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This is the burial spot for our love and my betrayal. By burying it all here under my favorite spot in the garden, I hope to finally put this love affair to rest and go on with my life. Such as it is.
I have come so often to sit on this bench in the shade. Thoughts of him always accompanied me. But they can no longer do so. I must let go or hurt the man who has stood by me through everything, who has loved me beyond measure. I must be present in the here and now with my Clive. My first love. My husband.
I keep my hands busier than ever, hoping hard work will erase the memories of Bromley and the love we walked away from. “We must do the right thing,” I’d whispered to him. “I must go home.”
“Yes, you must,” Bromley had replied. “But it will feel like death to me.”
I’ve tried to push away thoughts of him. But it is no use. He is always with me. I cannot let him go. Not all the way. But in truth, all I have left of him is the regret and angst about the impossible choice I had to make.
If only my creations could make me forget. Although there had never been secrets between us, I’ve been of two minds. Should I tell Clive what’s distracted me for these past months? Or, would it only hurt him to know the truth? Perhaps, it’s bad enough that I know it already. Whatever I decide, I cannot run from my grief or longing. It is ever present. Perhaps this is my punishment for betraying my husband?
Yes, I’ve deceived my beloved husband. Not in body, mind you. No, I couldn’t allow that to happen. Only once did I come close to allowing him to kiss me. That is the night I decided I must walk away and come home. In my mind, though, my heart, it all belonged to Bromley. It was not my intent.
I’d like to think it was only vanity that drew me to him. No man had fallen at my feet in such a way. I was thirty-four years old, after all. Beyond my best blooming years of youth to be sure. Yet he fell for me. Nor was it the lifestyle he represented. I never became caught up in his life of glamour and wealth. It might have been intoxicating to other women. Especially for one who grew up hungry as I had.
No, it was all him. Bromley Hunting.
It began with an invitation to make the dress and gowns for the wedding of Cordelia Hunting. They asked that I come to Florida to design a custom gown.
Who would have ever thought such a request would come? Not me. The Hunting family was as rich as the Rockefellers and Vanderbilts.
All my life, I’ve tried to emulate my sister Quinn. I truly have. She is loyal and nurturing. A mother figure to all who meet her. I’ve failed miserably at being anyone but me. A dreamer and a romantic with the ambition of Lady Macbeth. How can all three of those qualities reside in the same woman and not do herself harm? I don’t know the answer, other than I am broken. I’m destroyed by the intensity of my feelings. I cannot simply carry on as if I am not changed by love. It would be impossible.
The ruin of two hearts, Bromley’s and mine. Now I must protect Clive. He must remain unhurt and innocent. He’s done nothing wrong except choose the wrong woman to be his bride. I am the one who must pay the penance, not him.
My story remains inside this journal. No one but God and myself knows the truth of my feelings. How ripped to bits I am. I must bury all my feelings and move on with my life. That is all I can do.
“Wow,” Jamie said, looking up at me with wide eyes. “Can you believe it?”
“Barely,” I said.
“Me either, but you can bet I’m going to find out more if I can.”
I had no doubt about that.
10
JAMIE
As obsessed as I was over the mysterious box and its contents, I was perhaps more so with Darby. I’d have spent the rest of the evening reading the journal and letters, but I didn’t want to waste time doing so when I had Darby alone. Plus, I had to feed the poor guy. It was almost nine by the time I got up from the mystery box and my dinner date to put the steaks on to broil. I’d stopped after work to pick up groceries, including two large potatoes to bake, which were already done and smelled terrific. The steak was a tough flank cut, but I’d beat the crap out of it before putting some meat tenderizer on it.
Darby opened the bottle of wine he’d brought with him. While the steaks broiled, I quickly put together a salad. As I worked, we continued with theories about our friend Annabelle.
“What I know,” I said, “is that Annabelle left Emerson Pass for good in 1937. Clive died in 1936, unexpectedly.” I’d read that during my research of the house. “The year after his death, she sold the house and moved somewhere else. The people who built the gazebo lived there for decades after that. I think anyway. They only lived there part of the year and according to their kids had refused to sell it. When they died, the kids left it abandoned for long enough that it needed almost a complete overhaul. But the old place had good bones, as they say.” I paused to take a sip of wine. Berries and tobacco.
“Is the wine okay?”
“Yes, it’s good,” I said.
Darby winced as he sat in one of my kitchen chairs. “Sorry, a little sore from today.”
“I hope you’re not going to permanently hurt yourself,” I said.
“Nah. I’m tough. If you’d seen how I was raised you wouldn’t be worried.”
That made me curious, but I decided to let it go for now. I found myself wanting nothing more than to hear everything about him.
“I wonder where she went?” I asked Darby. “Do you think she went to Bromley after Clive died?”
