Blackberry Winter: A Novel (33 page)

“We grave minders have long believed in the legend of the blackberry,” he continued. “Do you know it?”

I shook my head.

“They choose souls to protect. The special ones.”

I noticed the way the blackberry leaves lay against the headstone, almost embracing it.

“I’m surprised the storm didn’t kill this little shoot,” he said, touching the tiny flower delicately with his index finger. “Special,” he said again, rising to his feet, brushing dirt from his knees. “Well, I’ll leave you now. Just thought you’d like to know.”

“Thank you,” I said, looking up at him with more gratitude than the words could express.

I sat there for a long time, thinking about the child I’d never know, milestones I’d never see. First steps. First words. Kindergarten. Sixth-grade science fairs. Swing sets and sidewalk chalk. Summer camping trips. Spelling bees. I stood up and steadied myself against the trunk of the willow tree. I’d come here to find Daniel, not to sink deeper into my grief.
I came for Vera.
I took a deep breath and wound my way through the rows of Kensington headstones, most made of marble punctuated with elaborate finials and urns. Headstones for wealthy people. Ruby Kensington. Elias Kensington. Merilee Kensington. Where was Daniel? Eleanor Walsh
Kensington. Louis Kensington III. My eyes squinted at a smaller headstone. A child’s rocking horse was etched into the top. My heart beat faster as I read the words.
THOMAS KENSINGTON, SON OF JOSEPHINE KENSINGTON. BORN APRIL 21, 1930, DIED JUNE 9, 1936.
I wrote the words in my notebook.

The dates figured perfectly. Josephine must have taken him when he was three, and he’d died just a few years later. There he was, little Daniel—well, as Warren had said, they called him Thomas then—resting in the earth beneath my feet. I shook my head.
No, he is not resting. Not without his mother.

I drove straight to the office, parking the car in the lot next to the
Herald
building. I walked quickly to my desk, passing the girls from sales on a cigarette break without stopping to say hi. At my desk, I pulled up the draft of the story on my computer, and I wrote, referring to my notebook for bits and pieces of my research from the previous week. Eva. Café Lavanto. The Kensington family. Press clippings from decades ago. The testimony from Mr. Ivanoff. And now the gravesite that tied it all together. I wrote through lunch, barely noticing my hunger, when I usually felt famished by noon. At two, I sat back in my chair and gazed at the completed story on my screen. I wrote the last sentence, then scrolled to the very top, where the cursor flashed next to the headline. “Blackberry Winter: Late-Season Snowstorm Holds Key to Missing Boy from 1933.” Below the headline, I typed my name with sure fingers. “By Claire Aldridge.” I couldn’t remember the last time I’d felt so proud of my byline.

I printed the article, five pages in total. Even though he took me off the story, Frank would want to see it. But I walked to Abby’s office first. She turned away from her computer and I dropped the
pages on her desk, then sat in her guest chair while she read in silence. She looked up at me periodically with a shocked face, then turned back to the draft, continuing to read.

“Wow,” she said, handing the pages back to me.

“So what do you think?”

“Just, wow,” she said again. “You realize that you’re incriminating your husband’s entire family with this feature.”

I shrugged. “It’s the truth.”

Abby looked doubtful. “Truth or not, you know the Kensingtons are never going to let you print it.”

“They have to,” I said. “It needs to be told.

“It does,” she agreed, looking thoughtful. “But wait, what about Vera? Did you ever find her grave?”

I sighed. “No,” I said, glancing back at the pages in my hand. “And the story doesn’t quite feel complete without that information, at least for me.”

Abby frowned. “What do you think the Kensingtons will think of all of this?”

“I don’t care what they think anymore,” I said. I looked to the window that looked out on the street, where a young mother walked by on the sidewalk holding the hand of her little boy. He wore a yellow raincoat with matching boots. I turned back to Abby. “It’s time the world learned what happened to Daniel Ray.”

She looked at me a long while. “I’m proud of you, honey. You’ve come a long way.”

“Thanks,” I said, turning toward the door.

Frank was on the phone, so I set the pages in front of him at his desk and whispered, “I know you killed the story, but for what it’s worth, here it is. I had to finish it.”

His grin told me he’d forgiven me.

Back at my desk, the red light on my phone blinked, alerting me to a voice message. I dialed the password and listened. “Claire, this is Eva. Sorry, I was out walking when you called. It feels odd leaving this information over a message recorder, but I’ll go ahead anyway so as not to delay your research. You asked where Vera was laid to rest, and you can find her at a little cemetery on First Hill, just north of the city. Ninth plot on the left, right next to the chain-link fence. I used to visit her more, but in my old age, well, I haven’t gotten up there in a long time. I’m glad you’re able to visit her, dear.”

My heart raced. I reached for my bag and jacket, but nearly ran into Frank in the doorway. “This,” he said, motioning me back to my chair, “is a work of art.”

I smiled cautiously. “You really think so?”

“Yes. Your finest research. And the writing”—he shook his head as though marveling at a fine painting—“it’s beautiful. Made me cry.” He looked at me, astonished. “You’re back, Claire.”

“Thank you,” I said. “But all the stuff about the Kensingtons, I—”

He held up his hand. “This is history. It must be printed. Don’t you worry. I’ll smooth it all out with the editorial board.”

“All right,” I said, standing up again.

Frank raised his eyebrows. “Where are you off to?”

“Just following up on another lead,” I said. “I’ll e-mail you the story tonight.”

“I’ll look forward to it,” he said, following me out.

