by Nicole Baart
But when Adri opened the door to the inner sanctum, Victoria’s bedroom, she was so taken aback she couldn’t immediately enter.
The room was an eruption of color and textures and deep shadows that played off every remarkable angle and surface the space had to offer. There were heavy, crimson curtains that flanked the large window and pooled on the floor, and a four-poster bed with ornately carved columns that reached almost to the ceiling. The bedspread looked like an exotic batik, splashed in reds and blues and greens that would have made a lovely tribal dress. Pictures hung on every available inch of wall space, photographs and original oil paintings on unframed canvases and even a couple of crayon drawings. Adri stepped close to one of them and studied what appeared to be three stick people beneath a purple tree. In the corner, DAVID was scrawled in shaky block letters, and then the number 5. His age. His family.
Adri put a hand to her mouth and swallowed a sudden wave of emotion. This place wasn’t a bedroom, it was the woman herself. It was Victoria in a way that Adri had never seen her before. Raw and exposed and vibrant. It felt to Adri like she was looking directly into Victoria’s soul, and it was abundant in a way that Adri had never suspected.
She lost track of time. At first she investigated with her hands folded behind her back, a museum patron well aware of how even the tiniest trace of oil can ruin a masterpiece. But Victoria’s treasures begged to be touched, and before long Adri was running her fingers over a soft, leather-bound copy of a collection of early American poetry and picking up trinkets to try to discern their significance. A jar full of shells. A tiny clay pot that contained what appeared to be sand. There was even a small stuffed duck, his brown beak made from corduroy and his body velveteen.
But what Adri loved best were the pictures. She couldn’t stop herself from leaning close, her nose almost against the glass, and studying the people inside. There were black-and-white photographs that Adri assumed showed Victoria as a child, her brother towheaded and serious beside her. And then some of an elegant young woman, her pale hair pulled back at the nape of her neck and her eyes lit by some fire that made them sparkle, even through the faded paper of a yellowed photograph. The woman had to be Victoria, and she was lovely in a way that made Adri unaccountably sad.
Scattered between all the others, in no discernible pattern, there were several photos of David at different points in his young life: chubby-cheeked and grinning toothlessly or sitting on the top of the pasture fence with his skinny little boy legs hooked through the slats. It was a bit disarming to discover such sweet, unedited pictures of her former fiancé—these were not the photos that made it into the family albums showcased in the library downstairs. There was an unvarnished quality to them. A sense that they had been snapped quickly, and then tucked away like a well-kept secret.
Adri was so consumed by her makeshift tour of Victoria’s bedroom, it took her a long time to realize that there was something off about the patchwork space. It seemed animated, even alive, with memories and things that Victoria had held dear, but when Adri paused to consider yet another candid photograph, it struck her that something was missing.
Liam.
Stepping quickly around the room, Adri scanned the artifacts that Victoria had accumulated for some sign of the imposing Mr. Galloway. A wedding picture, a piece of expensive jewelry that bore his mark, a bottle of old cologne that would remind her of the way that he had smelled. There was nothing. Not a single scrap of anything that even hinted Victoria had been married at all.
Adri couldn’t get her mind around it. Her own mother had been dead for over twenty years and her father still had a small shrine to her on his dresser. A scarf she had loved, a few pictures in old frames. Georgia was alive in their home and in their memories, but it seemed as if Victoria had completely erased every trace of her husband from her life.
Why?
But Adri suspected she knew exactly why.
She found the journal on the bedside stand, the sixth book in a stack of paperback novels and a thin prayer book that was dog-eared and looked much used. Adri took a deep breath and considered sitting on the edge of the bed to crack open the pages, but the room was too personal, too intimate for such an intrusion. Instead, she carried the book back into the sitting room, and sank into one of the hardback chairs. Her heart thumped an uneven rhythm as she smoothed her hand over the fabric cover. But Victoria was dead. There was no one left to grant permission. And hadn’t Victoria herself invited this sort of scrutiny? Wasn’t her letter an open provocation for Adri to uncover whatever she could?
