All of us looked up expectantly.
“I've . . . ah . . . asked for the hand of Miss Raylene here in marriage. . . and she has accepted my proposal.”
Laughter and cheering filled the deck as I jumped up to squeeze both of them in a hug.
“Oh, my goodness,” I said. “I had no idea you two were planning to be married.”
“Well,” Raylene said. “We weren't. That is, I wasn't . . . until Carl convinced me I'd be foolish not to accept his offer.”
This brought forth more laughter as Saxton produced a bottle of champagne. “I think this calls for a toast.”
With glasses lifted we wished Mr. Carl and Raylene a long and happy life together.
“So when is this special event to take place?” my aunt asked.
“We thought New Year's Eve day would be good,” Carl said. “And my bride here . . . well, she'd like to be married on the beach. Not a big to-do. Just a few friends, so we'd like all of you to be there.”
“That would be great,” I said, and looked at Jill and my aunt.
“I'm not sure I'll be able to get away from the farm, but I'll be here in spirit.” Jill raised her glass to the smiling couple.
“Oh, I'll definitely come back if my niece will have me.”
I leaned over to squeeze my aunt's shoulders. “Of course I will.”
Conversation flowed around the table as I felt that lump in my throat again. It had been a wonderful Thanksgiving, and I had a feeling that each of us had something very special to be grateful for.
31
B
y the time Thursday evening arrived I had begun to feel nervous about approaching the knitting group with the photos of my mother. Part of me was scared that I'd hit another dead endâbut part of me was scared that I wouldn't. And all of a sudden I wondered if maybe it wasn't better to just let sleeping dogs lie, as Raylene had said months before.
I let out a deep breath, stuffed the photos into my knitting bag, and then headed down Second Street to Yarning Together.
“Ah, Berkley,” Dora greeted me. “Did your company get off okay? It was such a pleasure to meet your aunt and Jill last week.”
I nodded as I found a spot on the sofa next to Suellen. “Yes, Jill flew back Tuesday and my aunt left yesterday. But she'll be back for Raylene's wedding.”
“Speaking of which,” Chloe said. “Before she gets here, do you think we should have a little shower or something for her?”
Maybelle put her knitting in her lap and looked up. “And what, pray tell, does one give to a bride pushing eighty?”
Chloe and I laughed as Suellen said, “Longevity?” which produced more chuckles.
Dora shook her head. “You gals are terrible,” she said, but I saw the grin on her face. “Yes, I think we should do something, Chloe. You and I will discuss it. We don't have much time between now and the wedding, so maybe a gathering here the week between Christmas and New Year's. And no more making fun of poor Raylene. Maybe Mr. Carl is the love of her life, and finding that person is a very serious matter.”
I exchanged a glance with Suellen, feeling properly admonished by Miss Dora.
An hour later the room was filled with women knitting away on socks, afghans, sweaters, scarves, and hats. A feeling of peace and camaraderie enveloped me. I let out a deep sigh and decided now was the time to produce the photos.
I placed the lace socks in my lap and reached into my knitting bag. Clearing my throat, I said in a loud voice, “I wonder if any of you could help me.” I held up the photos. “My aunt brought me two photos of my mother. One was taken when she was still a student at Berkeley and she would have been around twenty-one or two, and the other one was a few years later. Does anybody recognize her?” I passed the photos to Chloe on my right.
Various comments filled the room as the photos were passed from hand to hand.
“Oh, look at those bell-bottom jeans.”
“Everyone seemed to wear their hair that way back then.”
“What a nice couple they made. Such a handsome fellow.”
“Aww, what a sweet little thing you were,” Flora said. “Wait.” She pulled the photo closer and adjusted her glasses. “By golly, I think this is . . . Oh, Lord, what was her name?” She looked over at Dora as I held my breath.
Dora got up to look at the photo that Flora held out.
Flora waved her hand in the air. “You know . . . that girl . . . the one that rented my apartment.” She looked directly at me. “
Your
apartment.”
I let out my breath at the same time that Dora said, “Yes. You're right. Her name was Jenna.”
Flora snapped her fingers. “That's it! Jenna Walsh. That was her name.”
My hands felt clammy and I gripped the side of the chair. “So you
do
know her? You remember her? And what do you mean
my
apartment?”
A hush fell over the room as all eyes were on Flora.
“This girl came to the island one summer. And yeah, it probably was about forty years ago now, but I distinctly remember her. She rented the apartment that you're now living in.”
I could feel my heart racing.
“But you told us her name was something else,” Flora said. “That's why we couldn't remember her.”
