The Bungalow (37 page)

Quiet lingered on campus, and my heels clicked loudly on the brick path, shiny from a recent rain shower. A clock chimed in the distance: noon.

“Just a little farther,” Jennifer said, gauging my face for signs of strain.

“I’m all right, dear,” I reassured her. The crisp fall air felt good on my skin. It energized me in a way I hadn’t anticipated. “You lead the way.”

We walked past a row of maples, their leaves tinged orange and red. A stately brick building stood at attention nearby. I recognized it instantly, of course. Gerard had taught finance here after he retired from the bank. How I’d loved taking walks with him through campus, especially in the fall.

“Right through here,” Jennifer said, taking my arm in hers as we approached a narrow path that curved around the ivy-covered building. She held up a tree branch so I could duck underneath. Of all the times I’d been on campus with Gerard, I’d never thought to walk behind the building. Not even once.

“There it is,” she said, pointing ahead proudly.

I squinted, letting the sculpture come into focus. I could see why it captivated Jennifer so. It told a story. I walked closer, intrigued, and eyed the bronze couple huddled in a crude doorway.
Why is my heart racing?
The man looked at the woman with longing, while her gaze drifted out to the left somewhere in the distance.

“It’s beautiful,” I said, looking closer. The man held in his hands a large box with a lock, and at his feet a few possessions lay scattered: a painter’s canvas, a shattered bottle, and a book. My hands trembled as I knelt down. In that moment, my heart
knew
.

Jennifer stood quietly a few steps behind me.
Where are all the people, the fanfare she spoke of?
I ran my hand along the bronze book at the base of the sculpture, cold, wet from the rain, until I secured the corner of its cover.
Could it be?
I lifted the heavy edge and stared at the tarnished steel key inside, my heart beating faster by the second.

I gestured for Jennifer to come closer. “I can’t do this alone,” I said, wiping a tear from my cheek.

She steadied me as I slid the key into the lock on the box, its edges sealed tightly to protect its contents.
A perfect match
. I turned it to the right but it jammed.

“The weather must have corroded it,” I said. “I’ll try it again.”

I pulled the key out and inserted it in the lock a second time, giving it a light shake. A faint click sounded as the lock released its stubborn grip.

Jennifer hovered as I lifted the lid and peered inside to find a blue velvet case. I removed it from its bronze crypt and walked to a nearby bench, where Jennifer and I sat down.

“Are you going to open it?” she whispered.

I turned to her with heavy, moist eyes. “You knew, didn’t you?”

Jennifer smiled quietly, nodding. “When the woman from the archives called in Bora-Bora, she told me the artist’s name, Grayson Hodge, but I didn’t recognize it. I should have remembered, but the name didn’t click until a few weeks after we were home.” She paused, searching my face for approval. “He used the pseudonym in his work. I didn’t want to keep it from you, but I wanted you to see this for yourself.”

I carefully opened the case and peeled back the brown paper wrapping inside.

Jennifer gasped. “The painting? The one from the bungalow?”

I nodded in awe. The old Gauguin warmed my hands as I held it, as if the Bora-Bora sun had lingered in the canvas all these years. The colors, just as vibrant; the composition, just as moving as the day I first laid eyes on it. And for a moment, I was there again, on the island, feeling the warm air on my cheeks, the sand on my feet, the love of Westry all around me.

“He found it!” I cried. “Just as he promised.”
Of course he kept his promise.
“And to think it was here, waiting for me, all these years—right under my nose—and I didn’t even look.” I turned to Jennifer with eyes of gratitude. “Thank you, dear,” I said, looking at the statue and then back at the painting. “This is a gift.”

She eyed the nearby building anxiously before turning back to me. “Grandma,” she whispered, “are you ready?”

“Ready for what?”

“To see
him
.”

My heart swelled. “But you said, you said he was . . .”

“Dead?” She shook her head. “Yes, Grayson Hodge, a ninety-year-old man from Barkley, Utah, died. But not Westry Green.”

“I don’t know,” I said, choking back tears. “But your project?”

Jennifer smiled. “It’s concluded beautifully.”

I felt weak, unsure. “I’ve been dreaming about this day for as long as I can remember, and now that it’s here I’m . . .”

“Scared?”

“Yes,” I muttered, smoothing my wispy hair—what was left of it, anyway.
Why didn’t I put on a dress? And some lipstick?

Jennifer shook her head, sensing my insecurity. “Westry will only see what I see: your true
beauty
.”

She handed me a handkerchief to dry my eyes. “Now, you wait here. I’ll go around front and tell them we’re ready.”

“You mean,” I said, fumbling, “he’s here already?”

“Yes,” she said, smiling proudly. “His son brought him over this morning. They traveled all the way from New York.”

Jennifer gave me a passing smile as she turned toward the path, disappearing around the front of the old building. Alone, I looked up at the sculpture, gazing at the man’s eyes. Even cast in bronze, they did look like Westry’s, very much so. All those times I’d walked this stretch of campus—I exhaled deeply—if I had only stopped once to notice, to see the clue he’d placed in my path, I might have found him.

