Page 76 of Wish For Me

But the crowd murmurs with laughter and I find myself relaxing.

“I know many of you have already been to the Elizabeth Brown theatre to see a performance directed by the most talented, beautiful, kind, and loving director ever to grace a theater—”

More laughter.

“But tonight, we’re not here for a play. We’re here to tell the story in words and images of the life and legacy of my great great grandmother, Eleanor Cleary.”

Noelle’s made her way to the front of the crowd, and she stands watching me, her hands clasped under her chin, her expression nearly the same as it had been that day she handed me the photo of the woman wearing my mother’s wedding ring.

A photo taken over a century ago.

I tell the audience the story I’ve told countless others in the past two years; one I’ll never grow tired of.

Now that we had her name, between James’ journals, Nora’s research, Enzo and Eli buttering up their contacts at the Quince Valley Town Hall Archives, and my grandfather John Kelly, we pieced together the rest of the story.

Even before Eleanor was killed, James had managed to make some kind of arrangement to get his sister Beatrice, who’d never married, adopt baby Clea, and bring her back to Quince Valley. They all kept their distance, but when Eleanor was murdered—perhaps when he found out about Clea—James went into hiding. He’d been wanted for Eleanor’s murder, and lived out his life a hermit in the woods under a pseudonym, watching and supporting his daughter, who’d been renamed Carolyn, from a distance, without her ever knowing who he was.

Twenty years later, after traveling to London with Noelle’s Grandma Betty, Carolyn married a British soldier. They’d had a child, who they called Amy. But given what they did, risk led to tragedy. Carolyn and her husband were killed within a month of each other—Carolyn in a bomb on the streets of London, her husband in the air over Belgium.

Betty brought Amy back to Quince Valley to be cared for by the very woman who’d raised Carolyn—James’ sister, Beatrice.

After Betty married, she moved several states away for a number of decades, losing touch with Amy and Beatrice over the time apart. Amy married and had a daughter, who James alluded to in his final diary. However, he was spared the knowledge that his family was one marked by tragedy: Amy and her husband Eli were killed in a car accident five years after his death. They left behind their ten-year-old daughter, Shannon.

Bea, still living, adopted the third girl in the line to have lost her mother—her grandniece—and finally passed herself when Shannon was twenty.

Two years later, without any living relatives left in the world, Shannon met John Kelly. Their story broke the generational trauma that plagued the family, and they had five children: Cass, Eli, Griffin, Jude, and Chelsea.

Shannon had a rich, full life, which included purchasing—unbeknownst to her—the very hotel her great grandmother was killed in. The only item she had from her family line was the ring that had belonged to her mother, gifted to her by her true love James.

Beatrice insisted Shannon ought not to wear it—everyone who had, had died young. Shannon passed when her and John’s youngest child was twenty. She was young still, but not compared to the women before her.

“Like articles in such publications as the New York Times and the Guardian newspapers wrote,” I tell the crowd as I wrap up, “Eleanor’s story is a remarkable one. Though her life was marked by tragedy, bringing her story to light sparked a multitude of love stories over many years. While her story may be over, her legacy lives on.”

I clear my throat, looking out over the crowd, and seeing only Noelle, now flanked by my family.

“Eleanor’s tragically short life leads to the same thoughts I consider when I look at the night sky and contemplate the wonders of our universe. The same thoughts I have at this time of year when we love the ones we’re with and miss the ones we’re not. The radical notion that life is both pain and sorrow, and also love and joy, and sometimes it’s difficult to tell them all apart.”

I pause, looking over at Noelle. “This theater is the brainchild of my wife, Noelle. Her great great grandmother was Eleanor’s daughter’s dearest friend, and I think that if those two could see us now, they’d be as filled with joy as I am in loving her. Noelle is my Christmas wish, my starry sky, and the woman I hope I never have to miss again.” I clear my throat when I start to feel it prickle with emotion. “I hope you come away from this exhibit the way I do when I look at her: with stars in your eyes and love in your heart.”

It’s late when the last guest leaves, and I’m ready to swan dive into bed. But we have one final thing to do tonight, and it requires boots and parkas and Noelle insisting she’ll drive. When we get to the Rolling Hills resort, it’s nearly midnight.

But they’re all there—every single one of my aunts and uncles, and all the cousins too, gathered in the entryway. Everyone came to town for the exhibit, and we all agreed we needed to do one more thing just for us before everyone goes their separate ways again.

“About time,” Enzo says as I limp through the doors.

“We’re the last ones, aren’t we?” Noelle asks, her arm hooked through mine.

“They didn’t have to close down a party,” I say.

“You sure you’re up for this?” I ask Dad after hugging him and Mom.

“Of course!” he says, a little defensively.

Mom and I exchange a grin. “That’s only the second time I’ve seen your father stay to the end of a party.”

“What was the first?” Noelle asks.

“The night of our wedding,” she says.

---