I wanted to laugh, to scream, to throw the words back in her face. But she was gone, leaving me alone with my thoughts in the creosote-scented gloom.
February 17, 1956
Mt. Zion Missionary Poor Farm
A full week passed before I saw Sister Doyle again. She came to tell me I was being allowed to leave the infirmary, and that I was to report straight to Zell’s office. If she noticed my horror she gave no sign, just slipped back out and left me to dress on my own. No one spoke to me as I walked out the front door, but I could hear the whispers as I passed between the rows of cots, could feel their eyes, hurling their questions between my shoulder blades. They wanted me to feel shame, to feel dirty. But I didn’t. I didn’t feel anything at all.
After being cooped up so long it should have been good to step outside into the sunshine, to breathe air that didn’t smell of urine and disinfectant, but I barely noticed as I made my way across the winter-bare yard, past the dorms, and the mess, and the chapel. I was too worried about why Zell wanted to see me. Almost from the moment I had awakened from the fever, I had been imagining what it would be like when I finally returned to the dorm—and to work. I would go back to the kitchens now, or to the laundry. Not to Zell’s, surely. Not after everything that had happened. He would find some other girl to file his papers. The thought made me a little sick, and sorry for whoever he would choose next, but at least it wouldn’t be me. Sister Ruth would see to that. She despised me, but had reasons of her own to keep me safe.
As I reached the outer door to Zell’s office I faltered, stunned by the sight of my reflection in the gritty pane of glass. I barely recognized the face staring back at me, pale as biscuit dough with a pair of hollowed-out eyes, cheekbones stark beneath my too-thin skin. I was a ghost, a shadow of the girl I had been only weeks ago. Part of me was glad. I wanted Zell to see what he had done, to feel ashamed, to be sorry. So sorry he would never come near me again.
I didn’t think to knock when I reached the inner door. I don’t know why. But when I pushed into the office Caroline was perched on the corner of Zell’s desk, legs crossed at the knees and swinging coyly.
They didn’t hear me come in. I stood there, rooted to the spot, trying to think what to say. Finally, Zell looked up, past Caroline and straight at me, the hint of a smile on his face. Caroline turned then, eyes glittering with something like satisfaction as they settled on me. She didn’t look fourteen anymore. She was wearing lipstick and the peach sweater Zell had given me—the one I had buried at the bottom of my footlocker so I would never have to see it again.
“What are you doing here, Caroline? You shouldn’t be here.”
Horrified, I watched her turn to Zell, offering him a much-too-grown-up pout. The effect was ridiculous, like a child playing dress-up. Where on earth had she learned such a thing?
“I’ve been helping out while you were sick,” she said with a triumphant little smirk. “Brother Zell said I could.”
I was trembling all over, my fists clenched to keep from dragging her off the desk and shaking some sense into her young empty head. The little fool! She hadn’t a clue what she was doing, or where it could lead—if it hadn’t already. The thought of him touching her—of Sister Doyle touching her—nearly made my legs buckle.
“It’s lunchtime,” I managed through numb lips. “And time to wash your face.”
Caroline’s eyes narrowed briefly before turning a honeyed smile to Zell. “Do I have to?”
Zell got up, but made no move to come from behind the desk, just stood there with his thumbs hooked in his suspenders, running his piggy eyes over my sister, slow and thoughtful. “For now,” he said at last, with a smile that chilled me to my bones. “We’ll talk again tomorrow.”
His eyes fell on me the moment Caroline closed the door, tallying the devastation he’d inflicted. “Poor Lily-Mae,” he crooned. “You’ve been ill, haven’t you?”
I flinched at the question, at the causal words we both knew were a lie. He knew. I could see it in his face. He knew everything, and he wasn’t one bit sorry. As I stood there, Sister Ruth’s words came floating back. I wasn’t the first. I wasn’t special. How many had come before me? And how many would come after?
“Why was my sister here?”
He smiled blandly as he came from behind the desk, hands clasped behind his back. “You were gone. I needed help.”