I gripped the chair arm tighter and nodded. “Right. I just recently found out from my aunt that as a child she went by the nickname of Jenna, so she must have used that name when she came here. But Walsh? I don't know why she would have changed her last name.”
“Sounds like she didn't want anybody to know who she really was,” Dora said.
“What do you remember? Why did she come here? What did she tell you?” I could feel forty years' worth of questions tumbling out of me.
Chloe reached over and patted my arm.
“Well,” Flora said, and I could almost see her mind going back in time. “I got a phone call one day from a young woman asking if she might rent the apartment she saw on the sign at the Market. The window of the Market is where everyone advertised things for rent or sale. Still is. Anyway, I said sure, and I remember meeting her at the corner of the building outside on Second Street.”
“My God,” I said. “So you mean to tell me that I'm now living in the very apartment that my mother once did?”
Flora nodded. “I know. Talk about coincidence, huh? So I took her upstairs and she said, âIt'll do.' Those were her exact words. I remember because she didn't say it's nice or I like it or anything like that. Only âIt'll do.' Almost like the place itself was only going to provide a means for shelter, not a proper home.”
“What did she tell you? Did she say where she was from? Why she was here?” Again, the questions began tumbling out.
Flora shook her head. “Nope. I can't say that I remember anything like that. She rented the apartment immediately. It was furnished back then, and she only had a small suitcase with her. I do remember that, because I wondered why she only had clothes and no personal belongings. She did have a car. Didn't use it much because she never really left the island. Just walked everywhere.”
“She must have worked somewhere,” I said. “How did she pay her rent?”
Flora nodded slowly as if trying to recall more information stored in her memory. “Right. She did work and she paid her rent on time every single week that she was here. And then toward the middle of August, I remember she called me and gave me a two-week notice. Said she'd be leaving by the end of the month. But I don't remember where she worked, do you, Dora?”
Dora looked at the photos again. “Gosh, I didn't know her that well. But didn't she work as a waitress over at one of the restaurants on Dock Street? I'm almost certain that she did.”
“I think you're right,” Flora said. “But I honestly can't say where.”
“You might question Doyle,” Dora told me.
“Doyle Summers?” I said with surprise.
“Yes, his parents owned a restaurant there. It's a start. He might recall who she is from the photo and be able to help a little more.”
I nodded. Well, at least I had definitely established that my mother had been here. The postcards had initially proved this, but hearing these two women actually recall her existence on this island made it all the more real for me.
“Thank you,” I said, taking the photos from Dora's hand and replacing them in my knitting bag. “Thank you so much,” I told them, but all of a sudden I felt a sense of deflation sweep over me. Yes, it had taken eight months to finally establish the fact that my mother had been here, and a few women even remembered her. And adding to the puzzle was the realization that I was actually living in the very same apartment that she had. But I quickly realized that despite these women recalling my mother's stay in Cedar Key, I really wasn't any closer to finding out
why
she came here in the first place. Why she left me for an entire summer to do so. I knew that the next piece to my puzzle might be Doyle Summers.
Â
Two nights later I sat with Saxton on the deck of the Black Dog waiting for Doyle to arrive. I nervously took a sip of wine and felt Saxton pat my leg.
“He should be here shortly. It'll be okay.”
A few minutes later Doyle joined us. After he had a glass of wine in front of him, he said, “So what's up? What's the reason for getting together?”
I let out a deep breath and passed the photos of my mother across the table. “My aunt gave me these. I have now found out from Flora that my mother rented her apartment during the summer she was hereâthe very apartment that I'm living in. She and Dora said they thought my mother worked as a waitress at one of the restaurants on Dock Street. Do you remember her?”
Doyle remained silent as he stared at the pictures, his eyes going from one to the other. He placed them on the table in front of him, never taking his glance away, then took a sip of wine and said, “She's very pretty.”
I was stunned by the fact that this was the first time I'd heard somebody refer to my mother as
pretty.
“But do you remember her?”
“Yes . . . I do. Jenna Walsh. She worked at my parents' restaurant.”
“What? She did?” I leaned farther across the table. “What can you tell me? Do you know why she came here? What did she tell you?”
Instead of answering my questions, he said, “I can tell you that there's a lot more to this story. I also think that over time you'll probably find your answers, and I feel it has to be you that discovers them.”
I had been trying to secure those answers for forty years. Wasn't
that
enough time?
“What do you mean by that?” I questioned.
“What I mean is, everybody reacts to family secrets in a different way. Some people feel the truth will set them free. Others aren't able to accept what actually happened.”
“You mean like, be careful what you wish for?”
“Exactly. Listen, you're off work Monday. I'd like you and Saxton to come over to my place. About seven, for a few drinks.” He stood up, gulped the last of his wine, and said, “See you then.”