She opened the book.
The first page was empty. And the second and the third. Adri thumbed quickly through the rest of it, shuffling pages several at a time and then going back more slowly to pry them apart one by one just to make sure she hadn’t missed anything. It was a thick book and Adri held her breath as she paged through it all. But there was nothing to be found.
Her disappointment was suffocating. After finding the room and all that it contained, she had such high hopes for the diary. But apparently Victoria expressed herself through the items she stockpiled, not words. If only Adri could read each object, a braille of sorts, a tactile story that would pass beneath her fingers and tell her all she needed to know.
Sighing, Adri stood and went to return the journal to its rightful place on Victoria’s nightstand. She had no idea what she would do with the room. If it had been a small garden shed or something else contained, she would’ve considered burning it. A funeral pyre for a woman who had lived two lives: the one she allowed everyone else to see and the one she lived in private. Adri couldn’t help feeling that Victoria would have approved. For now she would simply close the door and lock it. The door latched from the inside and she would probably need a locksmith to open it if she ever cared to enter again. But for now, it was all that Adri could think to do. Somehow, it seemed like her only choice.
She stacked the books back in the order she had found them, the prayer book on the top. The thin, navy cover of the uppermost volume was so curled it looked like a dark wave, the inner edge peeking over the crest of a whitecap. Adri thought to place another book on top, just to force the cover to lie flat, when she realized that there was something written on the inside. Bending it open with her finger, she found a name. A number. But it wasn’t Victoria Galloway. Instead, in small, neat letters and numbers was written: This book belongs to Katherine Holt. 756-2235.
11
Monday dawned bright and crisp. Adri could feel the autumn chill through the cool boards of her bedroom floor, and brought a step stool out of the hall closet so she could snag a tote of old sweaters down from the top shelf in her armoire. They smelled of fabric softener and time, a scent that anchored her heart in the past. It was a melancholy feeling, so she picked out a subtle weave in a dark, stormy blue, and parted her hair deep on the left side like she had when she was younger. At first she swept it back in a ponytail, but her dad’s comment before church still echoed in her ears, and in the end she let it hang down around her shoulders. Adri even went so far as to spritz on an old perfume—not her favorite, but a cheap bottle that she had received for christmas from will one year. It reminded her of honeysuckle.
She was probably being sentimental, but staring in the mirror, Adri thought she looked like a twenty-year-old version of herself. After just one week in Iowa, the African sun was already fading from her cheeks, and she was a softer, paler version of the woman who pulled her hair back hard from her face so that it would not stick to her forehead when the temperature soared over 100 degrees. The transformation hadn’t been intentional, not at first, but as she drove to Katherine’s house she realized that a small part of her was hoping to get the sweet old tutor talking. And she figured the best way to do it was to be the girl she had been. Innocent. Just a little naive.
Thinking about Victoria Galloway always made Adri feel unsophisticated and immature. Victoria had bee
n unfailingly kind to Adri, as reserved and courteous as a well-bred hostess, but there had been little warmth between them.
Katherine’s house was an unassuming brick ranch in the heart of town. Surrounded by elaborate English gardens that had gone to seed, it wasn’t hard to decipher the retired tutor’s beloved hobby—or her age. Ten years ago, Adri knew every bed would have been trimmed and displayed to their full autumnal advantage, but now she could tell that Katherine was simply too tired or too sick to keep up. She wondered if she should offer to help clean the gardens. And yet, one more thing on her checklist would only prolong her time in Blackhawk. The thought made her shudder.
Adri rang the bell and stepped back on the wide front step, tucking her hair behind her ears as if afraid that Katherine would tsk at the strays that flirted with the breeze. She didn’t know what to expect. Would Katherine resent her showing up unannounced? Would she remember her fondly? Or hate her for what she had done?
