Gwen read the lyrics to the jazz piece.
The dark endless night, the return of the light
Forever remember the rock and the ice
“Alaska has only four hours of daylight in the winter,” she said. “Days get longer in the spring.”
Peter tapped his finger on the open notebook. “I’ve noticed she often writes about the sea in a way that makes it seem violent, like a murderous villain. It makes me wonder if it’s a metaphor for something. Maybe the boyfriend was abusive?”
“Interesting theory,” Gwen said. “But many of her ballads are uplifting love songs.”
“True. But just as many are about heartbreak.”
Peter reached for another book on the table. He must have brought it with him, because it wasn’t part of the museum collection. “Back to Alaska and the violent sea ... I’ve been researching the earthquake, and there were a hundred and fifteen deaths in Alaska, which is quite remarkable considering the strength of the quake and the damage it caused. But guess where the greatest loss of life occurred.” He opened the book to a page he had marked with a yellow sticky note and showed Gwen a black-and-white aerial photograph of a devastated town. “Valdez, Alaska. But not because of the quake. Most of the people died when the docks collapsed on the waterfront.”
Gwen squinted to look more closely at the picture. “No kidding.”
“And check this out,” Peter continued. “Do you see this glacier behind the town? The whole town was built on the loose sediment from that glacier, and when the shaking started, the ground liquefied under the docks, which caused an underwater landslide, taking the docks with it. Most of the people on the docks fell into the sea, and thedisplacement of all that earth and the structures caused a tidal wave that swept into the town. Doesn’t that sound like a lot of Scarlett’s lyrics?”
Gwen took hold of the book and studied the old photographs. “It does. And the newspaper clipping said the baby was rescued from the sea. Maybe she was on the docks when they collapsed.”
“That’s what I’m thinking as well,” Peter said.
Gwen pondered all this and made a face. “I hate to challenge your theory, but she was also writing music in Switzerland up until the year she died. I often thought that the references to mountains and snow were inspired by the Swiss Alps, but maybe you’re right. Maybe it was Alaska.”
“And guess what they called Valdez,” he added. “Little Switzerland. There was even a hotel in Valdez called the Switzerland Inn.”
Gwen turned to Peter, perplexed. “Do you think that’s why she went to Switzerland? But why not back to Alaska?”
“Maybe she wanted to be reminded of it but couldn’t go back there because people would have recognized her and made the connection to her being there in ’64.”
Gwen set the book down and wandered toward the storage shelves. She chewed on her thumbnail as she considered the facts. “It doesn’t really make sense. If she lived in Valdez, wouldn’t someone have sold a story about her to the tabloids or bragged about how they knew her once? In all these years, no one ever did that.”
Peter sat down at the table. “That’s definitely a fly in the ointment. Unless she was only there for a short time, maybe just passing through?”
Gwen faced Peter. “She took a stage name when she went to Hollywood. She would have been Valerie McCarthy in 1964. Not Scarlett Fontaine. But still ... people don’t often forget beautiful faces.” Gwen looked up at the storage boxes on the top shelves. “Suddenly I feel like I need to rethink every impression and opinion I ever had about her. Start from scratch and get to know her all over again.”
“My feeling is that she wasn’t as easy to read as everyone thought,” Peter said. “Or as happy. She was famous for her smile, but when I listened to her entire body of work last night ...” He paused. “There was something melancholy about it all. There’s also anger beneath the surface of everything. It’s subtle, but it’s there if you read between the lines. But those ballads she wrote in Switzerland, at the end of her life?” He pressed his fist to his chest. “They’re so beautiful. The love hits you right here. It’s hard not to weep when you listen to those melodies.”
Touched and surprised by Peter’s romantic interpretations, Gwen turned to him. “I feel the same way about those songs.”
A spark of memory took her back to moments when she’d sat at her daughter’s grave, listening to Scarlett’s music, surrendering entirely to her grief ...
“Gwen?” Peter said.
She realized she had turned away from him. She was now facing a colorful framed painting on the wall—a meadow of wildflowers—while her eyes stung with tears.
Peter laid his hand on her back. “Are you okay?”
“Yes. I’m sorry.” She blinked the tears away.
“Don’t apologize.” He briefly rubbed her shoulder before giving her some space and returning to the open books on the table.
Watching him, Gwen realized that perhaps she needed to rethink her initial impressions of Peter as well as Scarlett. He was more moved and affected by the music than she had expected, and he’d been very caring and sympathetic just now.
“I’m glad you came here,” she said openly. “And that you trusted me with the picture you found.”
“I’m glad too.” He tidied the books spread out on the table. “I’ll probably spend the whole day here, if you don’t mind, going through the rest of the collection.”