32
T
he next few days crawled by, and despite constant badgering of Saxton, he assured me he didn't have a clue what was going on.
“I had no idea that Doyle even knew your mother,” he told me over coffee at the coffee café on Monday morning. “I definitely would have said something.”
“Why couldn't he just tell me what he knew the other night? Why do we have to go to his place?”
Saxton shrugged. “I can't answer that question either.”
Suellen came to our table to refill our coffee. “So tonight's the night, huh? Hopefully, you'll finally get some answers.”
I had brought Suellen, Chloe, and my aunt up to date over the weekend. They were just as intrigued with the story as I was.
“I certainly hope so,” I told her.
Later that afternoon my aunt called.
“I must say, Berkley, this is really turning into quite the family mystery. Do you think your mother and Doyle were involved? You know, in a romantic way?”
“Well, he said there's more to the story than I realize. So, that would indicate they had to have been close, I think.”
“You know, I recalled something this morning. An incident that would have been right around that time. Actually, I think it was May of that year. Rudy was being transferred somewhere and I'd gone home for a few days to spend some time with my mother and Jeanette. I was awakened one morning by their loud voices in the kitchen. I was surprised, because they normally got on exceptionally well and it was obvious they were having a disagreement.”
I clenched the phone tighter. “Really? What was it about?”
“I can now only remember my mother saying something about how wrong it was and that my sister needed to face facts. Then Jeanette started crying and that was the end of it. And of course, none of this was mentioned to me.”
“Hmm, I wonder what that was all about?”
“I honestly have no idea, but I thought it might help with putting another piece to the puzzle.”
I was beginning to feel I was getting so closeâyet, so far.
Â
Saxton and I arrived at Doyle's house on Andrews Circle at precisely seven o'clock. I had never been to his home before, but had always admired the house tucked back behind the black wrought-iron fence, surrounded by so many trees and bushes that it always reminded me of the Secret Garden.
Doyle seemed to have a somber expression as he opened the door, and we entered his living room. A large room, enclosed by floor-to-ceiling windows on three sides, which gave an unobstructed view of the dock and water beyond.
My gaze scanned the room, which had an old-fashioned feel to it with chintz-covered chairs and sofa, bookcases, and an easel set up near the window with a half-finished watercolor of pelicans swooping over the Big Dock. It was then that my eyes went to the extremely large painting over his fireplace.
A boat in the middle of the water, with the skyline of Cedar Key in the background. Standing on the boat was a young woman. Her long brunette hair was windswept, giving her an exotic look. She wore shorts and a cotton blouse; her head was thrown back, revealing a huge smile that radiated pure joy. I could almost hear the laughter through the painting.
I got goose bumps as a feeling of familiarity came over me. Continuing to stare, I slowly walked toward the painting, and gasped. It was my mother. I was sure of it.
I spun around to find Doyle with a pained expression. “Yes . . . It's her,” he whispered. “It's my Jenna.”
His
Jenna? He was right. There was a lot more to this story.
“Have a seat. Let me pour us each a glass of wine and then . . . we'll begin.”
My mind was racing, but I refrained from blurting out the million questions that I had. Saxton sat beside me on the sofa, patted my knee, and looked as surprised as I felt.
Doyle passed us a wineglass and then took the chair that directly faced the painting. Holding his glass up, he said, “Here's to Jenna. Somebody that I'll never forget.”
I glanced up at the painting and felt a multitude of emotions. But the strongest one was that I could not ever recall seeing my mother look like that. Happy. Her face exhibiting pure bliss. She had a certain sense of confidence that the artist caught perfectly, in the toss of her head, the uplifting of her chin, hair caught by the breeze, arms straight up in the air as if to say, “Life is good.”
“I met Jenna the day after she arrived here. I happened to be in the restaurant when she came in to fill out an application for a waitress job. A lot of people don't believe in love at first sight. I can emphatically say . . . it is possible. Because it happened to me. I was at the counter, turned around, and there she was. I knew in a heartbeat that something shifted inside of me. That I'd never again be the person I was before I turned around and saw her. And I could almost feel that she felt the same way. We made mundane talk about the job, the hours, that sort of thing. But the entire time I felt like I was enveloped in a . . . cocoon. Like the entire rest of the world had simply drifted away. Conversation from guests at the tables was muffled, making me feel like we were the only two people left in the world.”
Doyle stopped to take a sip of his wine while I tried to comprehend what he was telling me.
“Jenna got the job, and we began seeing each other immediately. She had a sadness about her. I saw it in her eyes, and sometimes a quietness would come over her. She told me she was from Maine, that she had come here because she had been ill and needed to recover.”
