Bittersweet (43 page)

As the stage is cleared, and the blankets are spread upon the ground, as the children reapply their glitter makeup and the men slip off to don their Pyramus and Thisbe costumes, I catch sight of a solitary figure across the lawn, leaning against the Dining Hall.

She is not unlike her mother once was: brittle, unpleasant. She keeps herself apart, from us and the world. I suppose she could still have a life, children, a husband if she wanted them. But something irrevocable happened to her that summer—she was stunted by it, by John’s murder and her father’s death, by the fact that the skewed moral universe she’d been born into, and adhered to, was dismantled the day Birch died, by the truth that, even had she been able to escape Winloch, she would always have Winslow blood in her veins.

She observes the children’s antics, the dogs tussling over a piece of ham. They are all a bit afraid of her, the quiet aunt who wears a mantle of sorrow. But I am not, even though she believes I am responsible for what is broken in her. Or at least I am not afraid enough to keep myself from remembering.

Under the canopy of birch, pine, and maple branches, sun dappling down, I can pretend it is a lifetime ago. If I didn’t know any better, I could believe we are back in that first summer, when it was just the two of us, alone, in an undiscovered kingdom. It is a dangerous, slippery wish.

I was meant to become one of you, I think of saying, but she can’t hear me across the lawn, and yet, I know, when she nods, that she means to say, yes. She means to say she knew I would be a Winslow before I did. I think I will go to her, will say just that into her sweet pink ear, when the children parade out, and the applause begins.

I look for her again. She is gone.

So I sit with my daughters and celebrate.

And I do my best job of forgetting.

Although only my name is on the cover of this book, there are dozens of others who inspired it, believed in it, strengthened it, and worked on making it what you now hold in your hands. I am humbled by them.

Thank you to Jennifer Cayer, Tammy Greenwood, Heather Janoff, and Emily Raboteau, for their keen eyes and honesty; to Elisa Albert, Daphne Bertol-Foell, Caitlin Eicher Caspi, Amber Hall, Victor LaValle, Luke McDonald, Esmée Stewart, Mikaela Stewart, and all the many folks I’m blessed to call friends, for their faith, generosity, and encouragement; to Rob Baumgartner, Mo Chin, Joyce Quitasol, and everyone at Joyce Bakeshop, for being a second writing home; to Amy March, Cathy Forman, Amy Ben-Ezra, and Farnsworth Lobenstine, for their generous support, which has made much of my work on this book possible; and to Lauren Engel, Sherri Enriquez, Martha Foote, Sandra Gomez, Margaret Haskett, Elizabeth Jimenez, Shameka Jones, Krissy Travers, Olive Wallace, Patricia Weslk, and everyone at PSCCC, for caring for my boy so I could write this book.

Thank you to Maya Mavjee, Molly Stern, and Jacob Lewis, for welcoming me with open arms; to Rachel Berkowitz, Linda Kaplan,
Karin Schulze, and Courtney Snyder, for taking the book international; to Christopher Brand, Anna Kochman, Elizabeth Rendfleisch, and Donna Sinisgalli, for giving it such a beautiful face; to Candice Chaplin, Christine Edwards, Jessica Prudhomme, Rachel Rokicki, Annsley Rosner, and Jay Sones, for introducing it to the world; to Susan M. S. Brown and Christine Tanigawa, for tightening my prose; to Sarah Breivogel, Nora Evans-Reitz, Kayleigh George, and Lindsay Sagnette, for being such supporters; and to Rick Horgan, for giving me his sage advice, and for twice now encouraging the bookmakers to gamble on me.

Thank you to Anne Hawkins, for standing by my side and believing this would come again (and for all our delicious lunches); to Dan Blank for teaching me so much about what it is to be a writer these days and helping me lead the charge; and to Christine Kopprasch, who knew exactly how this book should end (and in knowing, showed me she was meant to be my editor) and for all the hard work she’s put in since. She is wise, enthusiastic, and kind, and I am proud to call her my friend.

Thank you to Kai Beverly-Whittemore, for listening to my first tangled idea and insisting I start writing, for reading, for believing, for suggesting, and for loving me no matter what; to Rubidium Wu, for being such an example of patience and fortitude (not to mention demonstrating feats of strength with the young prince); to Robert D. Whittemore, for reminding me that the isle is full of noises, sounds, and sweet airs, and teaching me about that natural world so I could breathe life into Winloch, and for carrying on the legacy of his father, Richard F. W. Whittemore, who loved the land so much that he passed along its stewardship to his lucky descendants; to Elizabeth Beverly, who endured (and claimed to enjoy) many, many drafts of this book, including listening to me read it
aloud, and for the ancient motherly truths that are so much bigger than their pithy names, like love and pride and strength—thank you, thank you, thank you.

To my two loves, David M. Lobenstine and our
SPERO
, I say: my heart is full. I knew our lives together would be a beautiful adventure, but you have exceeded every expectation. I am so blessed to call you my own.

Miranda Beverly-Whittemore is the author of three novels, including
The Effects of Light
and
Set Me Free
, which won the Janet Heidinger Kafka Prize for the best book of fiction by an American woman published in 2007. A recipient of the
Crazyhorse
Fiction Prize, she lives and writes in Brooklyn and Vermont.