Page 58 of Love Conquers All

I know that your father was heartbroken about the way your mother left this world. I know it was especially sorrowful because it was an accident.

The year your mother died, your father realized she was thinking about suicide. This is not a nice word, and it is not a nice sentiment, but it is one I must bring up here in order to be completely honest with you. Your father decided to plan a vacation for just the two of them. I think he thought a vacation would be enough. (Now, we understand far more about mental health and know better. She needed medication. She needed therapy.)

I think your parents were planning on leaving you with a neighbor or a friend. By then, you were old enough not to need them so completely anymore.

James wanted to return to Nantucket restored and back in love. He wanted to have more children, he said.

But life had other plans.

The morning they planned to leave Nantucket, your mother went swimming in the Nantucket Sound. This wasn’t such a rare thing. She was a good swimmer, a strong swimmer, and she liked to go far out into the waves and make herself float before returning.

But on this particular morning, the waves were stronger than usual. She was caught in a tide and pulled out far beyond the swimming borders. It was there she drowned.

Of course, gossip channels in Nantucket are powerful things, and there were rumors that your mother had killed herself or your father had something to do with it. For me, this is part of the reason your father wanted to keep your mother’s death hush-hush. He didn’t want you to hear any such gossip. He wanted you to retain your beautiful memories of your mother. I believe it was meant to be a gift.

I know your father was imperfect. He knew that, too. But he loved you as best as he could, I think.

Please let me know how I can help you.

Congratulations on your award ceremony today. Your father would be so proud.

Yours,

Timothy Everett

Sylvie realized her name was being called. It echoed from the speakers and filled the air above the immaculate tables. It shimmered through glasses of champagne. “Sylvie Bruckson!” the hostess was calling out. “Please, come up here and accept your award!”

Sylvie’s heart filled with a mix of terror and excitement. She wasn’t sure how to sit with what she’d just read. She wasn’t surehow to tackle the fact that her father had loved her but just hadn’t known how to show it. It would be something she’d deal with for the rest of her life together with Graham and with the Salt Sisters.

It had been a time of exhilarating change. But she couldn’t let her work take a back seat. She’d been sure of that from the start.

Sylvie was on her feet. She kissed Graham and shook a few journalists’ hands before mounting the side steps to get up to the podium. There, the hostess handed over the glass award shaped like the planet Earth, upon which was written her name and the year. The award weighed maybe ten pounds and made her arms ache. Gently, she placed it on the podium and gazed out at the two-hundred-plus audience, all of whom were watching her expectantly, waiting for her to deliver the speech of a lifetime.

She’d planned one.

“This is really something,” Sylvie said, sounding out of breath.

The applause ramped up again, and a few people laughed.

“I want to start by thanking everyone here on the board. Ralph Finster, Gary Driver, Megan Mullan, and Wanda Shean. It means a lot that you founded this Journalistic Integrity Agency. It means that you recognize journalists who’ve been grinding for year after year.”

Sylvie knew it was essential to start like that and pretend this was a traditional speech.

She said, “I’d like to thank my partner in all things.” She gazed down at Graham. “Graham Ellis was my first favorite person. He was my first partner. Together, we fought and protested and searched for ways to get the word out. We were probably terribly annoying, but we knew what we wanted. And we learned from one another. We continue to learn.”

Suddenly, out of the corner of her eye, Sylvie spotted movement. Ralph Finster was on his feet with a look of animalfear in his eyes. He beckoned to a guard and whispered in his ear, his face pointed toward Graham.

It occurred to Sylvie all at once that Ralph realized who Graham was. He was going to have him thrown out.

Ralph must have remembered his name from Graham’s recent arrest. He was going to have him arrested again. Maybe he was going to throw Sylvie out, too.

Sylvie’s palms were clammy. But she knew it was now or never. If he threw her out before she said everything she’d come to say, he might ruin her career.

“Unfortunately, it’s up to me to break some news tonight,” Sylvie said.

The crowd shifted in their chairs, ready to listen. Ready to make space for what their “top journalist” had uncovered.

“It’s come to my attention that the so-called Journalistic Integrity Agency is little more than a cover for the Next Generation Nantucket Designers. They’re pretending to be for environmental protection but are instead working forever for the bottom line, for nonstop construction on Nantucket. Probably, they’re working elsewhere, building, ruining ecosystems, and destroying our planet. Yet tonight, they’re here! Celebrating journalism! Pretending to care about the environment! Ladies and gentlemen, Ralph Finster! Gary Driver!” She continued on, saying the names. And then she said, “Ralph Finster is single-handedly responsible for a Seattle oil spill that killed one hundred thousand animals and caused thirty-plus cancer diagnoses! And he thinks we’ll forget!”

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