But how could she not change me? All day, I’d read about a woman who chased life and made bold choices. She was only twenty-three when she defected or disappeared or died in 1941, yet she had lived far more than I had, despite my already being five years older. Her words had left me feeling as though I’d experienced nothing, stood for nothing, hoped for nothing.
And those recriminations weren’t wrong. In my heart, I acknowledged I was biding my time, wasting it really, in hopes of finding someplace I belonged. But I wasn’t chasing it. I was waiting for it to come to me. I was waiting—like Sleeping Beauty for her prince—for my life to come.
No more.
It felt as if my destiny was tied to my aunt’s. If I could find her story, I could start my own. Because that’s what it would take—finding her story by discovering the truth. Her letters revealed that, in many ways, she ran from the same demons I did—the same feelings of loss and displacement, abandonment and regret. I was so tired of running, and running in a gray, hazy world compared to the vivid color she evoked.
She wrote of the frenetic Paris scene, hashing out political arguments deep into the night in Montmartre, just as the Lost Generation had done the decade before her. She wrote of weighing Schiap and Dalí’s Communism against Fascism and how those ideas differed from her childhood dinner discussions at Parkley with the likes of Churchill and even King George VI at the table. She conveyed dynamic scenes through her descriptions of the House of Schiaparelli, with its lobster-and circus-themed parties, and Germans and Parisians in a silent, taut standoff. She marked the movements of people from two nations sitting side by side in cafés and then, with the declaration of war, the tense anticipation that held France captive awaiting her enemy’s return. And when the Germans did storm across the border, she wrote of the devastation of France. She wrote of love and life, with a passion when she referred to George, and with concern and wonder over who was going to make the first move in another true World War—and who the last.
There was so much to learn. Mat knew how to conduct the research and I possessed the letters. Perhaps one could inform the other and together we could find the answers.
We.
The word pulled me in. Caro referred to Margaret as such—the better half of her “we.” It was alluring and inviting to think in those terms, to not be alone.
It was late. I was tired. Mat, I reminded myself, was not my friend now. He had been, once long ago, but years had passed between us. I needed to be careful not to presume too much and not to trust him too far.
But he had answered my call and listened. He was coming to London. I couldn’t help letting hope creep close.
I picked up one of Margaret’s diaries to pair with Caro’s letters. I needed a timeline, context, and a better understanding of what exactly I’d invited Mat into.
I’d barely begun when Mom came up the stairs with coffee and a slice of cake on a tray.
“What’s this?”
“I couldn’t decide if you needed a sweet dessert to end your day or a savory one to start it.” She set down the tray and placed the plate and coffee before me. “I landed in the middle and made you a lemon olive oil cake.”
I smiled. A lemon olive oil cake whipped up in the middle of the night. It was an image and an offering I never expected from my mom. After Amelia died, I’d made my own breakfasts, lunches, and even dinners.
“Are you finding answers?”
I picked at a corner of the still-warm cake. “More questions than anything. I think putting the letters in chronological order to read in tandem with the diaries will give me the most complete picture.”
“Why don’t you get some sleep?” She gestured to the letters. “Tuesday is still a day away.”
I rubbed at my eyes again. I was wired, not tired, but they still stung. “We need to talk about that. I’m not going home Tuesday.”
“What about your job?” She straightened and the air charged between us.
Mom let the last word drift up and float between us. Dad’s domain was criticizing my “life choices.” But she was clearly attempting to pick up his baton. I almost laughed at the internal war she waged: say something, stay quiet, launch, act cool.
I waited. It was a visual standoff and she blinked first.
She tucked in her lips and, with a tiny hitch, dove into the waters. “Don’t you think that’s risky? You’ve had such trouble sticking to things and enjoying them, and I thought you liked this job. You said it was important to you, and with whatever it’s called going to market—”
“You’re right,” I conceded. “But this is more important, Mom, and I won’t come this way again. None of us will, especially not Dad.”
“I don’t want you to give up your present chasing a past that can’t be fixed. It’s not your job.”
“What if it is? And I’m not convinced they aren’t one and the same. We’re a mess, if you haven’t noticed.” She flinched at that, but I kept going. “Once that article is written, our pasts are closed; I feel it. It’s how Dad’s thinking. Whatever happened here—Amelia, our family, however little is left of us—won’t matter even if Dad lives to see it and I’ll—” I scrunched my nose, forbidding my eyes to fill with tears. “I’ll, again, be the one at fault. This is my lifeline. Don’t you get that?”
“Honey.” Mom reached across the table and seized my hand. “None of this was ever your fault. It started long before you were born, and what happened to us, with Amelia, was never your fault either. You can’t honestly believe that.”
“Rationally, no, but . . .” I looked at her. Part of me wanted to back away from everything between us; another part was so tired and worn I wanted to burst through. “No one ever told me it wasn’t.”
My words felt sharp and piercing. I readied myself for Mom to decamp with the accusation, but rather than recoil, she surprised me again. She softened further.
“I’m so sorry . . . So much time has passed.” She looked around the room. “I started to understand in those final months with your grandmother, then refinishing this house helped.” She slid her palm across a few bare inches of wood peeking through the scattered papers. “The physical work helped.”
Mom returned her attention to me. “I disappeared on you. I gave up on . . . on everything for a long time. I’m sorry about that. I’m so sorry, darling.”
I felt my lips drop open and pressed them shut. Cake lodged in my throat.
“It was never your job to save us,” she whispered.
“You stood there—” I rubbed the back of my hand against my nose. “Then you left. You both just left and . . . I can’t do this. I need to get back to work.”
She reached for me, but let her hand drop just before contact. Something she read in my eyes made hers flicker. “I hope you’ll forgive me.” She paused a beat before adding, “Someday.”
I wasn’t sure what she’d seen. Anger? Maybe. Hurt? Definitely. Maybe she saw I was empty. My mind was suddenly fuzzy and tired. I couldn’t process more than the task at hand.
We sat for a few minutes before she spoke again. “What will you tell work?”