“I don’t want her here. I don’t want her helping you!”
The words had burst out of me before I could stop them, but Zell’s smile never wavered. “Well, now, I don’t suppose I’ll be needing Caroline now that you’re well again. And I’m glad you are well.” He frowned suddenly, as if a thought had just occurred. “I wanted to come and see you, Lily-Mae. I wanted to, but it might have spoiled our little secret.” He paused, raising his pale brows a notch. “It is our little secret, isn’t it, Lily-Mae? Ours and no one else’s?”
He wanted to know if I had told anyone, or planned to. He lit a cigarette, then stood stroking his suspenders. When I said nothing, he continued. “I ask only because there are some who wouldn’t understand. They might . . . kick up a fuss.” He paused long enough to blow out a plume of smoke. “It would be a pity for you and Caroline to have to leave Mt. Zion because of a little misunderstanding. Assuming, of course, that your sister was allowed to go with you.”
My head snapped up, my insides slowly turning to ice. “What?”
“She’s only a child, after all. The authorities might not think you were fit to care for her. They might think her better off here, under proper supervision, than with a sister who had recently suffered . . . health problems. They would want my opinion, Lily-Mae, naturally, and I’m afraid I couldn’t lie, even for you. I would hate to be placed in such a position.”
I was speechless as I digested the threat. If I told anyone what he had done, he would see to it that I was tossed out of Mt. Zion—and that Caroline would not be allowed to go with me. I wanted to believe he was lying, that he could never be cruel enough to separate sisters. But as he stood there waiting for me to say something, I knew I needed only to cross him to find out.
He reached for my hand then, giving it a pat. “I’m glad we understand each other, and that we’re still going to be . . . friends. It would be a shame to see you and Caroline separated.”
That’s when I knew he meant for us to carry on as before. Not just the work, but all of it. “But your wife!” I blurted, suddenly desperate. “She knows you—”
Zell turned away, stepping to his desk as calmly as if we’d been discussing the weather. “I’ve seen to my wife,” he informed me casually as he picked up an envelope and coolly slit it open. “She won’t bother you again.”
The words settled in my belly like a cold stone. Because I knew without Sister Ruth to stand in his way, this nightmare would never end. I wouldn’t be free of Zell until he said I was. And then there was Caroline, foolish, headstrong Caroline, eager to take my place, though she was too young to know what that meant.
I stood there, rooted to the floor, saying nothing as I watched him begin to count out a fat stack of bills. It wasn’t the first time I’d seen him do it. He was always getting envelopes like that, counting out cash, and then locking it up in the small metal box he kept in his desk. Only this time, I found myself paying attention. Because an idea—a mad, desperate, impossible idea—had already taken hold of me.
SEVENTEEN
1995
Hideaway Key, Florida
Lily spooned sugar into her mug and stirred, still vaguely numb. The previous night, after dinner with Dean, she had returned to the cottage to finish reading the last of Lily-Mae’s notebooks. She’d had to push herself to make it to the last page, sickened by the images the entries conjured: rape, forced abortion, unending intimidation. Her skin crawled at the thought of Harwood Zell—a predator hiding behind a collar and a Bible—forcing himself on
a helpless girl.
She’d only kept reading because she was convinced that by the last page she would finally know how the nightmare ended. Unfortunately, she was wrong. There had been no closure—no escape from Mt. Zion, and no justice for Harwood Zell. That they had gotten away was a fact. It was the how that remained a mystery. How long had Lily-Mae been forced to endure Zell’s disgusting attentions? And how had she finally managed to get herself and Caroline away? In the absence of additional journals it seemed only her mother knew the answers to those questions.
Lily eyed the phone but didn’t move. What was the point? She’d lost count of how many messages she’d left, all of which had gone ignored. Still, it was the only avenue open to her. Mug in hand, she marched to the phone and punched in her mother’s number, nails tapping while she waited for the inevitable beep to end.
