“That’s good to know. I guess I’m just skittish is all. Please, just give me time. I’ll get to where you are, but it’s weird. I felt like I was finally moving forward, and now my emotions are all rushing back to me. I’m just trying to sort it all out right now.” Greg looks down, taking his eyes away for mine for the first time. “So does this mean you don’t want to see me while you do that?” “No, no, not at all! I just mean that it might take me a while longer to come to terms with my feelings than it’s taking you. I still want to see you and spend time with you.” “Hennie, when I know what I want, I’m a very determined person. I’ll go through hell or high water to make it happen. I’ll wait as long as you need me to, and we’ll go at your pace. That doesn’t mean I won’t occasionally try to nudge you along, but if you push back, I’ll lighten up. You can’t blame a guy for trying, right?” He smiles weakly. I know a lot hangs on my response. “No, you can’t.”
I smile back, a genuine smile, grateful that he seems to be understanding. Then, before I realize what’s happening, he pulls me towards him and kissed me lightly on the lips. It’s a kiss full of affection and tenderness. I’m torn between pulling back, to let him know I’m not quite ready, and pulling him closer for a deeper kiss. He makes the decision for me, releasing me slowly, still keeping his arms around my waist. “I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have, I just….” “Greg, it’s ok,” I assure him quietly. “You have nothing to apologize for.” The relief is visible on his face. He takes my hand in his and we continued our walk in content silence. I can’t remember the last time I felt so at peace with someone. My heart had pounded when he’d kissed me, but now, I simply feel happy. Eventually, our walk leads us back to my cottage, and then his house to grab our respective papers for the library. I can tell it’s going to be a day of exploration, both of the documents we hold in our hands, and our growing relationship.
The library proves highly helpful. We use projectors to magnify our letters, and can see that, though the handwriting has some similarities, the resemblance isn’t enough. I suppose it could have been the same person at different ages, but I doubt it. As for the signature at the bottom of mine, it turned out to be initials: AJS. They have, at the moment, no meaning or context, but I’m excited nonetheless. It’s certainly a start. For one, it means that it almost certainly is a letter to someone. If it was just note haphazardly left in the book, there’d be no reason to sign it. Perhaps once the rest was translated, it would make more sense. While the initials could stand for just about anyone, maybe the context will give us some clues. Still, we are too interested not to brainstorm the possibilities. Why had it been written, and by whom? The letter from Greg’s grandfather’s journal is not signed, but does have a date, we discover - February 26, 1926. That much we can decipher even without knowing French.
“I’d be very surprised if they had the same author,” Greg muses, reading my thoughts. “There are a few places where it looks similar, but not enough. I’m no handwriting expert by any means, but I’d guess it was two different authors, both female.” I nod in agreement. He examined the papers, front and back, again. “The one you found looks much newer. The writing is more faded, but that could just have been the pen used. I can’t imagine this is from 1926. Maybe it belonged to Linda. I never heard her speaking French, and it would be a hell of a coincidence, but people have all kinds of hidden talents.” “I’m not sure. I can check with Billy. They seemed rather close, so if anyone around here would know, he would.”
I look closer. Greg was right about the paper - it looks more worn from being closed in a book in a damp house than from actual aging. “This might be written in pencil. It looks a bit smudged, and that would explain the faded writing.” “Odd for someone to leave a note and then write it in pencil, knowing it might be faded or smeared beyond recognition.” “Maybe they were unsure.” “Unsure of what?” “Whether they should write the note or not. Perhaps they thought they were leaving it up to fate. If it stayed intact, whoever found their message could read it. If not, it wasn’t meant to be.” “Are you a fatalist?” “No, but many people are.” Greg simply nods. “AJS”, I murmur. “If these are actually initials, and I can’t think of what else they would be, it can’t have belonged to Linda, or Geraldine. Maybe someone wrote it to them, but neither of their initials fit.” “True, and that makes more sense than someone writing it just to leave in a book. More likely it was sent to one of them, and they simply lost it in the book. Put it inside while they were reading and forgot it was there.” He has a point. It doesn’t seem likely that anyone who actually lived there wrote it and left it in an empty house inside of a book. Without knowing what it says, though, it’s all pure speculation.
“What if the intended audience was whoever found it?” Greg ventures. I must look confused, because he actually laughs. “I mean, clearly you weren’t the intended reader. And yet here we are, pouring over it at the library, however many years later.” Another good point. “It might be a confession, or something she, or I suppose it could have been a he, just needed to get out of their head.” “Then why write it in French and sign it only with initials.” “Maybe the writing of it was more important than the fact that someone know what it meant. Do you keep a journal?” It seems like an odd question. “Yes, why?” “Do you plan on anyone ever reading it?” “I certainly hope not!” I exclaim a little too loudly, the librarian turning in our direction. “Exactly,” he replies and I understand.
