The Bone Garden: A Novel

— What about her? —

— How strong she must've been, just to survive. —

— When people need to, they usually find the strength. —

— I never did. Even when I needed it most. —

They walked along the ocean's edge, keeping away from the crumbling cliff.

— You're talking about your divorce? —

— When Richard asked me for it, I just assumed it was my fault that I couldn't keep him happy. That's what happens when day after day you're made to feel your job's not as important as his. That you're not as brilliant as his colleagues' wives. —

— How many years did you put up with that? —

— Seven. —

— Why didn't you leave? —

— Because I started to believe it. — She shook her head. — Rose wouldn't have put up with it. —

— That's a good mantra for you from now on. What would Rose do? —

— I've come to the conclusion that I'm no Rose Connolly. —

They watched as the lobsterman tossed his trap back in the water.

— I have to leave for Hong Kong on Thursday, — said Tom. — I'll be there for a month. —

— Oh. — She fell silent. So it would be a whole month before she saw him again.

— I love my work, but it means I'm not home half the time. Instead, I'm chasing epidemics, tending to other lives while forgetting I have one of my own. —

— But you have so much to contribute. —

— I'm forty-two and my housemate spends half the year at the dogsitter's. — He stared at the water. — Anyway, I'm thinking of canceling this trip. —

She felt her pulse suddenly quicken. — Why? —

— Partly because of Henry. He's eighty-nine, after all, and he won't be around forever. —

Of course, she thought. It's all about Henry. — If he has problems, he can call me. —

— That's a lot of responsibility. I wouldn't wish him on anyone. —

— I've grown rather attached to him. He's a friend now, and I don't abandon my friends. — She looked up as a seagull soared past. — It's strange how something like a bunch of old bones can bring two people together. People who have absolutely nothing in common. —

— Well, he certainly likes you. He told me that if he was just ten years younger? —

She laughed. — When he first met me, I think he could barely tolerate me. —

— Henry can barely tolerate anyone, but he ended up liking you. —

— It's because of Rose. She's the one thing we have in common. We're both obsessed with her. — She watched as the lobster boat motored away, leaving a white line etched on the bay's metallic gray surface. — I'm even having dreams about her. —

— What sort of dreams? —

— It's as if I'm there, seeing what she saw. The carriages, the streets, the dresses. It's because I've spent way too much time reading all those letters. She's seeping into my subconscious. I can almost believe I was there, it's all starting to seem so?familiar. —

— The way you seem familiar to me. —

— I don't know why I should. —

— Yet I keep having this feeling that I know you. That we've met. —

— I can't think of any reason we would have. —

— No. — He sighed. — I can't, either. — He looked at her. — So I guess there's no reason for me to cancel my trip. Is there? —

There was more to that question than either one of them was acknowledging. She met his gaze, and what she saw in his eyes scared her, because at that instant she saw both possibility and heartbreak. She was ready for neither.

Julia looked at the sea. — Henry and I will do fine. —

That night, Julia once again dreamed of Rose Connolly. Except this time, Rose was not the girl with the patched clothes and the ash-smudged face, but a sedate young woman with upswept hair and wisdom in her eyes. She stood amid wildflowers as she gazed down a slope, toward a stream. It was the same gentle slope that would one day become Julia's garden, and on this summer day, tall grass rippled like water in the wind, and dandelion fluff swirled in the golden haze. Rose turned, and there was a grassy field, and a few tumbled-down stones marking the spot where another house had once stood, a house that was now gone, burned to the ground.

From over the crest a young girl came running, her skirts flying behind her, her smiling face flushed from the heat. She flew toward Rose, who swept her up in her arms and swung her around and around, laughing.

— Again! Again! — the girl cried as she was set back on her feet.

— No, your auntie's dizzy. —

— Can we roll down the hill? —

— Look, Meggie. — Rose gestured toward the stream. — Isn't this a lovely spot? What do you think? —

— There are fish in the water, and frogs. —

— It's a perfect place, isn't it? Someday, you should build your house here. Right here on this spot. —

— What about that old house up there? —

Rose gazed up at the charred stone foundation near the top of the crest. — It belonged to a great man, — she said softly. — It burned down when you were just two years old. Maybe someday, when you're older, I'll tell you about him. About what he did for us. — Rose inhaled deeply and gazed toward the stream. — Yes, this is a fine place to build a house. You must remember this spot. — She reached for the girl's hand. — Come. Cook's expecting us back for lunch. —

They walked, the aunt and her niece, their skirts rustling through tall grass as they strode together up the slope, until they went over the crest, and only Rose's auburn hair could be seen glinting above the swaying grass.

Julia woke up with tears in her eyes. That was my garden. Rose and Meggie walked in my garden.

She climbed out of bed and went to the window, where she saw the pink light of dawn. At last all the clouds were gone and today, for the first time, she saw sunshine over Penobscot Bay. I'm so glad I stayed long enough to see this sunrise, she thought.

She tried to be quiet and not wake Henry as she tiptoed down the stairs and into the kitchen to make coffee. She was about to turn on the faucet to fill the carafe when she heard the distinct sound of rustling paper in another room. She set down the carafe and peeked into the library.

Henry was slumped in a chair at the dining table, his head drooping, a blizzard of paper spread out before him.

Alarmed, she ran toward him, fearing the worst. But when she grasped his shoulder he straightened and looked at her. — I found it, — he said.

Her gaze fell to the handwritten pages that lay on the table in front of him, and she saw the three familiar initials: O.W.H. — Another letter! —

— I think it may be the last one, Julia. —

— But this is wonderful! — she said. Then she noticed how pale he was, and that his hands were shaking. — What's wrong? —

He handed her the letter. — Read it. —

Thirty