“Mother, pick up,” she finally snapped, imagining Caroline stubbornly entrenched on the couch, listening to every word. “I know you’re there, and I know you can hear me. You might as well answer. I’m just going to keep calling until you do.” She waited a moment, counting to ten and listening to empty silence. She was about to hang up when she heard the receiver lift on the other end.
“Mother?”
“Yes, I’m here.”
“I knew you were. Why haven’t you called me back?”
“Because”—she sighed wearily—“there’s nothing to say.”
“Nothing to say? I just finished reading the most hideous things imaginable, things that happened to your sister, and to you. There’s plenty to say.”
There was the familiar plink of ice being dropping into a martini pitcher, the rasp of a lighter being struck, the sound of smoke being exhaled. “I have no idea what you’re talking about, Lily.”
“Mt. Zion, Mother. I’m talking about Mt. Zion, and what happened there. How could you not tell me any of that?” The line went quiet a moment. “Mother?”
“How do you know about Mt. Zion?”
“I found a stack of notebooks under Lily-Mae’s bed. More like diaries, actually, from when the two of you were there. She wrote about what your mother did . . . and what Zell did.”
“They were about Mt. Zion? That’s all there was?”
“All?” Lily was incredulous. “Abandonment isn’t enough? Rape isn’t enough? There was a baby, Mother. Did she ever tell you that? And what they did to her? My God, it was barbaric.”
“What would it have changed?”
“What would it have changed? Nothing, I suppose. But Mt. Zion was a part of your life. Why would you keep it a secret?”
“I didn’t keep it a secret. I chose not to share it. It’s not the same thing. And it’s my right, don’t you think? Not to share things I’d rather keep private?”
A thought suddenly occurred, one Lily was shocked to admit she had never even considered, one that might explain years of silence. “What he did to Lily-Mae . . .” She faltered as she tried to form the words. “The rape. He didn’t hurt you, too, did he?”
“Rape? Is that how she wrote it down?”
Lily felt mildly stunned. “What other way could she have written it? She was a girl, and he forced himself on her.”
“She was seventeen, Lily. Hardly a child.”
“I read it, Mother, every disgusting word. About Zell and his horrid wife, and about the child. They held her down and forced her to have an abortion, then botched it so badly they almost killed her. Are you saying that didn’t happen, either?”
“I’m not saying those things didn’t happen, Lily. I’m saying they might not have happened the way my sister chose to remember them.”
Lily let the words sink in. “So you’re saying it was a lie? That she made the whole thing up, then wrote it all down in a book no one was ever supposed to see? Why bother?”
There was a pause, then a huff of impatience. “God knows what went through that woman’s mind. She had a knack for concocting stories. She could look you straight in the eye and lie without blinking. I’ve seen her do it.”
“But why this? Why make up a story about Zell?”
“She liked men, Lily. All kinds of men. Rich men. Powerful men. Other people’s men. And when she got caught it was always someone else’s fault. You can’t take anything she wrote in those notebooks as fact. But if it did happen, it was only what she had coming to her.”
“Mother!”
“Zell was a man. She threw herself at him. What did she expect him to do?”
“Not rape her, for God’s sake! How can you even think something like that?”
“You don’t understand her. You can’t.”
“No, I don’t. I never have. You’ve never been willing to talk about her, and now that I’m starting to discover things on my own, you’re telling me she was some sort of pathological liar. At this point I don’t know what to believe.”
“So now I’m the liar.”
“That isn’t what I said, but you’ve got to admit this is all a little bizarre. Daddy leaves me a beach house, and when I get here it’s full of Lily-Mae’s things. Then when I ask you about something she wrote you shut me down, just like you always do. And I’m just supposed to take you at your word. Can you see why I might be skeptical?”
“It’s over, Lily, done with. She’s dead, and I’m finished talking about it. I wish you could be, too. It’s time to focus on Milan and let this obsession of yours go.”
“Not until I sort through the rest of what’s here.”
“Throw it out, or just leave it.”
