60. Jessica
October, Present Day
Maple Ridge
A cop caris sitting in front of my house when I turn onto my street. My chest tightens, and my breath comes in fast and shallow. No one is sitting in the cruiser. There’s no cop on my front porch. Where the heck did they go?
A moment later, I have my answer. My wooden gate creaks open. Noah and Officer Hunt, both in uniform, step out of my yard with another man, his arms pulled back behind him. His short dark hair is peppered with gray, and his skin is tanned. There’s something familiar about him, with his thin lips and well-shaped nose.
“What’s going on?” I ask Noah.
“Your neighbor phoned in that they saw a man they didn’t recognize snooping around the outside of your garage and go into your backyard. They knew you weren’t home and became suspicious. Do you know him?”
“No.”I might have seen him before but I can’t be sure.
“It looks like he tried to break into the garage. The side door is damaged. He also had this on him.” Noah holds out a plastic evidence bag with a white envelope inside. My name is written on the front in the same handwriting that was on the two envelopes left outside Troy’s office.
“He’s the one who’s been leaving me death threats?”
The man they arrested glares at me, hatred foaming from his pores. “You murderous bitch!” He spits out the words, spittle flying. “They don’t see you for what you are, but I do.”
I shudder, taking a step back out of his range.
“They don’t see you for what you are, but I know better,” the man said, an Aussie accent shaping his harsh tone. “You stole the information. Didn’t you?”
“Let’s just say it’s an insurance policy,” my husband replied, sounding equally pissed.
“Against whom?”
The memory flickers out as the man who tried to break into my garage continues screaming his tirade.
“That’s what we plan to find out,” Officer Hunt says, ignoring the man’s rant. “We’ll be in touch with you soon.” He and Noah escort the man to their cruiser, leaving me standing in my driveway, stunned at the memory, stunned they’ve possibly caught the man who’s been leaving the death threats.
If that’s the man who threatened me, it means my life is no longer at risk. If something happens to me while he’s out on bail, he would be the cops’ first suspect. He wouldn’t get away with it. Which hopefully means he now won’t try to end my life. That nightmare is over.
Relief bubbles inside me, and I feel a little lighter.
The emotion is quickly snuffed out. He ignited the fuse that brought everything crumpling down for Troy and me, but he wasn’t the detonator that destroyed my relationship with the man I love.
That was me.
But I did it for a good reason. Nova deserves to be part of a loving family, with Troy as the adoring father.
I check the damage to my garage door. Noah was right. The man tried to pry the door open with some sort of tool. The door is splintered near the doorknob. I unlock it and put away my bike.
I open the back door to the house to find Bailey waiting for me in the mudroom. The alarm isn’t going off, so whoever that man was, he hadn’t tried to get into the house…just the garage.
Restlessness churns inside me. At the memory? At the man trying to break in? At losing Troy? Or from it all combined?
I need to get out of here.
* * *
As Baileyand I walk along a residential street on our way home from the dog park, the prickly sensation at the nape of my neck from the other day is back. Stronger. More insistent.
The street we’re on is busier than most, with the elementary school nearby. But the school isn’t close enough for me to worry about a mob of angry mothers stoning me, because they believe I’m a danger to their children. My nervous system is just working overtime again. My medication hasn’t diminished my hypervigilance.
A man is standing on the street corner. There’s something familiar about him. Tall. Good-looking. Wearing jeans and a T-shirt. Then it hits me why he seems familiar. He’s the guy who was searching for his wife and daughter last month on Main Street. The man who I thought could be on the cover of a romance novel.
Our gazes connect for a beat, long enough to tell me he recognizes me. He looks away, and I wouldn’t be surprised if he has since learned I’m someone to condemn and not treat like a human being. He must be here to pick up his daughter from school.
Bailey and I continue past him and eventually turn onto our street.
Anne’s car is parked on my driveway. She never mentioned anything about coming over. I haven’t heard from her after I gave her all the items I found in the secret room and the novel I wrote based on the journals. That was five days ago.
I’d be lying if I said I haven’t been wondering about her reaction to finding out Iris was her grandmother. And learning her grandfather was a German soldier during World War II.
Anne isn’t in her car. Maybe she went for a walk while waiting for me to come home. She probably thought I was at work. I never mentioned when I saw her on Saturday that I no longer work for Troy. I avoided all topics involving the man I’m in love with.
