it’s a step in the right direction.”