but—I’m sorry,” Evelyn said. “I got lost in a memory.” She sat down again and turned to face me. “Now, this diary. Yes, it has found its way into your hands,” she said. “You must keep reading it, Emily. The story is important, and you will come to see why.”
I let out a deep sigh. “I wish this all made more sense.”
“I’ve already said too much, dear,” she said. “It’s not my place to talk about. But you deserve to know this story. Keep reading and the answers will come.”
She looked lost for a moment, as if her mind had traveled back to the very year when the story of Esther and Elliot began.
“And what about Bee? How can I keep this from her?”
“We protect the ones we love from certain things,” she said.
I shook my head, confused. “I don’t understand how reading this book would hurt her.”
Evelyn closed her eyes for a moment, and then opened them again. “It’s been a very long time since I have thought about all of this, and believe me, it was once heavy on all of our minds—heavy and inescapable. But time heals all wounds, and those pages, well, I assumed they were gone, or maybe even destroyed. Yet I always hoped they would surface when they needed to.” She paused for a moment. “What room did you say you were staying in, dear?”
I pointed down the hallway. “The pink room.”
She nodded. “Yes. Keep reading the book, dear. And you will know when it’s time to speak to Bee, but be gentle with her when you do.”
Just then, Bee peered around the corner with a steaming platter in her hand. “Dinner’s ready, girls,” she said, “and I have a bottle of Bainbridge Island white here. Let’s fill those glasses.”
It was nearly midnight before I made it to bed. Bee and Evelyn had captivated me with their stories of debauchery and drama. There was the time they snuck out of French class to share a bottle of gin with two boys from the football team, and the day they stole the pants from a particularly handsome math teacher while he was swimming at the pool. Their friendship, so seasoned and honest, made me think of Annabelle. I missed her already—our daily and sometimes twicedaily talks, even her not-so-gentle prodding.
I propped up my pillow and climbed into bed, but a few seconds later, I found myself hovering over my suitcase, searching for the little painting I’d brought with me from New York. I found it tucked under a sweater and studied it again. The couple looked natural together, made for each other, even. There was a harmonious quality to the composition—the hands clasped together, the waves cascading onto the shore and the weather vane twirling above. What will Bee say when she sees the canvas again? It was a window into a distant corner of Bee’s world I knew little of. I wrapped the sweater back around the painting and tucked it away.
The diary beckoned from the drawer, and I obediently pulled it out. I thought about what Evelyn had told me, but mostly I thought about Bee and this mysterious story from so long ago—one that had some kind of connection to her.
Bobby was a fine man. Honest and hardworking. And when he handed me a ring and asked me to marry him on that unseasonably mild January day on the ferry coming back from Seattle, I looked into his eyes and said yes, plain and simple. There was no other answer to give. I would have been a stupid woman to decline his proposal.
There was a war going on, but Bobby was exempt for medical reasons: He was nearly legally blind, and even with his glasses, the ones with such thick lenses you expected them to weigh ten pounds, the Army still wouldn’t let him in, even though he wanted so desperately to go. I hate myself for thinking, now, that if he’d gone to war, perhaps none of us would be in this mess.
But Bobby stayed home and pursued a career. And while so many people were out of work on the island, he had a job—a good job in Seattle. He could take care of me, and I suppose that was
I let out a deep sigh. “I wish this all made more sense.”
“I’ve already said too much, dear,” she said. “It’s not my place to talk about. But you deserve to know this story. Keep reading and the answers will come.”
She looked lost for a moment, as if her mind had traveled back to the very year when the story of Esther and Elliot began.
“And what about Bee? How can I keep this from her?”
“We protect the ones we love from certain things,” she said.
I shook my head, confused. “I don’t understand how reading this book would hurt her.”
Evelyn closed her eyes for a moment, and then opened them again. “It’s been a very long time since I have thought about all of this, and believe me, it was once heavy on all of our minds—heavy and inescapable. But time heals all wounds, and those pages, well, I assumed they were gone, or maybe even destroyed. Yet I always hoped they would surface when they needed to.” She paused for a moment. “What room did you say you were staying in, dear?”
I pointed down the hallway. “The pink room.”
She nodded. “Yes. Keep reading the book, dear. And you will know when it’s time to speak to Bee, but be gentle with her when you do.”
Just then, Bee peered around the corner with a steaming platter in her hand. “Dinner’s ready, girls,” she said, “and I have a bottle of Bainbridge Island white here. Let’s fill those glasses.”
It was nearly midnight before I made it to bed. Bee and Evelyn had captivated me with their stories of debauchery and drama. There was the time they snuck out of French class to share a bottle of gin with two boys from the football team, and the day they stole the pants from a particularly handsome math teacher while he was swimming at the pool. Their friendship, so seasoned and honest, made me think of Annabelle. I missed her already—our daily and sometimes twicedaily talks, even her not-so-gentle prodding.
I propped up my pillow and climbed into bed, but a few seconds later, I found myself hovering over my suitcase, searching for the little painting I’d brought with me from New York. I found it tucked under a sweater and studied it again. The couple looked natural together, made for each other, even. There was a harmonious quality to the composition—the hands clasped together, the waves cascading onto the shore and the weather vane twirling above. What will Bee say when she sees the canvas again? It was a window into a distant corner of Bee’s world I knew little of. I wrapped the sweater back around the painting and tucked it away.
The diary beckoned from the drawer, and I obediently pulled it out. I thought about what Evelyn had told me, but mostly I thought about Bee and this mysterious story from so long ago—one that had some kind of connection to her.
Bobby was a fine man. Honest and hardworking. And when he handed me a ring and asked me to marry him on that unseasonably mild January day on the ferry coming back from Seattle, I looked into his eyes and said yes, plain and simple. There was no other answer to give. I would have been a stupid woman to decline his proposal.
There was a war going on, but Bobby was exempt for medical reasons: He was nearly legally blind, and even with his glasses, the ones with such thick lenses you expected them to weigh ten pounds, the Army still wouldn’t let him in, even though he wanted so desperately to go. I hate myself for thinking, now, that if he’d gone to war, perhaps none of us would be in this mess.
But Bobby stayed home and pursued a career. And while so many people were out of work on the island, he had a job—a good job in Seattle. He could take care of me, and I suppose that was
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