Chapter 3: The Library Archive
The drive back to the estate house on the North Shore was conducted in a silence broken only by the rhythmic slap of the windshield wipers against the glass, though it wasn't even raining. Robert sat in the front passenger seat, scrolling through his tablet with the absent-minded efficiency of a man whose mind was already back at the investment firm. Lily had fallen asleep in the back, her breathing soft and even against the leather upholstery, the little white bow in her hair slightly askew.
I sat beside her, one hand buried deep in the pocket of my coat, my fingers curled tightly around the silver fountain pen and the wedding band. The metal felt heavy, like a lead weight pulling me down through fifty years of carefully cultivated oblivion.
When the wrought-iron gates of the estate swung open for our town car, the familiar limestone facade of the manor rose up against the dark sky like a fortress. It was a grand place, bought and paid for with the inheritance of Robert Vance Sr., a man who had offered me safety and social standing when my world collapsed in the spring of sixty-eight. Robert Sr. had known about Thomas, of course. Everyone in our small coastal town had known about the young carpenter who had vanished into the grey Atlantic surf the night before our scheduled wedding, leaving behind a wrecked sailboat and an empty horizon.
We never found a body. The coast guard called off the search after three days. My father told me to take off the black dress, put on the white veil for another man, and get on with the business of living. And I had. For fifty-seven years, I had played the part to perfection.
"Mother, are you coming in?" Robert asked, holding the heavy oak front door open while the butler took Lily into the foyer.
"In a moment, Robert. I need to check the conservatory heating," I said, offering him a practiced, tired smile that put his mind at ease. "Go on up. I'll be there shortly."
He nodded, kissed my cheek with dutiful briefness, and disappeared up the grand staircase.
Instead of turning toward the conservatory, I walked down the dim, wood-paneled corridor toward the family library. The room smelled of old paper, leather bindings, and beeswax. I locked the heavy oak door behind me, switched on the small banker’s lamp on the mahogany desk, and walked straight to the corner bookcase. Behind a row of leather-bound leather volumes of Gray’s Anatomy, I pressed the hidden spring in the wainscoting.
May you like
The panel clicked open, revealing a small, dark wall safe that hadn't been opened since my husband’s death twenty years ago. My hands were remarkably steady as I spun the dial—left to forty-two, right to seventeen, left to five.
The heavy iron door swung outward with a soft sigh of oiled hinges. Inside sat a single cedar memory box. I lifted it out, placed it on the green felt surface of the desk, and lifted the lid.
