by Sarah Jio
A PLUME BOOK
MORNING GLORY
©Michelle Moore
SARAH JIO is the New York Times and USA Today bestselling author of The Violets of March, a Library Journal Best Book of 2011; The Bungalow; Blackberry Winter; and The Last Camellia. She is also a journalist who has written for Glamour; O, The Oprah Magazine; Redbook; Real Simple; and many other publications. Sarah’s novels have become book club favorites and have been sold for translation in more than eighteen languages. She lives in Seattle with her husband and their three young boys. Learn more about her at sarahjio.com or facebook.com/sarahjioauthor.
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Praise for The Last Camellia
“Jio infuses her haunting story of love and loss with an engrossing mystery that will linger long after the final page.”
—Romantic Times
“The images of the flowers, the landscape, and the manor house are vivid and make for a tantalizing read.”
—Kirkus Reviews
“An engaging story of two generations trying to move forward despite the powerful pull of the past. A thoughtful examination of history’s ability to haunt the present and the power of forgiveness to set things right.”
—Booklist
Praise for Blackberry Winter
“Terrific . . . compelling . . . an intoxicating blend of mystery, history, and romance, this book is hard to put down.”
—Real Simple
“Ingenious . . . imaginative.”
—The Seattle Times
“Blackberry Winter never loses momentum. . . . Jio’s writing is engaging and fluid.”—Mystery Scene
“A fascinating exploration of love, loss, scandal, and redemption.”
—Publishers Weekly
“This novel will enchant Jio’s fans and make them clamor for her next offering.”—Kirkus Reviews, “A Most Anticipated Book of Fall 2012”
“There’s no doubt that anyone who picks up this book will instantly fall in love with it and the author.”
—Brodart
“Sarah Jio’s writing is exquisite and engrossing.”
—Elin Hilderbrand, bestselling author of Silver Girl
Praise for The Bungalow
Pulpwood Queens Book Club, Official Selection 2012
“The Bungalow is my favorite book of the year.”
—Jen Lancaster
“Jio’s first-person Hemingway-ish writing style, like her The Violets of March (judged by Library Journal as one of the Best Books of 2011), is a pleasure to read. . . . Jio has done a superb job of pulling together the themes of friendship, betrayal, and endearing love. These keep us engrossed in the novel to an unpredictable conclusion.”
—The Historical Novels Review
“Unabashedly romantic . . . thanks to Jio’s deft handling of her plot and characters. Fans of Nicholas Sparks will enjoy this gentle historical love story.”
—Library Journal
“A captivating tale.”
—Booklist
“A heartfelt, engaging love story set against the fascinating backdrop of the War in the Pacific.”
—Kristin Hannah, author of Home Front
“The Bungalow is a story as luscious as its exotic setting. Ms. Jio has crafted a wartime story of passion and friendship, loss and mystery. It’s also a story of discovery—discovering one’s own heart, and of finding a second chance long after all hope is gone. You’ll remember the sparkling water and yellow hibiscus long after the last page is turned, and will want to start searching for your own lost bungalow and the parts of yourself you’ve long since forgotten.”
—Karen White, author of The Beach Trees
“Sarah Jio whips romance, history, and a page-turning mystery into one mesmerizing South Sea dream. The Bungalow reads smooth as a summer day, but Jio’s plot races forward with unexpected twists and timeless, haunting love that make you cheer and cry and ache for more.”
—Carol Cassella, author of Oxygen and Healer
Praise for The Violets of March
A Library Journal Best Book of 2011
“Feed the kids before you settle in with journalist Sarah Jio’s engrossing first novel, The Violets of March. This mystery-slash-love story will have you racing to the end—cries of ‘Mom, I’m hungry!’ be damned.”
—Redbook
“A gem . . . True escape fiction that can take you away.”
—WGBH-TV
“Masterfully written.”
—The New Jersey Star-Ledger
“In a sweet debut novel, a divorcee visiting her aunt on gorgeous Bainbridge Island, Washington, finds a diary dating to 1943 that reveals potentially life-changing secrets.”
—Coastal Living
“The right book finds you at the right time. The Violets of March will become a source of healing and comfort for its readers.”
—The Costco Connection
“In The Violets of March, debut author Sarah Jio beautifully blends the stories of two women—one of the past, one of the present—together to create a captivating and enthralling novel of romance, heartbreak, and redemption.”
—Times Record News (Wichita Falls, Kansas)
“Jio’s debut is a rich blend of history, mystery, and romance. Fans of Sarah Blake’s The Postmistress should enjoy this story.”
—Library Journal
“[An] endearing tale of past heartbreaks and new beginnings. The story’s setting and sentiment are sure to entice readers and keep them captivated page after page.”
—Romantic Times
“A perfect summer read for an escape into a fictional character’s challenges with the charm of a local Northwest setting.”
—425 magazine
“Refreshing . . . lovable.”