I parked in front of the cemetery later that afternoon. A far cry from the beautifully tended Bryant Park, the First Hill Cemetery, encircled by a rusty chain-link fence, looked all but forgotten. Brown grass and weeds grew up against headstones, many of which had been marked with graffiti. I was careful to lock the BMW
before I walked through the gates, where large cedar trees loomed, casting dark shadows on the ground.

Where did Eva say Vera’s grave was? Ninth plot on the left. I walked farther inside the cemetery, counting the headstones as I went. No finials or marble; just simple, unadorned stone. A poor-man’s graveyard. I came to the ninth headstone and crouched down, attempting to read the inscription, but moss obscured the words. I used the edge of the BMW key to scrape off a clump that covered the letters.
VERA RAY,
it read simply, 1910–1933.

I shook my head. No reference to her being a loving a mother. A dear friend. A sister. A daughter. Just a name and a few unspecific dates. What was wrong with this world? A world where a name like Kensington made you special and a name like Ray rendered you dispensable, forgettable? I stared at her grave intently.
I won’t let them forget about you, Vera.

I felt a fluttery feeling inside when I noticed a thorny vine growing along the edge of the small headstone. White flowers burst from its velvety green leaves. I remembered what the man at the graveyard had said, about blackberries being special, choosing souls, protecting them.
Of course they’d choose Vera.
I felt a shiver come over me as a car sped by on the street beyond the ramshackle fence.

I thought of Ethan on the drive back to the office. Sure, he’d been apprehensive about the story, but once he read it, he’d understand how important it was. My heart told me that. I couldn’t wait to take a draft to him. Of course, Glenda wouldn’t be thrilled, but that didn’t matter to me. Warren’s opinion, however, did. His heart was weak. Could he handle learning about these dark family secrets? Would
they cause him too much pain? After all, he hadn’t known that his cousin had not only been
kidnapped
but was also his
half brother
.

Frank was waiting for me in my office when I returned. A pencil dangled from his lips.

I dropped my bag to the floor. “What is it?”

“The story’s been killed.”

“What? By whom?”

He shook his head, disappointed. “It’s out of my hands. You’ll have to take it up with your husband.”

My cheeks burned as I charged through the cubicles to Ethan’s office. He’d warned me that he wasn’t comfortable with the story, but I didn’t believe he’d actually kill the piece.

Ethan’s back was turned to the door when I walked into his office. I closed the door behind me. “How could you?” I screamed.

He turned around, holding my article in his hands. “It’s a good story, Claire,” he said. “Really. Bravo.”

“You can’t kill it,” I said. “You just can’t.”

“I can.” His eyes looked distant, vacant. I didn’t know what I hated more at that moment, the death of this story, or the death of our marriage.

I sat down in a chair in front of his desk and let out a huge sigh.

“Listen,” Ethan said, sitting down, “I didn’t make the decision.”

I looked up. “You didn’t?”

“No,” he said. “Warren did.”

“What?”

“Yes,” he continued. “He knew you were working on it and he asked me to fax him a draft when it made its rounds.”

“I don’t understand. He didn’t mention anything about it to me. How did he—?”

Ethan shrugged. “Well, he knew about it and he read it.”

I pursed my lips. “And I take it he didn’t like it.”

Ethan nodded. “You’ll have to take it up with him, I’m afraid. He is still the editor in chief emeritus, after all.”

“I will,” I said, standing up.

“He’s home from the hospital, you know,” he said. “Still weak, but making a good recovery.”

I nodded, noticing a suitcase near his desk. His jacket lay draped across the bag, signaling his imminent departure.

I shook my head in confusion. “Where are you going?”

“Oh, that,” he said, his eyes meeting mine. “I thought I’d stay on the island for a while—until we sort things out.”

I gulped.

“I thought we could use…the time apart.” He searched my eyes for approval. “We’ve been through so much this past year,” he continued. “It’ll be good for us. We could both use some time to…figure things out.”

“Right,” I said quickly. “Of course.” My eyes burned. I walked around his desk and kissed his cheek. I knew I had to leave quickly or run the risk of sobbing in his office. I didn’t want to plead with him to stay. I wanted him to
want
to stay. “Well,” I said, feeling a lump in my throat, “then I guess this is…good-bye.”

I didn’t wait to see his face, nor did I hear what he mumbled as I walked out the door. I had to leave. The air inside those four walls felt thick and suffocating. Outside the door, I closed my eyes and thought of the little sailboat my grandmother gave me when I was a child. The memory, foggy at first, came rushing in so clear, I could feel the spray of the seawater on my face. I had played with the little boat lovingly each summer in the tide pools on the beach, until one July when I worked up the courage to take it into the ocean, an idea inspired solely by a children’s book from the 1950s that I’d found in
a chest in the spare bedroom,
Scuffy the Tugboat
. So I set the little boat on the shore, gave it a swift push, and immediately watched a wave wrap its tendrils around the tiny mast, sweeping it out to sea. It broke my heart to see it go, and I stared at the shore for a long time after that, scolding myself. I’d sent it away, just as I feared I’d pushed my husband away.

I couldn’t bear to stay at the office any longer, so I collected my bag from my desk and walked outside. I looked up when I heard the screech of a car, inches from me, followed by the honk of an angry driver. “Watch where you’re going!” shouted the man behind the wheel. “I nearly ran you over!”

I nodded and walked on, hardly affected by the exchange, across the street and to the parking lot, where Ethan’s BMW waited. I stared at the shiny car for a moment, blinking back tears. It glimmered in the spring sun, so flashy, so sad. A symbol of our failed marriage. I shook my head, turned back to the street, and hailed a cab.