Page 47 of Saltwater Secrets
It hit Aria hard. These were the years Dorothy had lived in the brownstone, the years before she’d gone back to Nantucket and hidden herself away.
Were these the secrets that Dorothy had wanted Aria and Hilary to discover?
No, Aria realized. They were the secrets Dorothy wanted passed along to Renée.
Before Aria read a sentence of Dorothy’s memories, she opened the shoebox to discover stacks and stacks of hundred-dollar bills. Her blood pressure skyrocketed. She’d read once that some wealthy people liked to hide their money, that they didn’t always trust the banks, the very systems that had made them mega-rich to begin with. She wondered if this was Dorothy’s “safety” fund. But why had she left it in Manhattan when she’d gone away?
Aria carried the journals and the shoebox downstairs. Outside, the rain shattered against the panes, and lightning crackled across the sky. She felt hyperaware of everything around her, as though someone was going to leap out from the shadows and accuse her of stealing. She had no intention of doing so. But she couldn’t help but wonder what Dorothy’s last years in Manhattan were like?
She knew she needed to call her mother right away and tell her what she’d found. She knew the right thing to do was to turn these journals over to Renée immediately and be happy with offering her daughter a bit of closure and understanding.
But Aria couldn’t help but open the first page from 1998 and, standing up at the brand-new kitchen counter, read.
What she couldn’t believe was that every single entry was written to Renée.
Every single entry was a love letter to her daughter.
August 12, 1998
My darling Renée,
I’ve heard you loud and clear: you never want to speak to me again, nor see me. I have to respect your wishes. I know you’re grieving, that your heart is broken after the death of your father, and I know you blame me for what’s happened. You should blame me—but not for your father’s death.
I have so many things I regret.
As you may know, I left Nantucket last week to tend to things in Manhattan. I stayed in a hotel for several nights but couldn’t bear the sorry stares from the staff and ended up taking a cab here, to the brownstone your father bought in the late seventies. Its decor is in dire need of an update, but it’s in a wonderful and artistic location, with all of bustling New York City just out the door. It’s the complete opposite of Nantucket, exactly what I need after the life I’ve lived so far.
It’s ironic, isn’t it, that I should seek solace here, in the very home your father bought to house his mistresses, his second lives. But I suppose you should know: I was always so thrilled when he was gone, when he let me have my girls (you and Rachel) all to myself. He always brought such a sour taste to the air. He always made me second-guess myself, always made you and Rachel stutter and act fearful. I hated him then.
A part of me will always hate him.
I suppose a part of me will always love him, too.
I know you want to know about the circumstances surrounding your father’s death. I will write them to get them out of the way.
The short of it is: we went sailing, he grew very drunk, and he started yelling at me about William France, his ex-best friend and the man I’ve loved since I knew what loveis. I haven’t seen William in many years, not since the early eighties. Your father should have known that, but it’s not like he was paying attention to what I did or where I went.
The waves were rough, and your father went overboard. I tried to reach him, but he slipped out of my grasp. A storm began to rage. I cried your father’s name over and over again. I’ve never felt lonelier in all my life as I did that day, searching the water for your father, until I realized I had to get back to shore for my own safety.
I was so distraught that I didn’t think for a second that the tabloids might run with the idea that I’d killed your father. Imagine thinking I would have killed the great and powerful Philip Wagner, just because he didn’t know how to love me!
He was there when Rachel died. As far as I’m concerned, he could have saved her. He didn’t. And I didn’t kill him then, did I? He survived for sixteen years after that, in fact.
I’ve grown weary and tired, and I think I had better rest. The brownstone smells of your father’s cigars and old Chinese food. Someone ought to open a window. I suppose that someone is me.
Your Mother
Her hands shook as she closed the journal, stood, and walked to the front window. For the first time, she could feel Dorothy here at the brownstone, her heart breaking with loneliness, the memories of her life playing out behind her eyes. It was a surprise to hear that Dorothy stopped seeing William in the early eighties, maybe around the time of Rachel’s death. Perhaps it had been too painful for her to see the true father of the daughter who’d died. Maybe it had been too painful for William as well.
But, Aria decided, it wasn’t such a surprise that Dorothy had addressed all of her journal entries to her daughter. Renée had wanted no more contact, which had probably killed Dorothy’s spirit. She’d wanted to feel that Renée was still with her. She’d wanted to draw her closer, or at least imagine she was. It was clear that she’d assumed, one day, Renée would read the entries. One day, she would understand. But why hadn’t Dorothy sent the journals to Renée in the first place? Had she forgotten about them?
Aria itched to pick up the journals and continue reading. But before she could, her mother called to check on Aria’s progress that week. Aria spilled the beans about the journals. “Every year she was here, I think. From 1998 to 2001. I can’t believe it.”
“Diaries!” Hilary whispered. “I was looking everywhere for diaries! And they were in Manhattan all this time!”
Aria’s heartbeat quickened. “I read the first entry,” she confessed, her cheeks hot. “I know I shouldn’t have.”
“It’s tricky. We’re in too deep,” Hilary said softly, without judgment. “Can you come back to the island this weekend? I want to give them to Renée as soon as possible. And I want to see you!”
