Chapter Seventeen
After an uncomfortable dinner, during which Chris is distracted, Aunt Teresa is quiet, and Uncle Brian explains in excruciating detail the process of tapping the trees in his yard for maple syrup, Diana excuses herself to pack for home.
As she lies on the bed, her clothes scattered across the floor, she contemplates what she’s learned and how she’ll explain it to Duncan and Lakshmi. She can’t even explain it to herself.
Her uncertainty calls for a list, of course, and the one that comes to her is inevitable: What Is Tom’s Secret?
He said, “People died. It’s all my fault.”
Does this have to do with the O’Connors?
But Carson Roy started that fire.
Why would he do that?
Or was it someone else?
Was it—
Diana’s questions are interrupted by a knock, and she opens the door to find Aunt Teresa on the landing, jogging in place in a light snowfall to keep herself warm. She holds out a large leather-bound book. “I wanted to give you this.”
The book is heavy, and the leather along the spine is split. An overflow of pages prevents it from closing properly, forcing the volume into the shape of a right triangle.
“What is it?” Diana asks, wiping melting snowflakes from the cover.
“Tom’s childhood photo album. I should have passed this on years ago. It didn’t come to mind until after breakfast this morning. Maybe you’d like to take it home and share it with Duncan and Phoebe.”
“Oh, Teresa.” Diana delicately pulls back the cover, the leather sighing with the relief of being opened.
The cellophane covering the first page crackles, and she smooths its folds and tatters to get a clear view of the photo beneath.
There is infant Tom, lying on a white blanket, his chubby legs kicking in the air.
“He looks like Duncan and Phoebe at that age.” She smiles, her vision cloudy. “Thank you.”
“Come back and join us, if you’d like. We still have more bourbon.”
Diana hugs the album to her chest. She recognizes this gift as Teresa’s peace offering, but it’s not enough. “Will you tell me what I want to know? Will you answer my questions?”
Teresa’s eyes take on a faraway look Diana can’t decipher. “This . . . this is all we can do. Be content with what you have, Diana.” She turns and walks carefully down the stairs and across the driveway, the snow covering her hair in a fine white film.
Diana expects to be angry at Tom’s family’s unwillingness to help her; instead, disappointment floods her veins. This must have been what Tom was afraid of, she thinks. That I’d turn away from him if he told me.
She spends hours reviewing the photos. She finds nothing that helps her search, though the pictures of Tom’s senior prom make for a sidesplitting laugh. His slicked-back mullet and his date’s teased-out lion’s mane of hair will be the first items she shows the kids when she arrives back in Alcott.
The album is not a complete bust, though. At some point, between photos of Tom at his sixth birthday party and his first day of middle school, Diana comes up with a plan for her next steps. She has to return to the O’Connor farm to talk to Grace.
The next morning, after a late breakfast, Diana says goodbye to Aunt Teresa and Uncle Brian on their front stoop. “We’re grateful you came to Hamilton, Diana,” Teresa whispers in her ear.
“Please visit with the children. Maybe this summer?” Brian says, gently hugging her before stepping back to take Teresa’s hand.
Chris scrapes the last of the snow off her windshield. “Look out for ice until you’re clear of the mountain,” he says, brushing his lips against her cheek.
Fifteen minutes later, Diana’s tires turn against Grace’s gravel driveway, nausea flaring in her abdomen.
She parks in the empty drive and steps out before she second-guesses herself.
In her coat pocket, she carries the rock she picked up at the open house.
She rubs the pointed edge, careful to avoid snagging it on the scab that’s beginning to form over the small cut on her palm.
She climbs the porch steps and pauses before knocking on the kitchen door.
Would the front door be a more respectful choice?
She walks across the covered porch, bypassing piles of cardboard boxes that weren’t there yesterday.
One of the top boxes is labeled “Donate” in large black letters.
Tennis rackets stick out at odd angles, as if waving at her to stop.
Or to keep going? As she continues forward, Diana peeks back at the kitchen door, still deciding what to do.
She crashes into a stack of boxes and stumbles back. “Ouch!” Boxes spill over the porch. Dozens of books lay scattered. Diana rubs her hip and picks up a hefty volume of Vermont history and The Brothers Karamazov. “Klutz,” she mutters.
She is returning the last of the books to the boxes when Grace O’Connor drives up, stopping her station wagon near Diana’s car. She gets out slowly, her eyes on Diana. Grace opens the back car door, and her dog jumps from the seat.