There was a tremor in Caroline’s voice, as if she were afraid. “I can’t do that, Mother. She was my aunt, and for better or worse, I want to know who she was. I’m not asking you to talk about it anymore. I’ll work it out for myself.”
“You’re doing this to spite me.” Caroline’s voice shook with suppressed fury. “You and your father.”
Lily stifled a groan. She didn’t have time for drama. “It isn’t spite, Mother. I’m curious. I’ve always been curious. Because she’s family. You hate her. I get that. But you think that means I have to hate her, too. You’ve just never told me why. So unless you’re willing to talk about it now, I’m going to find out for myself.”
“Lily, please—”
“I’m getting off now, Mother. I won’t bother you anymore.”
Lily hung up more frustrated than ever. She’d been hoping for a little insight into the events in the journal, to be a little closer by the end of the call to knowing the real Lily-Mae. Instead, two distinct but conflicting likenesses of the woman were beginning to emerge: one a sad and selfless martyr, the other a liar and a tease. Which was real?
EIGHTEEN
A bead of sweat traced down Lily’s temple as she labeled and set aside another box for giveaway. Stretching the kinks from her back, she eyed the stack of cartons waiting to be taken to Goodwill—old cookbooks, dishes, pots and pans. After four straight days of backbreaking work, it was good to see some progress, and to finally be able to walk in a straight line from the bedroom to the kitchen. But four days of sorting, sifting, and tossing had taken a toll on her muscles—and her mood, which hadn’t been great to start with after the confrontation with her mother on the phone the other day.
Other than morning coffee on the deck, she hadn’t been out of the cottage in days, opting to stay focused on the tasks at hand. It was hard to believe she’d already been here a week, that one-third of her time on Hideaway Key had already ticked by. Milan was waiting, but there was still so much she hadn’t touched, more than she could ever hope to get through in two weeks. But how could she possibly walk away without knowing the rest of Lily-Mae’s story?
She didn’t have to, though. Not really. It wasn’t like she needed the money. If she really wanted to stay, she could. All she had to do was pick up the phone and tell Dario she wasn’t coming, that with everything tha
t had happened since her father’s death she couldn’t possibly leave the States right now. And if she made that call—what then? Would there be another opportunity? Did she even want one?
Beyond the open doors a flash of gull wings caught her eye, silver-white against a blinding blue sky. She watched the bird skim over the water, sinking and then lifting away, effortless on the afternoon breeze. Nowhere to go, nowhere to be. Just free.
Without warning, a pang of grief hit her square in the chest, a sense of loss so keen it made her throat constrict. She missed her father, the comfort of his presence, the sound of his voice, the ability to pick up the phone and ask him what she should do. But she already knew what he would say.
Follow your North Star.
And she had been—or at least she’d been trying. For all she knew, her North Star was in Milan. She knew it wasn’t in Paris, or in New York. And it certainly wasn’t here in Hideaway. How could it be, when the cottage had simply fallen into her lap, a whim of her father? She thought of what Sheila had said, about there not being any accidents, and everything happening as it was supposed to. She didn’t know if she believed that or not—or if she even wanted to. What she did know was that if there was any hope at all of clearing the cottage by the end of June she had better stick with it. But first she needed some lunch.
A few minutes later, Lily stepped out onto the deck with a bottled water and a hastily assembled turkey sandwich. She ate standing at the railing, watching the steady progress of a sailboat tracking across the horizon. She was halfway through her sandwich when she thought she heard the faint strains of music. Head cocked, she strained to locate the source of the sound. For a moment it disappeared, snatched away on the breeze, but then it returned—U2’s “Mysterious Ways.”
Going up on tiptoe, she peered past the screen of sabal palms. Dean was on the patio, bare to the waist and shiny with sweat, a black boom box stationed nearby. He looked to be finishing up for the day, hosing out a large plastic bucket, gathering up trowels and mortar boards. When he was finished he drained a nearby bottle of water, mopped his face, and headed out onto the beach.
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