—First for Women magazine
“Mix a love story, history, and a mystery and what takes root? The Violets of March, a novel that reminds us how the past comes back to haunt us, and packs a few great surprises for the reader along the way. “
—Jodi Picoult, author of Sing You Home and House Rules
“The Violets of March is a captivating first bloom of a novel, with tangled roots, budding relationships, and plenty of twists and turns. But perhaps the biggest revelation of all is that Sarah Jio is one talented writer!”
—Claire Cook, bestselling author of Must Love Dogs and Best Staged Plans
“Sarah Jio’s The Violets of March is a book for anyone who has ever lost love or lost herself. A fresh, satisfying, resonant debut.”
—Allison Winn Scotch, author of Time of My Life and The Memory of Us
“An enchanting story of love, betrayal, and the discovery of an old diary that mysteriously links the past to the present. The Violets of March is a delightful debut.”
—Beth Hoffman, author of Saving CeeCee Honeycutt
“A romantic, heartfelt, and richly detailed debut. The Violets of March is the story of a woman who needs to step away from her shattered life and into the magic of Bainbridge Island before she can find herself again. Sarah Jio delivers a gem of a book, perfect for reading on the beach or under a cozy quilt.”
—Sarah Pekkanen, author of The Opposite of Me and Skipping a Beat
PLUME
Published by the Penguin Group
Penguin Group (USA), 375 Hudson Street
New York, New York 10014, USA
USA | Canada | UK | Ireland | Australia | New Zealand | India | South Africa | China
Penguin Books Ltd, Registered Offices: 80 Strand, London WC2R 0RL, England
For more information about the Penguin Group visit penguin.com
First published by Plume, a member of Penguin Group (USA), 2013
REGISTERED TRADEMARK—MARCA REGISTRADA
> Copyright © Sarah Jio, 2013
All rights reserved. No part of this product may be reproduced, scanned, or distributed in any printed or electronic form without permission. Please do not participate in or encourage piracy of copyrighted materials in violation of the author’s rights. Purchase only authorized editions.
LIBRARY OF CONGRESS CATALOGING-IN-PUBLICATION DATA
Jio, Sarah.
Morning glory / Sarah Jio.
pages cm
ISBN 978-0-14-219699-1
ISBN 978-1-101-61999-5 (eBook)
1. Artists-Fiction. 2. Boathouses—Fiction. 3. Seattle—Fiction. I. Title
PS3610.16M67 2013
813'.6—dc23
2013014200
PUBLISHER’S NOTE
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
Version_1
Contents
About the Author
Title Page
Copyright
Dedication
Author’s Note
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
Epilogue
Acknowledgments
In memory of Anna and every other lost and brokenhearted woman.
Rainy days aren’t forever. May you find your way.
Author’s Note
As I type this, I’m sitting inside my houseboat, looking out the window to a gray day on Lake Union in Seattle. The rain is falling in great sheets. It pounds on the roof, and the wind splatters it against the windows. These are my favorite days on the lake. I can see ducks swim and boats motor by, as well as the occasional kayaker braving the rain. It’s cozy, and I’m content.
When I set out to write this novel, I began with a setting and nothing else: a houseboat on the banks of Lake Union. As a lifelong Seattle-area resident, I’ve always been fascinated by floating homes (and of course, a little movie called Sleepless in Seattle only furthered that fascination). Years ago, as a young journalist, I wrote an article about the houseboat lifestyle, and I’ll never forget being invited to tour a floating home for the first time. The woman who graciously welcomed me into her home (through a door with an opening in the bottom for ducks) told me about life on the lake—the way a houseboat sways gently in the wind, how the lake can rock you to sleep, and perhaps most memorable, for me, the way the houseboat community is like a family, helping neighbors in need, keeping secrets like only trusted friends do.
I suppose the very beginning of this novel started that day, when I stepped inside that little floating home. And as time went on, I longed to live in a houseboat of my own. But as our family grew, my husband and I decided that raising three little boys on a houseboat may not be the best choice (imagine playing catch on a small dock). So we set that dream aside, at least until September 2012.
My husband knew I’d begun plotting out an idea for a novel set on a houseboat, and while I’d hoped to find one to rent for a weekend for research purposes, he surprised me with a generous idea. Why not, he suggested, rent a houseboat for an extended period of time? I could use it as my office and really get the feel for life on the lake.
My first instinct was to say no. At first blush, it seemed frivolous, an unnecessary splurge. But then I began to think: How else would I really get to know the houseboat lifestyle, the history of the community, the local personalities and their secrets?
So we went to tour a houseboat for rent, and in the space of 3.5 seconds, I fell head over heels. With a loft bedroom (complete with a working porthole), a rooftop deck with a view of the Space Needle, and a quaint and fully stocked kitchen, this was the houseboat of my dreams. My husband and I quickly signed a lease to rent it for four months.
I could not have written this book without the time I’ve had on Lake Union. While it’s true this is a work of fiction, the months I’ve spent in the houseboat community have enriched and inspired my writing—from the pair of mallards nesting outside my back deck to the kindness of the neighbors all around me.
