More Than Words Can Say (25 page)

At last, Emily managed to let go a little smile. “He was very handsome in those days,” she added, “like a movie star, he was. If memory serves, just before Brooke left for good, he was in the process of painting her portrait. He was an excellent artist, you know. And he never married, which always seemed strange to me.”

“Did you ever meet Bill Bartlett, my grandfather?” Chelsea asked.

Emily shook her head. “
Non,
” she said. “It was my understanding that he had finished his officer’s training and had shipped out. Shortly after that, Brooke just disappeared.”

Chelsea scowled. “What do you mean disappeared?” she asked.

“
Disappeared
is probably the wrong word,” Emily said, “although that’s certainly how it felt to me at the time. During that summer, Brooke was staying there alone. Then one day she just packed up and left far earlier than expected. It was sometime in mid-August, I think. Later on I learned from Gregory that she never said good-bye to him, either, and he seemed quite saddened by it. That part of it I never understood—especially when his cottage was so nearby hers, and it would have been quite easy for her to properly bid him adieu.”

Chelsea took a moment to look quizzically at Brandon, as if he might be able to supply her with some answers. But all he could do was shrug and shake his head.

Chelsea was dying to know more. But yet again she hesitated, because she didn’t want to tarnish Emily’s memories of Brooke. Even so, Chelsea was sitting across from perhaps the only living person who might be able to help her solve the increasingly beguiling puzzle that was Brooke Bartlett’s life. For better or worse, she decided to press forward.

“I have some old photos of Greg and Brooke together,” Chelsea said. “And in each one, it seems that they were close.
Very
close, if you know what I mean. Can you shed any light on that? I’m not asking you to violate any confidences. But if there are other things that you know and wouldn’t mind sharing, I’d be very much in your debt.”

Emily’s answer came without hesitation. “
Non,
” she replied. “I do not believe that there was ever anything physical between them, if that’s what you’re suggesting. Brooke loved her husband, and she worried for him day and night. He died in the war, but Brooke never told me how. Her heart was very closed about that, so I didn’t press her.”

Just then, Emily’s countenance sobered even more. “Even so,” she added quietly, “Brooke once told me something heartfelt, something that made me feel sorry for her.”

“What was that?” Chelsea asked.

Emily sighed. “The war years were hard times,” she answered. “Not just for the soldiers, but for their women, too. Brooke told me that she was developing deep feelings for Greg—feelings against which she was desperately fighting. But she also swore that she hadn’t acted on them, and I believed her.”

Emily sadly shook her head. “In the end, only Brooke and Gregory knew,” she said, “and they’re both gone now. But if they
were
truly in love, then why did she leave so suddenly and never come back? And why did she not say good-bye to him? It’s a riddle, I grant you. And like many riddles, its unraveling may prove quite impossible.”

Feeling more confused than ever, Chelsea sat back in her booth.

A riddle indeed,
she thought
. More and more, it seems, the only answers are to be found in Brooke’s journal. . .

“Is there anything else that you can tell me?” Chelsea asked Emily.

“Just one thing,” Emily answered. She then pointed to the vase of flowers standing on the table. Their blossoms were violet, and they resembled daisies.

“Are you familiar with those?” Emily asked.

“No,” Chelsea answered. “What about you, Brandon?”

“I see them all over the place in the summertime,” he answered. “But I’ve never known what they’re called.”

“They’re coneflowers,” Emily answered, “and they grow wild around here. In honor of Brooke, each day I place them on the café tables. I pay a local boy to go and pick them for me.”

Coneflowers . . . ?
Chelsea thought. Something about that word was tugging at her mind, she realized. But she couldn’t understand why, so she let it go. “That’s a lovely gesture,” Chelsea said. “But why did you choose coneflowers?”

“They were Brooke’s favorite,” Emily answered. “I once asked her why, but she refused to say. Then one day when I knew that she was coming in, on a lark I placed a vase full of them on the table that I had reserved for her. I also liked the way they looked and smelled, and so I’ve been doing it every summer since.”

Then Emily became quiet for a time, thinking. After a few more moments, she again summoned Missy to their booth.

