They think only about who I will marry. Not who I will be.
Thank you for your sympathy and advice concerning my (now thwarted) education. I have taken on some sewing work for pay, as that seems to be the only thing my parents will allow, and have begun a secret savings. Within a year I may well be able to afford the first tuition payment on my own. And thank you for sending the latest issue of the NORTH STAR. I take so much inspiration from the news and essays therein, but I have found another forbidden source. Valerie Green—whose family receives the paper weekly. She also does sewing work, and cares for children—though she has far less free time than I. She is quite interesting and very dedicated to reading. He father is a musician and her mother a seamstress. The idea that my parents would tell me to stay away from them makes my blood boil, she and I have more in common than anyone I’ve ever known in town.
I apologize again for not being able to slip out. Now that my parents are watching my every move it is difficult for me to meet you in the wood. Know that as soon as it is possible I will come again. Obviously I have not said anything of our work to anyone—even Valerie, though I’m sure she suspects. And my parents, despite their wrath, have the discretion and fear not to speak about our endeavors.
I wonder if George might be helpful to you. I feel that there is something hidden about him—is it a hidden sympathy? Surely he has the means to aid people in need if directed in some way to do so. I have never discussed these matters with him myself, though perhaps you might. The three of us together could get so much more done. And my parents suspect him of nothing.
Yours,
Fidelia
Gretchen delicately put the letter back in the envelope. It was like she could almost hear Fidelia’s voice.
“Gretchen!” Hope called from out on the porch. “You coming?”
“Yeah, just a sec,” Gretchen said, and headed out the door, her head and heart full of a family she never knew she had, whose secrets she was now determined to solve. She heard her aunt’s voice ringing in her ears: Mona . . . she was here. She’s closer than you think.
FIFTEEN
LIKE THE NIKON AND THE DARKROOM, THE CAR WAS something to behold. The few things that were truly Aunt Esther’s and not tied to the house were perfect. And her Ford Triumph was no exception.
The car had the long, sharp art deco lines of its period. Bright chrome stripes and triangular backseat windows. Cat’s-eye brake lights. Double headlights. A shining sleek-looking grille. A white interior that had miraculously managed, over the decades, to stay white. Along its sides there were wide white panels, but otherwise the color was dinner-mint green. The color of the chalky candies some diners still kept in glass bowls by the register.
Somewhere Gretchen had seen a photograph of Grace Kelly wearing a silk scarf on her head, driving exactly this car down a stretch of mountain road above a beach.
“Wow,” she said. The incredible vintage chic of it was amazing. Simon would lose his mind when he saw this car. Oh, Simon, she thought, she had to try calling him again as soon as she could.
“It’s pretty awesome,” Hope said. “I’ve been taking it out for the last week—just driving around the hills.”
“How old are you?” Gretchen asked Hope.
“Fourteen,” Hope said, and shrugged. “I didn’t say I was legally driving it around the hills.” There was another old car up on cinder blocks at the back of the barn, this one a small convertible. “It’s a Citro?n,” Hope said. “My dad and I were working on it before he passed. He’d wanted it to be totally restored by the time I was old enough to drive. I’ve almost got it there.”
Apart from the car being a beautiful thing, Gretchen was relieved it was there. They could leave if there was an emergency. And they could also use it to transport things from the Axton mansion.
She had never really thought about anyone except paid mechanics fixing cars. It never occurred to her that some people might want to do it for fun.
“Does Hawk work on the car too?”
“Hawk?” Hope laughed. “That boy can’t screw in a light bulb without help. Part of the reason I learned to drive is so I can take him to music lessons. He’s got a long walk in the winter.”
“Guitar lessons?”
“Everything,” Hope said. “Cello, clarinet . . . banjo.” She grinned when she said it. “He’s going away to music school next year.”
“What will you do when he leaves? Will you still live here?”
“Now that Esther’s gone, I don’t know. I want to stay in school here. I don’t want to move.”
“Not even with all the . . .”
“The accidents?” Hope laughed. “There’s about one day a year all that stuff seems like something to be worried about. I’m not scared of accidents. If an anvil falls on my head, it’s because my time has come.”