By the time the door swung open, Adri was a wreck of emotions, ready to retreat to Betty and forget that she had ever felt compelled to seek out Katherine at all.
But it was too late. “Adrienne.”
Whatever Adri had expected, she hadn’t planned on the hug that Katherine enveloped her in. The retired tutor was nearly as elegant as Victoria had been, and though she had to be pushing seventy, she was still smartly dressed and stylish with small diamond drop earrings that accented the polished sweep of her short hair. There were a pair of tortoiseshell glasses dangling from a pretty beaded chain around her neck, and the frames felt like an extension of Katherine’s thin figure as Adri nervously hugged her back.
“I didn’t know if I would ever see you again,” Katherine said when she stepped back to hold Adri at arm’s length. “It’s a delight. Truly, Adrienne, it’s wonderful to see you.”
They had coffee in the front room, the windows spilling such warmth across Adri’s shoulders that she was sweating in minutes. Katherine seemed not to notice as she poured half-and-half into her cup and stirred the contents with a tiny, etched spoon that looked like it must have come from somewhere exotic. Thailand. Mumbai.
“Tell me what you’ve been up to,” Katherine said, settling back into a navy-colored couch with sigh. “Are you still in Africa?”
“Yes.” Adri forced herself to nod, though small talk was the last thing she was after. “But that’s not really why I’m here, Mrs. Holt.”
“Katherine.”
“Katherine,” Adri amended. “I’m sorry, I don’t mean to be rude, but I would like to talk about Victoria.”
“Of course you would.” Katherine’s eyes went soft and Adri wondered if she would cry. “God rest her soul.”
“Amen,” Adri said, but she didn’t know where the word or the sentiment came from. She set down her cup of coffee untouched and leaned forward to put her elbows on her knees. “It’s just that Victoria wrote me a letter.”
“She liked real letters. None of this email nonsense.” Katherine gave Adri a conspiratorial smile, a look that communicated that she knew better. And indeed, there was a sleek MacBook on the end table that bore witness to Katherine’s technological prowess. It made Adri wonder if Katherine knew more than she let on; if she was on Facebook and had peered at all those photos of another life, another Adri that no one here could claim to know.
“I didn’t realize that about her,” Adri said. “I guess I didn’t know Victoria as well as I would have liked.”
“What are you here for, sweetheart?” Katherine’s gaze was shrewd but kind, and Adri found herself wanting to please this woman who seemed to hold the keys to the secret of Victoria Galloway.
“I have a lot of questions,” she admitted. “And I don’t know who to ask.”
“I can’t promise you answers.”
“You knew Victoria better than anyone.”
Katherine dipped her head in assent. “She wasn’t exactly an open book.”
“Why did she leave me the estate?” Adri blurted. Why did she write that she had secrets? And that she knew mine?
Katherine sipped her coffee, holding Adri’s gaze over the rim of her porcelain cup. “I can’t claim to understand Victoria’s intentions,” she said when the cup was once again nestled in her lap. “But I do know that Victoria felt she had failed you somehow. There’s a saying about secrets being lies and bad manners besides, but that’s not necessarily accurate, is it? Sometimes secrets are the truth. I think Victoria was angry at herself for not telling the truth.”
“About Liam?” Adri swallowed. It was such an awkward thing to talk about. Rumors had floated around Piperhall for as long as Adri could remember. Half-truths and gossip that painted Liam Galloway as a monster and his wife as a victim. Weak and helpless, the sort of woman nobody could help because she refused to help herself. Adri had never put much stock in the whispers—Blackhawk was a small town and people like the Galloways would never be allowed to exist without scandal. But loving David had convinced her that it was true. All of it? Some of it? It didn’t really matter. She was sure that Victoria had been a broken woman clinging to the only thing she had left: her pride. The careful facade of her austerity, the way that she held herself as stiff as a bronze statue, had been an elaborate defense mechanism. And her son was someone she considered a potential threat. It was obvious in the way that they circled each other, close, but never close enough to touch.
