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The distinguished older man she is writing about must be my father—the timeline makes sense. She married him when she was eighteen and he said they met at one of her father’s parties.
I couldn’t help but wonder what kind of advice she would have given me if she was still alive. Would she have shared my father’s hatred of all Windsors or would she have understood my fascination with Devlin when I was younger? Would she have intervened and kept my father from ruining my prom?
I flipped the page and started reading the next entry, but it was rather dull—just stuff about school, a teacher she didn’t like, and a test that she had forgotten to study for. I flipped through a few more pages and it was similar stuff—the usual angst of a teenage girl. She even wrote an entire page about a zit that she named Charlie—which was also the first name of the teacher she hated.
God, she had a sense of humor. That kind of reminds me of Georgia—I think she named one of her zits too.
I kept flipping and continuing to laugh at the kind of stuff my mother considered more important than life or death at that age. She was so carefree and happy. I wished I could have seen that side of her—the woman that existed before she was a mother of three and so incredibly busy.
I would have liked to have been able to sit down and have one meaningful conversation with her—to know more about the woman I screamed for every time one of my siblings tormented me. The woman that was taken long before her time.
Diary of Brynne Davenport - February 14, 1989
Do you know what I hate? Valentine’s Day. Guess who didn’t get a single flower? Even some of the teachers got flowers! I thought he would send me something—I mean, he’s taken me on two dates now. It has to be a secret or else my father would lose his mind, but would a bouquet have been too much to ask for? He wouldn’t have even had to sign his name. I would have known who they were from.
So much for him being Mr. Romantic. He might as well just unzip his pants and point like Johnny Carmichael did when I made the mistake of going out with him.
Maybe I should just tell my father that he kissed me—that would be fun. I bet he’d regret not sending me flowers after he got his balls chopped off.
I blinked a couple of times and suppressed a giggle. My mother wasn’t just some sweet innocent girl—she was a firecracker. Thinking about flowers made me sad though. My father always brought her flowers—every Sunday—except she didn’t get to see them. They were just left beside the gravestone that stood as a reminder of the woman she was.
Brynne Cabot.
Beloved daughter.
Beloved mother.
Beloved wife.
I wiped away a tear and squeezed my eyes shut as my emotions started trying to flood down my face. My fingers trembled as I flipped to the next page.
Diary of Brynne Davenport - February 15, 1989
I got flowers! Beautiful long stem roses that make the whole room smell like I’m standing in a garden. One of the maids left them in the kitchen and forgot to tell me that they arrived. If I wasn’t so excited to see them, I might have had her fired on the spot.
There’s just one problem. The roses aren’t from Mr. Romantic. I called him as soon as I saw them because I wanted to express my gratitude, but he said he didn’t really do the Valentine’s Day thing. I guess that would have been good to know before I got so worked up about it.
So, I have flowers—but from who? I told my father they were from a boy at school, but I’m pretty sure they’re not.
Do I have a secret admirer? This is kind of exciting.
I was shocked to learn that my mother had a secret admirer. Was that my father? Was he the one who sent her flowers? As far as I knew, he didn’t have anything against Valentine’s Day. I flipped through a few more pages of discussions about school, teachers, wondering who the guy was that sent her flowers, a list of names that seemed to be comprised of boys she went to school with, and then I finally found another entry that was a little more interesting.
Diary of Brynne Davenport - March 1, 1989
Mr. Admirer has a name—and it wasn’t anyone that I suspected. Dating him would be even more scandalous than Mr. Romantic, but how can I resist a man who bought me such beautiful roses? I agreed to go out with him next weekend. I don’t know if I’ll like him, but I’ll give him a shot. He’s—nice. He’s handsome.