Diana waves. “Mrs. O’Connor, I’m Diana Morgan. I came to the open house yesterday, and I’d appreciate a chance to talk with you again.”
Grace steps onto the porch, the dog at her side. “You really should direct any questions to Ms. Sousa. I have an offer already from a couple from Rutland, looking for space to expand their artisanal cheese business.” She seems neither sad nor angry, but resigned.
“I’m not interested in the house. I need to speak with you.”
“About what?”
“Tom Morgan.”
Grace’s eyes narrow. “What’s your connection to Tom?”
“He was my husband.”
The muscles along Grace’s jaw flex slightly. “I heard he died. I’m sorry for your loss.”
“Thank you,” Diana says, grief rippling through her body, the way it always does when she has to acknowledge his death. “That’s why I’m here. I want to talk to you about the time Tom spent on your farm.”
“That was long ago. I have no wish to revisit it.” The dog nuzzles the backs of Grace’s knees. “Now, you’ll excuse me. I have much to do.”
Diana hasn’t let herself consider that Grace might turn her away. “This is important. You’ll want to hear me out.”
“I’ll want to hear you out?” Grace wrenches open the door and shoos the dog inside.
Her face is red, and her arm shakes as she holds on to the knob.
“You don’t know me, and all I know about you is that you came to my home yesterday under what appear to be false pretenses.
You’ve returned today, invading my privacy and demanding I talk about a difficult time without any regard for my feelings.
You should leave.” She follows the dog inside, slamming the door behind her.
Diana sinks onto the steps, holding her head in her hands. Shame coats her skin like an oily film. Grace is right: She never once thought about this other woman’s feelings. Not once.
Diana doesn’t look at her watch or her phone as she remains on the steps, so she’s not certain how much time passes.
Fifteen minutes? Thirty? An hour? All she thinks about is how cold she is, how quiet it is here on the farm, how stiff her back is from sitting hunched over, how she should leave this place and head home to her children.
But she doesn’t move, paralyzed by the idea of departing without answers.
She’s counting the apple trees when Grace opens the door.
“You’re still here.”
Diana stands, her back muscles twitching.
“I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have come to the open house.
Or at least I should have told you yesterday who I was.
” Duncan’s face flashes in her mind, and Diana stiffens her shoulders, trying to mimic her son’s stance when he argues with her.
“I’m here because I made a promise to my son”—Diana’s voice cracks—“and I won’t disappoint him. ”
Frowning, Grace stares at her feet. Diana holds her breath, hoping what she’s said is persuasive. The pressure makes her lungs seize and her eyes water, and she fears she’ll pass out there on the porch.
Diana exhales only when Grace looks up, meeting her eyes with an unreadable glare. Without a word, the older woman spins around and returns inside, closing the door behind her.
Diana holds on to the porch railing to keep herself from collapsing. Maybe this is as far as she can take this. Maybe she’ll have to learn to live without answers.
Yet she’s so close.
With each second Diana remains on the porch, her hope that Grace might help her fades. Finally, Diana’s shoulders cave in, and she steps down onto the walkway. I’m sorry, she thinks, though to whom she sends the apology, she’s not sure.
That’s when the kitchen door opens again, and Grace emerges holding her coat. Her dog is at her heels. “Would you like to join Scout and me for a walk?” Grace asks, gesturing across her property. “If we’re going to do this, I need to be outside.”
“A walk would be good,” Diana answers, hope rising within her once again.
Grace joins Diana on the path. Despite the chill, she refrains from putting on her coat.
She stands with the enviable posture of a ballet dancer, her spine locked, her head held high.
A black headband holds her thick gray hair off her face.
Her nose is straight and narrow, and tortoiseshell eyeglasses hang from the pocket of her chambray shirt.
With the sleeves rolled up, she looks exactly like a small-town farmer, competent and practical, prepared to bale hay, ride a horse, or clean out a dusty attic. So different from yesterday.
It takes Diana a few seconds to notice what else is different about Grace, and when she does, when she sees Grace’s arms, she bites the inside of her mouth, the metallic taste of blood mixing with saliva.
The skin on the underside of Grace’s forearms is puckered and red. The scarring reappears on her neck, stopping below her chin. Her right ear is smaller than the left, as if part of it has disappeared or, more likely in Grace’s case, has been burned away.