Seeing him the other day was murder—but I’m glad he came.
If I do get a job that enables me to stay in town, maybe one day he can be my friend again.
Maybe one day, it won’t ache like this.
On the off chance Anne is in the backyard, I walk up the driveway and open the gate. The hinge squeaks, letting the woman sitting at the patio table know I’ve returned.
Anne looks up from her phone and rises to her feet, smiling. She gives me an exuberant hug, an uncontained excitement buzzing in her. It leaks inside me, feeding the excitement that grew in me from the moment I started reading her grandmother’s journals.
“Thank you, Jess.” She releases me. “Thank you so much for the journals and the book you wrote and the medal and the pendant. Thank you for bringing my grandmother’s story to life.”
“You’re welcome.” I search her eyes for signs she’s mad at me because I withheld the secret for so long, but all I find is pure gratitude. I let out a soft sigh of relief.
Anne’s only wearing a lightweight cardigan, and the temperature is a little chilly for sitting outside in it.
“Let’s go inside,” I suggest. “I can make some hot chocolate.”
We go into the kitchen. I remove Bailey’s Service Dog in Training vest so she can take a break from her training. Anne sits at the table and visits with her while I make the hot chocolate. I place the steamy mugs of hazelnut hot chocolate on the table and take a seat across from her.
“I have to say I was shocked when I read the journals. I knew nothing about her life during the war—other than she lived in England at the time.” Anne wraps her hands around her mug. “I wish I had known all of that. It explains so much about her hand and about her growing paranoia near the end of her life. But it also explains her love for life and her intense love for my mother and me. Did I tell you how I’d catch her sitting by the lake, talking to it in German, especially as she got older?”
I shake my head.
“I would ask her what she was saying. She would smile and tell me she was talking to the Nixie. Now I understand why. It was her way of keeping her memories of my grandfather alive. I’m sorry she never got to tell me about him herself. I have so many questions about him and my European roots. Questions I might never get answers to.” She pushes a folded piece of paper toward me.
I pick it up. “What is this?”
“It’s the letter she wrote to my mother. Read it.”
I unfold the page and read the shaky yet familiar handwriting.
To my dear sweet Elizabeth,
If you’re reading this, it means I’ve moved on to a better place, and I’m hopefully with my one true love. I promise you if that is the case, I am very, very happy.
I started writing the journals years ago once I’d fully come to terms with what happened during the Second World War. You and I were living in the United States at that point. It was a country that had lived through the war but hadn’t experienced it the way they had in England and the rest of Europe. Even England hadn’t experienced the war the way the countries occupied by the Nazis and Fascists had. It was a very different time back then, but also a time that hasn’t changed as much as it should have in the years that have passed.
I’m assuming you have read the journals and have so many questions. I’m sure many of them I can’t answer because I was unable to find the answers myself after the war. Maybe in the future, you will have better success than I did. Maybe information will be made available to future generations, or maybe those answers will remain buried for all time. I fervently hope the latter is not true.
The latter point is part of the reason I wrote the journals. I could not give them to you while I was alive at risk of violating the British Official Secrets Act. But once I am dead, I will no longer have to keep the secret about what I survived through, and you will finally know the truth about your father.
Here are the answers I can give you. Jacques Gauthier, the man who was like a second father to me—he risked so much for me, for the downed RAF pilots making their way to the escape lines, for his country, and for his son. I took you to France shortly before we departed for the United States to start a new life here. I wanted to know what had happened to Jacques after the Gestapo took me away.
I am delighted to tell you Jacques survived the war, as did his son. Jacques was one of the few survivors of the war who knew the truth about your father and me. He was the only one who witnessed the love Johann and I shared for each other. The moment Jacques saw you, he knew the truth that no one else did—that you are Johann’s daughter. He died fifteen years later from a stroke, but he wanted you to know your father was a great man who was thrown into circumstances none of us wanted to be in.
It’s easy to say in hindsight that if more people who hadn’t supported Hitler’s politics had stood their ground, the war would not have happened. The murder of the disabled and mentally ill would not have happened. The Holocaust would not have happened. So many people would not have been killed, so many children would not have been left with only one parent or as orphans. But the world doesn’t work that way when you’re dealing with someone who is that hungry for power. They’ll do anything to get it and keep it, no matter the cost to others. Maybe one day a world without dictators will be possible. I wish I had lived long enough to see it.