“Could you please go and get my book for me?” Emily asked her. “You know the one I mean? It’s upstairs, on my nightstand.”

“I think so,” Missy answered. “The green one, right?”

“Yes,” Emily answered.

As Missy scurried away, Emily looked thoughtfully into Chelsea’s eyes. “There’s something that I want you to have,” she said. “Your grandmother gave it to me long ago, just before she left Lake Evergreen for the final time. It was one of her favorite things, and I have cared for it long enough. At long last, the time has come for her granddaughter to possess it.”

Missy soon returned. In one hand she carried an old book, which she handed to Emily. Emily rubbed its cover thoughtfully for a time, as if she were saying good-bye to an old friend. When at last she surrendered it to Chelsea, Chelsea saw that it was an old copy of
Leaves of Grass,
by Walt Whitman. Its dark green cover had long since faded and appeared to be made of buckram board.

“Have you read it?” Emily asked Chelsea.

Chelsea shook her head.

“That was Brooke’s favorite book,” Emily said. “She loved to sit on her cottage porch and peruse it. She was quite fond of claiming that everyone should read it at least once in his or her lifetime. Then one day, to my great surprise she left it to me. You’ll notice that there is a slight gap between two of the middling pages. I suggest that you open it there and look inside.”

When Chelsea did so, she saw two ancient violet coneflowers had been pressed inside. Fearing that they might fall apart if touched, she left them undisturbed as she gently set the old book atop the table.

“More coneflowers . . . ,” she said to Emily. “Did you put them there?”

Emily shook her head. “
Non, ma chère,
” she answered. “They were already there when Brooke first left the book behind for me. Later on I asked Brooke about them, but again she did not answer. She had so many secrets, it seems . . .”

Emily looked into Chelsea’s eyes. “And now,” she said, “you must forgive this old woman, for I have grown tired. I am very happy to have met you, Chelsea Enright, and I hope that you will return to my humble café. It would be lovely to talk to you some more, I’m sure. And please know that I will say a prayer for the woman whom we both loved so much.”

Then she stood. “For now, at least, I must say adieu.”

“Good-bye, Emily,” Chelsea said. “And thank you.”

“Au revoir,” Brandon added.

While Emily slowly walked away, Chelsea looked back down at the faded, lifeless coneflowers. They seemed so delicate lying there atop the old book, as if the slightest breeze might easily destroy them.

Secrets pressed inside yet more secrets . . . ,
she thought.

But where are they all leading me?

Chapter 22

L
ater that night, Brandon was helping Chelsea prepare another dinner recipe from Brooke’s journal. As they worked together in the kitchen, she smiled at him. Brandon wasn’t much of a cook, and he willingly admitted it. The red and white checked apron he wore seemed to hold more ingredients than did the bowl into which they were supposed to be going. Chelsea found his efforts endearing, and his obvious desire to help drew her even closer to him.

Tonight’s selection was something that Brooke had labeled Roosevelt’s Roast Beef, the ingredients for which Brandon and Chelsea had purchased in Serendipity, right after visiting Emily. When Chelsea had chosen the recipe earlier that morning, she saw that Roosevelt’s Roast Beef was in fact a baked beef strip loin, with a side recipe for a bourbon-mushroom sauce that sounded wonderful.

While Brandon diced the onions, Chelsea again consulted the recipe book. First, she seasoned the meat on both sides with salt and pepper. With that done, she then placed the roast into the oven at 450˚ F. Soon after, she began helping Brandon with the bourbon-mushroom sauce, which called for mushrooms, onions, bourbon, and minced garlic. When the roast had cooked for forty-five minutes, she served it along with the sauce, some mashed potatoes, and a green salad.

“My God, Brooke was a wonder in the kitchen,” Brandon said admiringly, just before popping another piece of beef into his mouth.

Chelsea smiled. “She was, wasn’t she?” she answered. “Especially when you consider that all of the recipes in that book are of her own making.”

“For sure,” Brandon said. Then he gave Chelsea a sly smile. “And her only granddaughter’s no slouch in the kitchen, either.”

