Massonville 1973
The thing that hit you immediately about Rosalind Harder was, she was born to be photographed. Her picture wasn't one of the professional efforts; from the looks of the awkward camera angle and the flat lighting, it had probably been a high school yearbook photo. But even so, those delicate features, high cheekbones, and deep-set eyes were worthy of a Vogue or Harper's Bazaar cover. The shot was black and white, but you could still see the way the highlights gleamed in her mass of long blond hair. Someone had made her sit sideways to the camera in the classic school picture pose, with her hands clasped in her lap, but Rosalind had managed to turn herself so that she was looking directly into the lens. She sat up on one hip with her back slightly arched and her shoulders thrown back; it was the kind of posture only a girl with total self-confidence could manage. She was a cheerleader, Des thought, or maybe she was captain of her school's pep club. Talking to her would give you a headache.
“Well? What do you think?” Hank repeated.
“She sure can smile.”
“Don't you think she'd be a good choice? You can tell from her picture, she has presence.”
“Oh, for God's sake!” He reddened and threw a look at Ma to see if she'd heard.
Des clutched her heart and crossed her eyes. “Shall I compare her to a summer's day?” She paraphrased Shakespeare. “She art … is? … more lovely and more—”
“You're not funny,” he growled. Hank knew his Shakespeare cold, and Des screwing around with the words was an old game that usually got him going. Not now. “If you're not going to be a help, get lost—will you?”
“Gladly.”
But before Des could make her escape, Ma looked up from Rosalind's application. There were worry lines creasing Ma's face. “There's just something about this girl,” Ma said. “She's so … unaware.”
In a flash Hank was on the defensive. “She's young.”
“She's nineteen. That's only a year younger than you are,” Ma said reasonably.
“She says in her letter she lost both her parents and she's being raised by her grandmother. And she lives in a small town out in the middle of nowhere—”
“Actually, she's not too far from Birmingham in Alabama,” his mother broke in.
“But it's not a sophisticated place. So maybe she's a little naïve—”
“Oh, she's not naïve. That's very clear.” Ma turned to Des. “Her name is Elsie Rose. But she read about us—about the Venable family—in that Theater Monthly story, and … well, just listen to this.” Ma adjusted her glasses and started reading the essay in her hand.
“My name is Elsie Rose. But I think that would look awful on a marquee. So when I read that everyone in your family is named after Shakespearean characters, I decided to call myself Rosalind.”
Ma looked up from the essay. “She is nineteen years old and she's never had any professional acting experience or training, but she's already planning to have her name in lights?”
“Ma, she's just a kid.” Hank turned to Des. “I think it's cute that she wants to copy us, don't you, Des?”
What Des thought was, she was smack in the middle of another one of their arguments and she didn't want to be there. But before she could weasel out of it, Ma waved the essay at Hank and said, “This thing gets worse.” The worry lines were now trenches.
“I know that the opera house is going to do As You Like It this summer,” Ma read from the enterprising Miss Harders letter. “And I think that's an omen, now that I've changed my name to Rosalind. My gran and I believe in omens.” Ma looked up again. “She hasn't even been accepted for our apprentice program, and she's casting herself in the leading role of our most important production.”
“She's ambitious. She knows what she wants—” Hank started, but Ma cut him off.
“She's pushy,” Ma said.
“Show me an actor who isn't.”
There was something desperate in Hank's eyes. This isn't just about a girl with a pretty face and no manners, Des realized. Hank needs to win one fight against Ma. She looked over at her brother, who was staring again at the picture of Rosalind Harder. And he needs a girlfriend. She remembered the Hank who had once wanted to get out of Massonville. He deserves a little fun in his life, Des thought. Why shouldn't he have a fling?
“Ma,” she said, “Hank's given up a lot to work with you at the opera house. He could have split right after high school—like I'm going to. What would you do then?”
Ma's eyes began to pond up. “Henry, I am grateful …,” she said in a shaky voice.
Tenderhearted Hank couldn't let her cry. “It's okay Ma,” he said.