It bothered Adri. She imagined that mother love was as automatic, as inherent as breath. How could you not love the woman who gave you life? But David was aloof with Victoria. Indifferent. Every part of her wished that he would be the man she wanted him to be, the sort of man who would adore his mother instead of disdaining her. But he had grown up at the knee of Liam Galloway. The thought sent a little shiver across Adri’s skin.
Once, she had put him on the spot. “Tell me you love her.”
He was silent for a heartbeat. Two. His expression was unreadable, his eyes deadpan. But then he smiled a little, indulgently, and closed the space between them with a stride. “Of course I love her,” David said tucking Adri into his arms. “She’s my mother.” It was exactly what Adri wanted to hear, but he’d confessed it into her hair. Somehow that lessened the impact.
Katherine was studying Adri, her head tilted just a little. “Yes, I imagine Victoria regretted all the secrets about Liam. And David. About the entire Galloway family, I suppose.”
“Would the truth have changed anything?” Adri mused, more to herself than to Katherine.
But Katherine said, “I’ve wondered that myself a hundred times. I knew what was going on, everyone did. Why didn’t we do anything about it?” For a moment her shoulders caved forward. But then she sighed, gave her head a little shake, and straightened herself so gracefully it was as if someone had pulled invisible marionette strings.
“Why didn’t you do anything about it?” Adri asked.
Katherine raised her chin almost imperceptibly. “Air that kind of dirty laundry? It wasn’t done. What would people have thought if they knew? It would have ruined the Galloway name.”
It came down to keeping up appearances. Adri wanted to be furious, but really, she understood. Admitting abuse was a death of sorts.
She had known who David was, or suspected. There was something dangerous about him, something savage just below the surface. But in the beginning, at least, she believed that she could tame him. Isn’t that what love did? Later, Adri worked hard to convince herself that his little indiscretions—palm against her cheek, fingers dug too-tight into her arm, words flung as ammunition—were just accidents of fate, moments of immaturity. Recklessness. And she was a strong girl. It would take more than a slap to break her spirit. But maybe his temper had been a slow burn that would’ve only grown in intensity. If she had known that David was his father’s son, that whatever was fractured in him was beyond repair,would she have stayed?
; Would David have died?
Looking back, Adri wondered if Victoria had tried to tell her on one occasion. It was just after their engagement, and she and David had been searching Piperhall, hoping to find her to relay the good news. Just as they were about to give up and return to campus, Victoria appeared in the grand entrance hall like an illusion. It was as if she already knew their news, and she quickly hugged Adri. The embrace wasn’t awkward so much as it was wooden at first, but then Victoria squeezed, once, a burst of passion that literally took Adri’s breath away. Even at the time, Adri felt sure that David’s stoic mother was sending her a message with that hug. And the look Victoria gave her in the second before David led Adri away was almost covenantal. It bound Adri to something. To what, exactly, she wasn’t sure.
“I would do things differently now,” Katherine confided. “No one should have to suffer the way Victoria did.”
“Victoria wants me to fix things.” Adri’s mouth tugged into a wry smile, her hands open and helpless on her lap. She wasn’t used to feeling helpless.
“Not all broken things can be mended,” Katherine said. She set her cup down on the coffee table and reached as if she would take Adri’s hands in her own. They were too far apart. Katherine twined her fingers together instead. “Piperhall is a sad place with a sad history, and I’m sorry that you got tangled up in all of that. But you have a lot of life ahead of you, Adrienne. Victoria would have wanted you to live it.”
“I don’t know that I can move on.” Adri was surprised by her own admission. “After everything that happened with David and Harper . . .”
Katherine smiled a secret little smile. “Now, that’s a name I haven’t heard in a long time. Whatever happened to her?”
“I have no idea,” Adri said quietly. “Harper is gone.”
“What do you mean gone?” Katherine raised an eyebrow. “Passed away or moved away?”