Chelsea laughed a little. “Why thank you, Dr. Yale,” she said. “Even so, I could have never done it without Brooke’s help from the great beyond.”

After cleaning up the dishes, Chelsea and Brandon took their coffee, along with Brooke’s journal, out onto Chelsea’s porch. Dark clouds were gathering, and no boats braved the gray, whitecapped waves. If it rained, Chelsea realized, it would be for the first time since she had come to Lake Evergreen. Brandon picked up the journal and looked at it thoughtfully, wondering what its next entry might tell them.

“May I read it to you, this time?” he asked Chelsea.

“Sure,” she answered.

After finding the appropriate page, he gave Chelsea a questioning glance. “It’s blotched in places here,” he said, “like some of her tears fell on the pages. Are you sure that you want to go on?”

As Chelsea steeled herself, she turned and cast her eyes across the waves.
More heartache to come?
she wondered.

“Yes, Brandon,” she finally answered. “I want to hear it, no matter what.”

Just as the first raindrops fell, Brandon began reading aloud:

Wednesday, August 5, 1942, 9:00
P.M
.

Two more weeks have passed. I’ve been crying tonight, and my tears are falling upon these journal pages, even as I write them. Although the reasons for my distress are clear enough, the solution to stopping it remains impossibly elusive. Since I realized my love for Greg, my heart has been in a constant battle with my conscience. I am still smitten with him, while my dear husband trains in the art of war, so as to help save our very way of life.

My God, have I become one of those women about whom I’ve been so critical, the ones who betray their husbands, despite how much they claim to love them? Because I haven’t consummated my love for Greg, I would like to believe that I have yet to join their traitorous ranks. Nor can I, if I ever again want to look my husband in the face. But my heart asks, which is the greater trial? A guilt-ridden, illicit physical affair or a long-distance one without sexual intimacy?

I have also become strangely torn about Bill ever coming home, a conflict that until only two weeks ago I believed could have never existed within me. If he doesn’t survive, will my feelings for Greg at last be set free? And if Bill does return, how will my heart deal with it? Will I still love him as I once did? Or because of my newfound feelings for Greg, will my ardor wither at the mere sight of my husband? Will my heart then compare one to the other and find one lacking? And if so, which one?

Although I have of course seen Greg since my last journal entry, because the last two weeks have passed rather uneventfully, I still can’t tell how he really feels about me, and the mystery is driving me mad. He has begun painting the portrait he promised me, and it is nearly half-done. We talk casually as he works, his paint and brushes busily creating my likeness while I do my best to sit still. The process is perhaps more arduous for me than it is for him, given that I can’t help but wish that it were his fingertips caressing my skin, rather than his brushes caressing the canvas . . .

The slightest possibility that he loves me as I do him makes me shudder with a great fear the likes of which I have never known. While part of me desperately wishes it to be true, the other half of my soul knows that nothing worse could befall the three of us. For unrequited love is, by its very nature, terrible enough. But true, requited love is a self-fulfilling prophecy . . .

I should go back to Syracuse, I know, and try to forget all about this man named Gregory Butler. But in the end, what good would it do? Having just built his cottage, he surely will keep returning to Lake Evergreen for many summers to come. And if so, then what am I to do? If Bill survives the war, am I to never come back here simply because of my unresolved feelings for Greg? Or if I do, would it prove too painful, too guilt-inducing, too selfish? Either way, what happened today was another step toward what I fear may be inevitable, and it has made my dilemma even more difficult to bear . . .

W
HILE STRUGGLING TO
make the climb, Brooke felt some sweat trickle down her forehead, forcing her to again wipe her face with a handkerchief. Greg was several paces ahead of her as he led her up the rather steep mountain trail.

This was no well-established hiking trail, Brooke realized. Heavily strewn with rocks and brush, it was more like some narrow, abandoned goat path than any clearly defined mountain route she had ever seen. All of which jibed with what Greg told her before they set out—that only the locals knew about this path, and that it was seldom used. He had impishly refused to tell her where they were going, saying only that once they arrived, the trek would be worth it. He hadn’t climbed this trail since he was a teenager, he had added happily, so it would be like he too were going there for the first time.