* * *
At the funeral, Gabi played Mozart’s “Lacrimosa” on her flute and there wasn’t a dry eye in the church. Not Zoey’s or Nick’s. Nor Scott’s or Kathleen’s. Not Aidan’s or Lauren’s or Carla’s nor any of the other funeral attendees’ eyes, including Mark’s.
Later that afternoon, when almost everyone had departed from the reception, Zoey was shuttling the platters of leftover food from the dining room into the kitchen when Gabi asked if she wanted to go for a swim.
Zoey wiped her brow. “Not yet, honey. I’ve got to take care of this, first.”
“No, you don’t,” Kathleen insisted. “We’re here to help. You’re sweating. Go take a minute for yourself.”
Lauren, Scott and Nick echoed her sentiment, so Zoey put on her swimsuit and as they walked to Rose Beach, Gabi linked arms with her. Her niece didn’t say anything but when Zoey glanced over, she noticed a tear on her cheek.She needed a few quiet moments away, too,she realized.
They continued in silence, dropping their T-shirts and towels in the sand when they got to the beach. The tide was in, so they didn’t have far to wade before the nippy water was up to their waists. They stood together in shared, wordless sorrow, gazing toward the horizon for a long while. Zoey was just about to ask her niece if she’d changed her mind about taking her first swim of the season, when Gabi sucked in a deep breath of air and plunged into the water.
A few seconds later she burst up through the surface about twenty feet away. “That feltawesome!” she squealed, so reminiscent of her mother that Zoey wanted to laugh and she wanted to cry. But instead of doing either, she dived forward, too.
* * *
“Mark really expects you to leave by the end of July?” Nick asked. It was two weeks after the funeral and since he noticed a very faint stain on the wall in the best room, he had stopped by to open it up and check for water damage, which turned out to be negligible. They were chatting in the driveway, since Zoey had just returned from the grocery store and Nick was on his way to another client’s house. “That doesn’t give you much time.”
“For him, I consider it generous,” Zoey said with a chuckle.
“Couldn’t you stay here and manage the leasing process?”
Zoey wondered if this was Nick’s way of telling her he didn’t want her to leave yet. He’d been incredibly thoughtful, helpful and sympathetic in the days and weeks following Ivy’s death. But their conversations hadn’t reached the depth of intimacy they’d shared the night Zoey tried to dig up the rose shrubs. She had thought he’d make a move or say something to confirm he felt the same way about her that she felt about him. It was understandable if he didn’t want to ask her out or express his feelings for her when she was grieving. But she hoped that wasn’t the only deterrent because a part of her would always grieve her aunt, just as part of her would always draw strength and joy from her memories. And since one of those memories included Ivy’s admonition to live her life fully, Zoey decided if Nick didn’t make his feelings clearly known by the end of the week, she’d bring up the subject herself.
“As mellow as Mark has been lately, I can’t imagine him letting me continue to occupy a room here during prime summer vacation time.” Nor could she imagine herself wantingto occupy a room at her aunt’s home once it was filled with strangers. In a strange way, now that Mark’s plan to lease it out had become a reality, Zoey felt as if she’d lost another family member; thehouse. Her chest felt tight as she said, “Besides, I’ve got to get used to city living again before my library position starts at the end of August.”
“Yeah, I suppose you’ll need time to transition.” Nick shifted his toolbox to his other hand. “By the way, I found a book in the wall. I left it on the end table in the best room.”
“A book inthe wall? How did it getinthe wall?”
“My guess is it fell into the open wall cavity from the attic, some time before the house was insulated in the eighties. It would have dropped all the way to the basement because the walls were hollow, but it got stuck on the window header.”
“What kind of book is it?”
“A journal or a ledger, maybe. I didn’t read it. Anyway, I’ve got a busy day tomorrow but I can come back and patch the wall some time after five.”
Seizing the opportunity, Zoey invited him to come for supper the next evening and he accepted with a smile. After going inside and putting the groceries away, she retrieved the book from where Nick had left it and perched on the settee in the best room. The small, brown, leather-covered volume was encircled three times and tied with yellowed twine. As Zoey picked at the knot, the old string came apart in her hands. She opened the book and read the inscription:
For Sylvia on her 20th Birthday—Love, Mother.
Sylvia’s journal? As excited as she was by the discovery, Zoey had a small compunction about reading her shy aunt’s private musings. But when she leafed through the first few pages, she saw the short entries read more like a list of daily activities than a diary of confidential reflections. Her aunt had begun the journal by recording details such as:
I cleaned the Baldwins’ home today and finished by 6:30.
And:
For supper I made creamed tuna on toast for us girls. I gave Father the ham steak Mrs. Lawrence sent home with me—he said it was too dry without glaze.
Scanning the entries, Zoey danced her feet against the floor when she read:
I’ve saved enough money from gardening on the weekends to buy a ferry ticket to Dune Island. I leave May 10th. I’ll help prepare summer homes for their owners’ arrivals and then hopefully one of the families will hire me as their full-time maid for the summer season.
The subsequent pages captured Sylvia’s early days of living in a boarding house. It also chronicled her foray into socializing with other young women and men—something she hadn’t been permitted to do at home because she was expected to be at her father’s beck and call whenever she wasn’t working. Sylvia’s delight, as well as her innocence, was evident when she wrote about her first dating experiences. Zoey found it sweet that her aunt was so bashful about discussing the opposite sex—even in her diary—that she only referred to the young men by their first initials.
At the bonfire, my roommate Betty met a guy named R. He had a friend named D., who asked Betty if her pretty friend has a boyfriend. He meantme—imagine that?!
D. asked me out. We went to a pizza parlor and then strolled along the Boardwalk, holding hands.