One last thought pops into my head. “Do you think it’s possible it means nothing at all?” “What do you mean?” “It could have been mundane. Nothing important. Maybe something she was going to pass along to a friend and forgot. I think I sign every single email, important or not, “HEB”. Greg seems to be thinking it over. “What’s the E stand for?” “Esther. It was my great-grandmother’s name, and she passed away right before I was born. My parents really went all out. Apparently being named after a man wasn’t enough, so they tacked on the name of a ninety four year old woman.” Greg laughs loudly, causing the librarian to turn again. “Sorry,” he mouths in her direction, pretending to appear chastised. He turns back to me with a broad smile. “I like Esther, actually. I’m a fan of more traditional, names.” “I actually don’t mind it. But filling out forms is a pain in the ass. I can never fit the whole thing in those little boxes.” I’m rewarded with another, somewhat stifled laugh.
Turning back to the letters, he looks thoughtful. “Yours could have been a casual note to a friend that was forgotten. But grandpa’s was tucked in his journal. Surely, a letter written to him in French, which he possibly couldn’t even read, that’s not signed - which tells me he already knew who wrote it - can’t be something he just found. At first, I thought maybe he just found it among Julienne’s things somewhere, but it was addressed to him.” “Is it possible he was holding it for someone, or was supposed to give it to someone. I mean, if he didn’t speak French…” “I suppose that’s possible. But who?” “That, I have no idea. It was just a thought really.” “I have to imagine it came from Julienne,” Greg says quietly. “Or belonged to her.” “It is dated right before she disappeared.” “So why address and mail it?” “Maybe she didn’t have the chance to deliver it before she left.” “If that’s the case, it means two things. She left fully alive and capable, and probably of her own volition. And two, grandpa knew and never told a soul.” He pauses a moment. “Not even me.”
Greg’s right, and yet it seems so improbable. Had his grandfather known the secret all along and told nobody, not even Greg? Had he and Julienne gotten so close that she’d confided in him? How had his grandmother felt about that, or had she known nothing? Then a chilling thought passed through my mind: what if he’d helped her disappear? I debate bringing it up. Greg and his grandfather had been incredibly close. He might not take kindly to my suggestion, even if it was true and he’d done it only to help her. I decide to stay silent on the subject for now.
“I could use
some fresh air. Do you want to continue our walk?” With this simple question, I know Greg was contemplating the same questions as I am. We thanked the librarian and head out towards the opposite side of the park that we walked through earlier. As I watch a group of kids, probably six to eight years old, chase each other through the grass, I realize that the town must be much quieter when fall comes and everyone, both teachers and students, return to school. It occurs to me then that Greg will be one of them. I thought Grace going back to her home town would be rough, but the thought of Greg not being around during the days is even worse. Unlike Grace, he lives in town, but it won’t be the same. We won’t have the privilege of meeting for breakfast whenever we want to, taking days to explore. You forget, after years of creating your own schedule, first with clients and now with my novel, that others do not have that luxury. I tell myself that everyone being occupied will give me more time to work on my book, that I’ll still have Billy to visit if I need to get out during the day, but I’m not sure I believe my own internal reassurance.
I decide to walk in silence for as long as Greg needs. After a few more minutes, he speaks tentatively. “Do you think it’s possible that my grandpa knew all along? What happened to them I mean?” He seems to be talking more to himself than to me, so I wait for him to continue. When he doesn’t, I ventured with a question. “Did he ever say for certain that he didn’t know? I mean, he told you he’d been doing his own investigation, but did he ever mention what he thought might have happened?” Greg looks thoughtful. “I don’t think he ever did. I think I always assumed, because he called it a mystery. But he never called it an unsolved mystery. I suppose he could have been speaking more from the town perspective - it was a local disappearance that, on the record, was never solved. I never remember him saying whether or not he knew what happened to Julienne and the girls. The parents’ disappearance still eluded him, that much I know. I remember him saying one time that he hoped some day they found out what happened to poor Johanna. He never mentioned Mr. Sheffield in those terms. I got the impression that many of those who knew Sheffield well would just as soon have him stay missing.” He pauses. “I guess we’ll find out more when the letter gets translated. If it’s even from her at all.”
Greg grows quiet again for a moment. “I don’t think he was actually involved. Grandpa was too honest of a man to hide that from me, from the rest of the police force. Not that they were doing much, but I don’t think he would have just let them disappear. Or worse, let something happen to them.” I didn’t know Greg’s grandfather, so I decide not to weigh in on the issue. On one hand, what he’s saying made sense. Would a man of honor, which his grandfather seemed to be, just let four people, three of whom were children, disappear? Or more shockingly, help them to do so? But then again, he seemed to care for the family, and if they felt they were in danger, might he have thought it in their best interest to vanish without a trace? He’d know what clues the police would look for and could help them avoid leaving a trail. “I wonder if any of this has to do with Johanna’s secret.” It seems like a safe way to continue the conversation without pointing fingers. What I leave unsaid is a new doubt in my mind. If someone helped Julienne and the girls escape, could the same have been true for James and Johanna. So far, we’d not given much thought to the idea that they may have survived that night unharmed. But could they, too, have had assistance? Nobody seemed to care much for Sheffield, but Johanna seemed to garner people’s sympathy - most notably that of Greg’s grandfather. Could he have taken the extra measure to ensure that her family secret stayed just that?
