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MAYA: Wow.
PHOEBE: You have to get that necklace back!
Maya ignored the message, started the engine, and returned home. As she wandered through the shadowed halls that afternoon, her footsteps echoing, she couldn’t help but tremor with loneliness. Nothing about her life fit the description she’d always told herself. And now, as Olivia spouted her resentment toward the Albrights and Maya herself, Maya felt helpless.
ChapterSixteen
To distract Maya from her anxious, stirring mind, Brad spent the night at the Albright mansion that evening, brewed her coffee in the morning, and stayed as long as he could without being late to school. Maya listened from the bed as Brad closed the front door, leaving her alone in the huge house. She had half a mind to jump back into her car and drive to Pennsylvania, where it was safe.
But no. Now that a full day had passed since she’d officially learned the identity of her half-sister, she was armed with even more questions:why had the Albrights given Olivia up for adoption? And why had Bethany abandoned the Albrights? Were the two issues related? And, if she discovered the truth, could she bring Olivia back to the mansion? Could she heal the wounds of the past?
Maya set to work with renewed energy, scouring the upstairs bedrooms and the libraries for answers. Over the course of her time there, she’d stumbled into a few diaries, none of which had interested her at the time. Now, she ached to find a diary from the year 1971— perhaps one written by Veronica or even Bethany herself.
Instead, during the late afternoon, she stumbled into something better.
A complete collection of diaries from her Grandmother, Diane.
Maya didn’t find them in either library. In fact, she found them as she rearranged her clothes in the back closet of her Aunt Veronica’s bedroom. Because she’d slept there for a week, she’d begun to think of the room as “her space” and had forgotten to look there for clues. But, of course, it stood to reason that Veronica would keep priceless items there. Her mother’s diaries, which spanned the course of her entire life, were priceless.
Maya set the diaries on the edge of the bed. Her head and heart pounded. After diving through so many photographs the past week, she’d come to think of her Grandma Diane with fear. She’d been a regal and terribly beautiful woman with the air of someone who’d always looked down on the rest of the world.
Because Maya was a writer, she wanted to get context of her grandmother’s life before she charged directly to 1971. So, she picked up the first diary, which her grandmother had written at the age of eighteen. This is what she read:
April 18, 1950
You can’t imagine how excruciating it is to fall in love with someone your father hates. My older sister, Margot, is betrothed to a well-dressed and very rich man who has promised her even more wealth. My parents assume I will find someone like him. But it’s nothing to me. Not now that I’ve met Victor.
I can’t imagine staying here, knowing Victor is just down the road, yearning for me. I can’t imagine living a life so far from passion. It seems okay for Margot— but I’ve always been different. I know that.
Victor tells me he has a promising opportunity in America. I know nothing of America; I know only what the romantics say of it— of its impossible mountains and marvelous riches for even the poorest of men.
I know it’s no use explaining to Father the tremendous depths of Victor’s heart. Father would laugh me off the estate if he heard me use such language. He’s never understood anything.
May 11, 1950
Margot is married. She’s moved to a gorgeous estate just across the moor and has already taken to speaking in that horribly drab way married ladies speak, as though she looks down upon anyone who hasn’t precisely made her decisions. Father and Mother have begun nudging me about Margot’s husband’s brother, who has just returned from India. It’s assumed he’s finished his “wild” years and is now ready to settle with a “sensible woman like me.” But who’s to say I’m sensible? Isn’t that the most boring thing of all!
Victor Albright has a plan for me. For us. We will leave tomorrow, late at night, and be aboard the ship by the following morning. We’ll have hardly a few pennies to rub together, which is utterly romantic. I know nothing about being poor, but being rich doesn’t seem to have done my parents any good. And it certainly didn’t keep Margot’s betrothed at home and safe.
Forgive me. I’m bringing the emerald necklace. It belonged to my father’s great-grandmother and was meant to be mine after I married, anyway. I can’t part with it. And no matter how wretched things get in America, I will never sell it.
July 14, 1950
We’ve been in America for six weeks. Throughout most of that time, Victor and I have been terribly ill. We’ve holed up in a horrific apartment in New York City, where we share a bathroom down the hall with the rest of the neighbors. While Victor scans the city for work, I spend the day in bed, crying.
I finally contacted my family to let them know I’m all right. I imagine they recognize the devastation in my words. I made a horrible mistake in coming here. Yet I know I can never go back.
Loving Victor was the worst decision of my life. I got caught up in the fantastical language he used about a future that doesn’t exist. I am a foolish woman, and I must pay the consequences. I do not know what will become of me. Perhaps I will die in this apartment in Manhattan, one that reeks of garbage.
December 14, 1950
It will be the most miserable Christmas. That is sure. I spent over an hour contemplating the heirloom necklace, marveling at its beauty and the sheer wealth behind it. I considered what money I could get from pawning it. Thousands? Millions? Then again, whatever pawnshop I wandered into probably couldn’t give me what it’s worth.
Listen to me. I nearly pawned a priceless heirloom. I must be insane.
Victor continues with his promises. He’s so sure he’s on the brink of discovering something incredible. Of becoming one of these wealthy Manhattan men we see on the street sometimes.
Oh, it’s horrible listening to him. Sometimes, I can’t stand it.
