Page 47 of Love Conquers All

Valerie sniffed, the onions abandoned. “How old was Sylvie when Sarah died? Eight?”

“I think she was seven.”

Valerie nodded. “I always thought it was better she was so young.”

Graham’s ears were ringing. What was his mother talking about? What was better about losing a parent at such a young age?

“Her father never told her anything about her mother,” Graham said. “It’s like this big black hole she’s had to carry around for her entire life. Even when she became a journalist, she tried to dig into how she died and came up with nothing. With all her tools and know-how, Sarah Bruckson remained a mystery. Until now, with her journals and diaries.”

Valerie looked at her son the way she once had when he’d been very small, working out a math problem or a difficult morality issue. She looked at him likecome on, Graham, I need you to put the pieces together. But what was there to know?

“Sarah Bruckson and Sylvie Bruckson couldn’t be more different,” Valerie said finally.

Graham was struck by how careful his mother was being. “What do you mean?”

“I didn’t know Sarah so well, of course,” Valerie said. “But we had children the same age, obviously. And so I saw her from time to time, walking through town with a stroller, stopping for a coffee or an ice cream. I saw how cute her little baby was. I think I invited her out with a few moms, maybe to the beach. But always, she acted like—I don’t know—like she was above it all. She really turned up her nose at me.”

Graham’s palms were sweating. His mother was right. Sarah Bruckson sounded like the opposite of Sylvie Bruckson.

“And the way she treated James!” Valerie rasped. “It was like he was a tired old man. I once heard her yelling at him on the boardwalk. She ripped into him like he was nothing. I think—in public—she told him that she’d never loved him. I got out of there as soon as I could. I had tears in my eyes.”

Graham found it difficult to put the figure of James Bruckson in this light. James? A victim? It didn’t feel real.

“When she died, it broke the island’s heart, of course,” Valerie said. “Leaving a little girl like that was a devastating thing! And James was so broken. I didn’t hear him speak for years.”

“You know, he was going to send Sylvie off to boarding school?” Graham interjected, remembering the application. “That’s why Sylvie ran away.”

Valerie clasped her hands together. “It was a confusing time for all of us. Watching you and Sylvie run around like that, putting yourselves in danger.”

“But you were supporting us,” Graham said.

Valerie nodded. “I was so proud of you. But you were so young, and it wasn’t always easy. People on the island were sending me horrible letters about the two of you. Hotels and restaurants and others who relied on the tourism industry were having their lawyers call me and vaguely threaten me. I knew you two were planning something out in the garage, and I hoped and prayed it wouldn’t ruin us.”

Graham hadn’t known any of that was going on. His mother had protected them. But James’s route had been to rip Sylvie and Graham apart.

“And then, Sylvie was suddenly gone,” Graham said.

“It was terrible,” Valerie whispered.

“It broke my heart,” Graham said.

Valerie was quiet for a long time. Her eyes were on the rain-splattered window. “Maybe the two of you needed to grow up a little bit,” she offered. “Perhaps now is the perfect time.”

Now, Graham recognized that reading the journals of Sarah Bruckson might reveal to Sylvie a difficult past—not a rainbow-filled childhood with a mother who loved her. He told his mother he’d be back to eat his dinner later. He’d bring Sylvie with him.

But right before he left, Valerie stopped him. She put her hand on his shoulder and said, “They ruled her death an accident. But I was never so sure if it was.”

Graham’s lips parted. “What do you mean?”

Chapter Twenty-Two

Sylvie remained in the attic with the diaries in front of her, listening to the clatter of rain against the slate rooftop. Her pulse was quick, but she was so immersed in her mother’s world she couldn’t look away. She had no idea how much time she’d lost.

May 3, 1983

I’m writing this on the darkest day.

Wally and I have just returned from the doctor with the news. After four glorious months of remission, months that allowed us to hope for a brighter future, Wally is sick again. We have another few months of treatment, followed by another waiting phase, followed by more mystery. It’s the mystery that’s making me especially sick. How do I get my mind around this? Chemotherapy nearly destroyed Wally and me the first time around.

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