Your father never wanted to fight in the war. He only wanted to love and protect his family, and that includes you. Please never forget he loved you so very, very much. I love you so very, very much. It hurt to not be able to tell you I was your mother. You can’t begin to understand how proud I am of you and of your beautiful little daughter. Perhaps now you will understand why I suggested the name Anne after you gave birth to the precious sweet angel. It was to honor your father’s sister, Anja. If I couldn’t call you Anna like I had originally planned, I wanted to make sure I was able to honor Anja through your daughter. Thank you so much for allowing me to do that.
I’ve never regretted any of my decisions from during the war and afterwards, and that includes my decision to never settle down with another man. I knew no other man could fill the hole left by my love, the man who would have been my husband if we had lived in another time and place.
Thank you, my sweet love, for everything. Just know that I am with the only man I ever loved, and I am truly happy.
Love,
Mum
Through welling tears, I reread the letter several times, feeling once again Iris’s love for Johann. The letter has given me the closure I needed, but I’m sure it’s only the beginning for Anne as she tries to find out more about the relatives she never knew she had.
“Sonja—the daughter of Oskar and Margrit,” Anne says with a soft smile. “She was my godmother. That summer when my mother and grandmother were in New York City, Mom and Sonja quickly became friends and stayed friends, even though they didn’t live in the same part of the country.”
“Do you know if Sonja is still alive?” Maybe she remembers her uncle Johann—remembers enough to share with Anne.
“She died a few years ago. But she and I kept in contact after my mother died. She never said anything about living in France during the war. She never mentioned anything about what was in the journals.” Anne’s smile returns, wider this time. “My grandmother…wow, it still feels strange thinking of Auntie Iris that way. She told me my grandparents had loved each other very much, and they fell in love with my mother the moment they saw her. I had no idea all those times she told me that she was referring to herself…and my real grandfather instead of the man I thought was my grandfather.”
“I can imagine it will take time to get used to the idea that nothing was what you had thought.” Her family members weren’t who she had thought they were.
“You’re right. Anyway, you said on Saturday that it’s my choice if I want my grandmother’s story made public.”
I nod, mentally crossing my fingers Anne will want to share the story with the world.
“I want everyone to know about my grandmother’s contribution to the war and about the man she fell in love with. I understand why she kept it a secret after the war, but there’s no reason why no one can learn about it now.” Anne’s face and eyes light up with an all-consuming smile.
She’s correct in thinking that. The British Official Secrets Act that Iris had been tied to has long since died. More and more information about the SOE and the role it played during the war is now public knowledge.
“I read the story you wrote, Jess. You’re extremely talented. I don’t know anything about the publishing industry, but I would love for you to see if you can get the book published. I want you to get credit for your hard work.”
The excitement I felt while writing the book rushes in and embraces me. “You do?”
“I do.” She reaches across the table and rests her hand on mine, her palm warm from holding her mug. “You have a lot to say, Jess. It’s about time the world listens.”
Now it’s me who’s wearing the all-consuming smile. I can’t believe how Johann ending up at Jacques’s farmhouse and falling in love with Iris was the ripple that has ultimately changed my life around. It has resulted in me having a beautiful home, friends, and a new passion and purpose in life. “Thank you! So much!” I mean that both ways: for her allowing me to see where I can take the book when it comes to being published, and for telling me it’s time the world listens to what I have to say.
My late husband might have stolen my voice, made silence my preferred language while we were married, but over the past few months, I’ve become less of the woman I once was. I’ve become more of the woman I want to be. And I have my friends and Robyn and Troy to thank for that. I have people on my side who have never shamed me for what I have to say. They have never shamed me for using my voice, and for that, I am grateful.
“Let me know how things go with the book,” Anne tells me. “I look forward to seeing what happens with it.”
“Definitely.”
Garrett has offered to read the story. Maybe he’ll have suggestions on aspects I can improve before I query agents.
For a heartbeat, I want to text Troy and tell him I’ve finished writing the book. Tell him about the real contents of the hidden room and about Iris’s secret life during the war.
But I can’t.
Because Troy has moved on, and I’m no longer part of his life.
So…I text Garrett instead, the hollow sensation in my chest, from missing Troy, heavy.