I heard the crunch of gravel in the distance and I turned my eyes back to the pathway. When a man appeared, a flock of sparrows startled, fluttering away to a nearby tree. Even in a wheelchair, he had a familiar presence—the way he held himself, the outline of his chin. When our eyes met, he waved away the middle-aged man behind him and took the wheels in his hands, pushing the chair with a strength that didn’t match the white of his hair, the wrinkles on his face. His eyes remained fixed on my face, holding me in his gaze.

He stopped in front of the bench where I sat, reaching his hands out to me, cradling my icy fingers in his strong, warm palms. “Hello, Cleo,” he said, extending a hand to my face. He stroked my cheek lightly, before his fingers found my locket.

“Hello, Grayson,” I said, wiping the tears from my cheek.

“You’re a little late, my dear,” he said with the same mischievous grin I’d been so charmed by on the day we met.

I searched his face. “How can you ever forgive me? For not knowing, for not looking.... I was—”

Westry brushed his finger against my lips and smiled in a way that calmed me.
He could always calm me.
“Just a little late,” he said softly, “but not too late.” In an instant, he was twenty-five again, and I, twenty-one. Age disappeared. Time faded into the distance.

He buttoned his brown corduroy jacket and set the brakes of the wheelchair, then inched closer to the edge of the seat before pushing his body to a standing position.

I gasped. “But I thought . . .”

He grinned. “That you’d like to take an autumn stroll?” He retrieved a gray cane from the side of the chair, securing it in his left hand and holding his right out to me. “Ready?”

“Yes,” I said, beaming, marveling at him standing next to me, so tall, so sure. I tucked the painting under my arm before taking his hand in mine, blinking hard to make sure I wasn’t dreaming.

We started down the path through campus, unsure of our destination. But none of that mattered, not now. For our story had an ending that suited me. I loved him, and he loved me, up until the very end. This is the story that would whistle in the winds of Bora-Bora, haunt the weathered remains of the bungalow, and live on in my heart forever.

Westry came. The curse ended. Together, we walked slowly, but surely. I nestled closer to him, wrapping my arm around his just as two wine-colored leaves fell from a nearby tree branch, dancing in the autumn breeze on separate paths before falling softly to the ground, where they settled on the damp earth, side by side.

A
big, heartfelt thanks goes to my extraordinary literary agent, Elisabeth Weed, for teaming up with me on another book and offering encouragement and guidance (and sometimes free therapy sessions) along the way. It’s a joy and a privilege to work with you. Also, much gratitude to Stephanie Sun, who, along with Elisabeth, was the very first reader of this book. Your kind comments cheered me on and your suggestions made the book better. (I also love that you found Westry to be as dreamy as I still do!)

It is not advisable to write a book when one is deep into the second trimester of her pregnancy and also on the heels of the debut of another book. But I wrote one anyway. And I thank my lovely editor, Denise Roy, for sticking by me as I juggled the baby and the book revisions while prepping for the launch of my first novel. Denise, your sharp editorial eye and creative ideas continually amaze me. In you, I’ve found a great editorial partner. (Thank you, too, for being so understanding when the baby screamed sometimes during our phone conversations—because he did scream, quite loudly.)

I have much appreciation to Jenny Meyer of Meyer Literary Agency for sharing my story with foreign editors and for being so enthusiastic about my stories. To Nadia Kashper, Liz Keenan, Milena Brown, Kym Surridge, and everyone at Plume, you’re the best. Dear friends, Sally Farhat Kassab, Wendi Parriera, Camille Noe Pagan, Lisa Bach, Natalie Quick, and many more all cheered me on along the way—thank you, lovelies. And to my editors at
Glamour
,
Health
,
Redbook
, and other magazines, who gave me a deadline extension or two so I could get book stuff done—I’m ever grateful.

I am thankful in more ways than I can count to my parents, Terry and Karen Mitchell—for loving me, for putting up with me, for encouraging me, and especially for sharing Great Uncle Michael Handgraaf’s journal from wartime in the South Pacific. To my brothers, Josh Mitchell and Josiah Mitchell, and my sister and closest friend, Jessica Campbell—I love you so much, but you’re still no match for me at Tile Rummy. I also remember my late grandfather James Robert Mitchell, whose stories of wartime in the South Pacific remain etched in my memory.

I have three sons, Carson, Russell, and Colby, all who were under the age of four when I wrote this book. There’s only one thing I love more than writing, and it’s being their mother.

Last but not least, Jason—my best friend, partner in child wrangling, and loving husband, this story wouldn’t have been born had it not been for our 2011 journey to Moorea and Tahiti. For in that rustic little beach bungalow we shared (complete with geckos and lots of tropical ants!) was the first glimmer of this story. You are my inspiration and my rock. I write for you, and because of you.