We have a few more weeks on the houseboat before our lease runs out. I really hate to go. I’ve laughed here. I’ve cried here. I’ve made new friends and bonded with old ones under this roof. I’ve felt a great sense of peace here. And mostly, I have fallen in love with the houseboat community.
But it’s almost time to say good-bye. For when I turn in the final draft of this novel in the days ahead, I will also be turning in my key and saying farewell to my beloved Boat Street, as I’ve affectionately called it in real life and in the novel. Even so, the dock, and the story I created here, will forever remain in my heart. Houseboat No. 7. Henrietta and Haines. Little Jimmy. Penny and Collin. Alex and Ada. I feel as if they’re all waving good-bye as I make my way up the dock. Years will pass, but I’ll always know where to find them.
—SJ
Chapter 1
Seattle, June 12, 2008
I step down onto the old dock and it creaks beneath my feet, as if letting out a deep sigh. It’s dark out, but the string lights that dangle overhead illuminate my path.
What did the woman from the rental office say on the phone? Seventh houseboat on the left? Yes. I think. I grasp my suitcase tighter and walk ahead slowly. A sailboat sways gently in the water where it’s tethered to an adjoining houseboat, a two-story, with a rooftop deck and cedar shingle siding weathered to a gray-brown. A lantern flickers on a table on the front deck, but seconds later its flame is extinguished, maybe by the breeze, maybe by someone lingering in the shadows. I imagine the residents of the dock peering through their darkened windows, watching me, whispering. “There she is,” one says to another. “The new neighbor.” Someone smirks. “I hear she’s from New York.”
I hate the hushed exchanges, the looks. The crush of curiosity drove me from New York. “The poor thing,” I overheard someone utter as she stepped out of the office elevator a month ago. “I don’t know how she even manages to get out of bed every morning after what happened. If it were me, I don’t know how I’d go on.” I remember how I hovered in the hallway until the woman rounded the corner. I couldn’t bear to see the look on her face, or any of their faces. The headshaking. The pity. The horror. In Seattle, the shadow of my past would be under cloud cover.
I take a deep breath and look up when I hear the distant creak of a door hinge. I pause, bracing for confrontation. But the only movement I detect is a kayak gliding slowly across the lake. Its lone passenger nods at me, before disappearing into the moonlight. The dock rocks a little, and I wobble, steadying myself. New York is a long way from Seattle, and I’m still groggy from the transcontinental flight. I stop and wonder, for a moment, what I’m doing here.
I pass two more houseboats. One is gray, with French doors that face north and a weather vane perched on the roof. The next is tan, with window boxes brimming with red geraniums. Various urns and planters line the deck in front of the home, and I stop to admire the blue hydrangeas growing in a terra-cotta pot. Whoever lives here must be a meticulous gardener. I think of the garden I left behind on my ba
lcony in New York, the little garden box planted with chard and basil and the sugar pumpkin for . . . I bite my lip. My heart swells, but the porch light on houseboat number seven anchors me to the moment. I stop to take in the sight of what will be my new home: Situated on the farthest slip on the dock, it floats solemnly, unafraid. Weathered cedar shingles cover its sides, and I smile when I notice an open porthole on the upper floor. It’s just as the advertisement depicted. I sigh.
Here I am.
I feel a lump in my throat as I insert the key into the lock. My legs are suddenly weak, and as soon as I open the door, I fall to my knees, bury my head in my hands, and weep.
Three weeks earlier
It’s nine in the morning, and the New York sun streams through the eighth-floor windows of Dr. Evinson’s office with such intensity, I drape my hand over my eyes.
“Sorry,” he says, gesturing toward the blinds. “Is the light bothering you?”
“Yes,” I say. “Well, no, it’s . . .” The truth is, it isn’t the light that’s burning, but my news.
I sigh and sit up straighter in the overstuffed chair with its brash white and green stripes. A signed, framed photo of Mick Jagger hangs on the wall. I smile inwardly, recalling how I walked into Dr. Evinson’s office a year ago, expecting a black leather couch and a clean-shaven man in a suit holding a notebook and nodding reassuringly as I dabbed a tissue to my eyes.
According to my sister-in-law, Joanie, he was Manhattan’s most sought-after grief therapist. Past patients included Mick Jagger—hence the wall art—and other big names. After Heath Ledger’s death, his ex, Michelle Williams, came to see Dr. Evinson on a weekly basis. I know because I saw her in the lobby once flipping through an issue of Us Weekly. But his celebrity client list didn’t impress me. Frankly, I’d always been scared of therapists, scared of what they might cause me to say, cause me to feel. But Joan encouraged me to go. Actually, encourage is the wrong word. One morning, she met me for breakfast in the restaurant on the ground floor of Dr. Evinson’s office building, then put me on an elevator destined for the ninth floor. When I reached his foyer, I thought about turning around, but the receptionist said, “You must be Dr. Evinson’s nine o’clock.”