I leaned forward on the sofa, gripping my wineglass. “Ill? My mother hadn't been sick. What did she mean by that?”
“There are all kinds of different ways of being sick, Berkley.” He let out a deep sigh. “I know you're not going to be happy about this, but I'm not at liberty to tell you the rest of the story.”
Anger began surging through me. “What! That's it? That's
all
you're going to tell me? Obviously, you know why she came here and you
won't
tell me?” I felt on the verge of tears built by years of frustration.
Doyle stood up, patted my hand, and walked to a small wooden chest on the desk. “It isn't that I won't tell you, Berkley. I
can't.
It's a promise I made many years ago.”
My anger now mixed with confusion as I saw Doyle remove a yellowed envelope from the chest before sitting back down.
“You're determined to find your answers. And you will. But you have to be patient. I hope that you'll trust me and trust your mother. She gave me this letter to give to you a few months before she died and . . .”
“Before she died?” It was getting more and more difficult to wrap my brain around everything he was telling me. “You were in Salem? You came to see her?”
He shook his head. “No, not Salem. I met her at the Cape. We had arranged that trip months before. It was the first time we had seen each other again after forty years. But during that time we had never lost touch.” He leaned over to pass me the envelope. “This is for you. Your mother wrote it. It was no mistake that you found those postcards, you know. She could have thrown them all out . . . and you wouldn't be here right now. But she felt you did deserve answersâshe just wasn't able to give them to you.”
I fingered the envelope in my hand and looked down to see my mother's familiar scrawl with my name on the front. “Can I open it now?” I asked in a voice that didn't sound like mine.
Doyle nodded, and I carefully slit open the envelope. I removed two pages of stationery and held them so Saxton could read along with me.
My dear Berkley,
If you're reading this, then I'm no longer here with you. And if you have these pages in your hand, then you did what I thought you would. You followed the trail and it has led you to Cedar Keyâwhere I managed to keep all of my secrets hidden.
I know you were angry with me for leaving you behind the summer that you were five years old. I know you desperately wanted the answers as to why. I simply wasn't brave enough to give them to you. I knew when you found the postcards that you would pursue it and finally find the answers.
You need to know that Doyle was the love of my life. He was my soul mate. That one person on earth that was meant for me. Unfortunately, due to circumstances, we were not able to be together. But that doesn't mean we ever stopped loving each other. Therefore, I have entrusted him with my secret. When we saw each other again on Cape Cod, we had lengthy discussions about all of this. We are both at peace with what is. I hope eventually that you will be too.
Doyle knows my story. He knows why I came to Cedar Key. He knows why I returned to Salem. But he has promised that until you finish the rest of the journey, he will not tell you what happened.
So, my daughter, I want you to be the one to actually find out what happened. Not with somebody telling you, but with you seeing it for yourself. You will need to return to Maine, because that's where the answers are. Go to the Curtis Memorial Library in Brunswick. Ask to see the microfilm of the newspapers from May and June of 1972. And you will find your answers. Please don't ask Doyle for the information. He has promised to abide by my wishes. And when you return to Cedar Key, as I know you will, then sit with Doyle and get the rest of the story that he and I shared.
When you find the answers, I can only hope that you will forgive me. That you'll forgive my fear, my cowardice and my choices. Because above all, you need to know that I love you so very much, from the bottom of my heart. Doyle may have been the love of my life, but you, Berkley, were what sustained my life.
All my love always, Mom
I realized that by the time I finished reading the letter, tears were streaming down my face. Doyle jumped up and put a box of tissues in my lap. I swiped at the tears, trying to absorb what I had just read.
I let out a deep breath. “So you have the answers and won't . . . can't . . . tell me? I have to make a trip to Brunswick to find out?”
Doyle nodded but said nothing. I looked at Saxton.
“When do you want to leave?” he asked, and I felt my heart turn over. I wasn't going to have to complete this journey alone. Saxton was going to be there for me. Every step of the way.
Â
Later that evening after Saxton had left, I sat curled up on the sofa sipping herbal tea. I looked over at the urn that held the remains of my mother. I knew for certain that I had not known this woman at all. I knew Jeanette Whitmore, mother, daughter, sister, chocolate shop owner. But Jenna Walsh, the woman? I didn't have a clue who she was. But I was going to find out.
Saxton and I had discussed it and decided that with Christmas only a few weeks away and then Mr. Carl's wedding, we would fly to Maine on New Year's Day. He would make the arrangements for our flight and book a place in Brunswick for a few nights. The answers were all beginning to comeâand I was very grateful that I had Saxton in my life, by my side, to share them with me.