There are so many unanswered questions, and it feels like every new discovery leads to another option that we’ve previously not considered. I feel almost certain that Julienne and the girls left voluntarily. Why they’d done so still baffles me. If they were given assistance, could they have met up with James and Johanna somewhere safer? Or perhaps it hadn’t been his grandfather at all, but Sharpe, who’d helped them get away. And speaking of Sharpe, what had become of him?
“He didn’t know,” Greg finally speaks. He sounds so sure, and I want to encourage him to keep speaking. “Didn’t know what?” “What happened to them. I had a flashback just now, to a few years before he died. He was sorting through his things, knowing he was getting older and wanting to organize, and he starting talking about it. I remember his eyes misting over all those years later, saying he just wished he’d known that they were ok. Then he said “poor Johanna.” I was never quite sure what he meant by that. Whether he was referring to that night when she never returned, or to whatever secret she’d kept locked away in her heart. But it had been so long, that I’m certain if he’d known what happened to Johanna and James he’d have said something. I can’t imagine he’d have gone to the grave with such a big secret.”
Suddenly, it hits me. They couldn’t do forensics all those years ago, but they certainly can now. “Greg, do you think the police would reopen the case?” He looks at me, obviously surprised by what I’m suggesting. “Perhaps, but they’d need new evidence.” “But we have it. At least of sorts.” “What do you mean?” “It’s a cold case, right? Which means that they could technically reopen it at any time, if they had a reason to think they could solve it. All of these people disappeared, and after the shock died down, nobody but your grandfather seemed to care, and he had to walk a fine line because of his position. They never reopened it because nobody ever asked. But we have these letters. Your grandfather has photographs. We have, if you were comfortable sharing, his journal.” “I believe we’d have to be relatives, to have it re-opened simply out of interest.” He’s right. Without a bloodline or clear cut new evidence, it’s unlikely. We need something more concrete.
“Want some lunch?” Greg suggests practically. I nodded. Maybe some food will help us think.
“I’ve eaten out so much lately. Do you want to grab a quick bite at my house? If you don’t feel comfortable, I understand, but…” “Greg, that sounds fine,” I interrupt him. I appreciate that he’s trying to be cautious, especially after our kiss earlier in the day. “Ok, I can’t promise anything fancy, but I did just go grocery shopping, so at least there’s some food in the fridge.” I assure him I don’t need anything fancy at all. We walk quietly until we reached his house. The day has taken its toll on him, and I feel bad that a day he’s sharing with me has been so rough.
His house feels warmer, more inviting than I remember. Perhaps it’s the change in attitude since last time I was here. I had been so determined, then, against having any feelings for him. I wonder at myself now. How greatly emotions can change in just a few short days. Already, he seems a bit of a fixture in my life here. I think again of how my world in Massachusetts consists of just three people, and that two of them will be substantially less available in a couple of months. One day at a time, I caution myself.
“So what do you feel like eating?” Greg breaks into my thoughts, as he opens the refrigerator door. “I’m fine with anything, honestly. If you were going to make lunch just for yourself, what would you have?” “Probably a sandwich and some sort of chips,” he shrugs apologetically. “Make that two,” I smile. “If you’re sure…” “I’m sure. We had a big breakfast. I really meant it when I said I don’t need anything fancy.” “Great, two turkey and cheese sandwiches coming right up!” He denies my request to help, so I sat at the kitchen table, finding myself unintentionally watching him.
In the light of the kitchen, I can see that his brown hair was starting to fleck with the tiniest bit of gray. Funny how I’d not noticed before. It makes him look more mature. I think back to the picture I’d seen of his grandfather when he was about ten years older than Greg is now. If he ages in the same manner, I have no doubt he’ll get even more attractive as he gets older.
Greg sets my sandwich in front of me and pulls out a bag of sea salt potato chips. “Dig in!” he offers, holding the open bag in my direction and taking the seat closest to me.
I feel more at home with him here, eating lunch at his table as if we did it every day, than I had with anyone in a long time. My phone vibrates in my pocket, and I decide that nothing could be that important that it requires an immediate reply.
“What time do you work tonight?” I ask, suddenly remembering that, while I truly have all day, he has to bartend this evening. “Not until 5:30.” I look down at my watch, shocked to see that it’s already 2:15. “Well then I should get going after this. I’m sure you have things to do before you head in.” What things, I wasn’t sure, but it feels like I should offer to give him some space. “Not really. In fact, I could drop you off on my way in. If you want.” I think for a moment. On one hand, I have no inclination to leave. On the other hand, I don’t want to overstay my welcome. True, we could go back over the things in his attic, but I feel like it’s wearing him out. I must pause too long, because he adds, “But if you need to go, I understand.” “No, sorry, just trying to think if there was anything I absolutely need to get done this afternoon. Luckily, if there is, I can’t remember what.” It’s a bit of a flimsy cover, but I’m not quite sure what else to say.
Johanna's Secret Page 14