Chapter 42
Juniper
She had been sorting through Carson Wells’s personal writings since Beck and Ali gave her the first journals. She felt she
knew the man. But somehow, being here in his bedroom, touching the neat stacks of socks and jeans and flannel shirts, felt
so much more intimate.
She again wished she had been given the chance to meet him during his lifetime. Even if she hadn’t been aware there was a
chance he might be her father, she would have loved having a conversation with him, listening to his insights into the world
and his wisdom.
They had been looking for about twenty minutes when Beck emerged from the walk-in closet. “Anything look promising?”
She shook her head. “I thought it might be on his bookshelf here, tucked away between some of his favorites, but I haven’t
found anything except a bunch of interesting-looking books. What about you?”
“I’ve found a lot of bits and pieces. A few lunch receipts for the diner in town, a boarding pass for a trip to London last
year, even a few Euros tucked away in a drawer. But no manuscript.”
June sighed. “I’m sorry I dragged you into this. It’s silly to pour so much energy and time into a wild-goose chase. He obviously
either never wrote an unpublished book or he hated it so much he threw it away, like you have all been saying.”
“We had to try,” he said. “No stone left unturned, right? I have one more shelf to look through in the closet. If you want
to go out with Loretta and Ali, I can join you when I’m done.”
“Okay.”
After he returned to the closet, she gazed around the room, hoping for inspiration to strike.
She hadn’t gone through his bedside drawers yet. That seemed far too intrusive. But as Beck said, she didn’t want to leave
any stone unturned. Atop the bedside table, she found a framed picture of a blonde woman in a ranch coat and jeans holding
the reins of a horse behind her in one hand and the hand of a small girl who had to be Alison in the other.
She looked kind, someone June thought she would have liked.
Ignoring her qualms, she opened the top drawer of the side table, where she found some reading glasses, a small jar of coins,
a few more receipts, a random key on a ring.
She pulled the lower drawer open and found only one thing: a wooden box with a mountain scene etched on the cover of two peaks,
pine trees and a small, beautifully etched deer grazing in a wildflower meadow.
The cover wouldn’t budge. Locked. She turned it this way and that, trying to find a mechanism to open it, with no luck.
Remembering the key from the top drawer, she retrieved it and inserted it into the lock then stared when it slid in perfectly.
She twisted it and heard the lock disengage. June caught her breath. This had to be it. The size was exactly right to hold
one or two of his notebooks. It had to be here.
With a sense of anticipation curling through her, she opened the lid and stared down at two notebooks nestled inside a satiny
lining, exactly like the journals except with blue covers.
Her pulse pounding, June traced the cover of the notebook on top that held only three words.
The Forgotten Road.
They had found it. She could hardly make sense of it all. She had been right. Carson had written another manuscript, one he
never published.
With hands that shook, she pulled the notebook out of the box and opened the first page. There in his unmistakable handwriting were the words:
For Elizabeth.
In whose eyes I first saw the world.
In whose heart I learned the weight of love
This story belongs to us alone.
Scarcely aware of her actions, she set it back inside, picked up the entire box and carried it to the sitting area, where
she could only stare at it, her mind racing.
For Elizabeth. Her mother. They had known each other. Had loved each other. The woman he wrote about in his journals, the one he referred
to only as “E” had been her mother.
She wasn’t sure how long she stared at it. She was still there when Beck came back into the room.
He took one look at her and sank down next to her, taking her hand. “You’re pale as a ghost, Junie. What’s wrong?”
“I found it,” she whispered.
He looked more closely at the box in her hands and the words on the cover of the book inside. “You were right!” he exclaimed.
She handed over the book and he opened it to the first page, as she had done.
“ For Elizabeth . Your mother,” he said, tone hushed. “Where did you find it?”
“In the bottom drawer of his bedside table.”
“He kept it close. Kept her close.”
Her eyes burned with emotion and she had to swallow down the lump in her throat. Her emotions were a tangled mess of gratitude,
sadness, anticipation and apprehension. She wanted immediately to start reading at the same time she feared what she would
find.
Carson Wells was her father. She could no longer deny that. If she had any lingering doubt, this tucked-away manuscript confirmed it. Carson had known and loved her mother.
“We need to tell Alison and Loretta,” she said.
“I can call them in.”
She shook her head. “Not here. Ali doesn’t like this room.”
“Right.”
She rose and picked up the box, closing the lid. She was deeply grateful for Beck’s strength and support as they walked out
of the bedroom in search of the others.
They found them in the sitting room off the kitchen. Loretta had her feet up on a leather ottoman and was scrolling with the
remote through menus on the TV while Ali swiped at her phone.
When she and Beck walked in, they both looked up. Something in their demeanor must have alerted Alison. She immediately set
down her phone and stood up.
“You found it.”
“We did.” She gave a shaky smile, still fighting that lump in her throat. “You were right. He knew my mother. The book is
dedicated to her.”
She held it out. Ali took it with a wariness June completely understood. She opened it to the same page and read the dedication
written there. When she looked up, her eyes were wet.
“He loved her,” she said, handing the book next to her grandmother to read.
“Oh, my boy,” Loretta murmured. “No wonder he spent that time wandering, trying to mend his broken heart.”
If there was one thing June had learned since her cardiac arrest, it was that broken hearts didn’t mend. A person simply had
to learn how to accept the scars.
They must have had an affair and it must have left him shattered. June didn’t know the circumstances, but she could only guess
it had something to do with the fact that Elizabeth had been married and wouldn’t leave her husband.
It shifted her entire perspective about her mother, though she couldn’t help thinking her mother must have loved Carson, as well. She remembered the almost reverent way Elizabeth would read his books and how she had always kept her signed copy of Purgatory River close to her bedside.
Her mother had been married to another man, though, even if she and Jimmy had married in a rush, before his deployment.
Elizabeth had prized loyalty and honor above all things. She must have deeply regretted her lapse of judgment in falling in
love with Carson and betraying her marriage vows. Perhaps she had never told Carson about June as penance for what she had
done.
“So what now?” Ali asked.
“We read it,” Loretta said as if that was the only possible course of action.
“You should read it first,” June said, holding out the box.
Alison shook her head. “You should read it first. This was written before I was born. By the dedication, I would guess it
was written either for or about Dad’s relationship with your mom. It’s only right that you read it first.”
June didn’t feel right about that, but she also didn’t want to argue with her sister. Good Lord. She had a sister!
She almost suggested they read it together, but something held her back. She yearned to immerse herself in the words and wasn’t
sure she could do that while reading it along with someone else.
“I can’t believe my son wrote another manuscript that he never published,” Loretta said, still looking at the box and the
notebooks with amazement. “I wonder if it was simply too close to his heart for him to share with the world.”
“Possibly,” Beck said. “Or maybe he didn’t feel right about releasing it without Elizabeth’s knowledge and consent because
the things he wrote about were between them.”
“That’s what he writes there,” Ali said. “ This story belongs to us alone . I almost feel weird about reading it now.”
“Don’t be silly,” Loretta said, her tone brisk. “If he didn’t want anyone else to read it, he should have destroyed it before he died. Stories are meant to be shared. Your father knew that. A good story becomes part of you, whispering truths and stirring emotions long after the final page is turned.”
What emotions would June discover in the pages of The Forgotten Road ?
She still wasn’t sure she wanted to find out.