But Des was made of sterner stuff. “You promised him he'd be in charge of the theater. You've been saying that for years.”
“When he's ready,” Ma sniffled.
“He's the same age you were when you took over. And he's not going to learn with you hanging over him. I think you should let him manage the apprentice program by himself.”
Her mother was still teary; she really didn't want to give up control. But Hank was looking at Des as though she were his last hope. Suddenly she had an inspiration. “Besides,” she said to her mother, “if Hank takes over with the apprentice program, you'll have more time to raise money for your statue.”
It was a brilliant stroke. Ma was going to be sixty in less than two years, and the Massonville city council wanted to honor her. Her big dream was to put up a statue of her aunt Ophelia in the garden, and the council said they would pick up half of the cost. All Ma had to do was come up with the other half. The city fathers had made this offer before and had then changed their minds. The last time, the money for Aunt Ophelia's statue had gone to a municipal swimming pool.
This time Ma wasn't taking any chances. She'd already bought the plinth and had it installed in the garden, where it would be a guilt trip made of stone if the council even thought of reneging. But Ma wouldn't feel secure until her half of the funding was in place.
Ma stood up, and handed Rosalind Harders application to Hank. “Henry,” she said, “the apprentice program is yours to run as you see fit.”
“I— You won't be sorry, Ma— thank you,” Hank stammered.
“Your sister is the one you should thank. Now, if you children will excuse me …”
After she was gone, Hank got all mushy. “Des, I owe you—” he started, but she cut him off.
“You owe Great-Aunt Ophelia. Do you suppose Ma will have her sculpted as Mrs. Malaprop?”
Hank grinned. Thank goodness. When he was being intense, he could break her heart. “It was her signature role,” he deadpanned.
“It's going to take a lot of marble.”
“She wasn't small.”
“She was a tank. And when you add the hoop skirt …” They were cracking up now. “Ma's going to have to buy a second plinth.”
“Speaking of the one she's got, how the hell did she pay for it?”
“I don't think we want to know.”
“I come from a line of terrifying females,” Hank said.
“And don't you forget it.”
The first thing Hank did in his new position as administrator of the apprentice program was accept Rosalind Harders application. Ma had to bite her tongue when he told her, but she didn't say a word.
Rosalind Harder in person was spectacular—her eyes were turquoise-blue and her blond hair was so pale, it was almost like silver. Was that her real color? Des wondered. But after you'd looked at her for a while, you realized she wasn't quite as gorgeous as she'd appeared in her picture. That patrician little nose was a bit short, and the delicate mouth was thin. Nor was she as voluptuous as she had seemed. She was tall, probably 5′8,” and she did have legs that seemed to start under her armpits, but she was kind of skinny.
Still, she had something. Every heterosexual man in the theater reacted to it.
“What the hell is the big appeal?” Des asked her friend Bill Killian. Bill was working at the theater that summer as the outdoor handyman, taking care of the grounds and doing repairs.
“Rosalind's … one of those girls,” he said after thinking about it.
“That's all the eloquence you can muster? Aren't you going to be an English major in college?”
“It's hard to put into words. It's the old I'm-available-but vibe.”
“ ‘But’ what?”
“That's what every man wants to know. What would it take to have Rosalind Harder?”
“Speaking in a Biblical sense, of course.”
“Sure. But it's more than that.” He thought again for a while. “You want her to … lose it because of you. Fall for you hard.”
There was a shine in his eyes that made Des twist inside. “Men are sick people.”
“Hey you're trying to figure out what makes her tick too.”
She couldn't help it. Because no matter how much you wanted to, you couldn't ignore Rosalind Harder. Part of it was the way she put herself together. Most of the female apprentices favored an artsy, fresh-faced look, tying their hair back and living in scruffy blue jeans. Rosalind wore a full face of makeup every day, and her mane of hair fell glamorously to her shoulders. Pants were not her thing; she preferred dresses in feminine pastel colors, but when she had to wear work clothes, she went in for fitted bell-bottoms and crisp white shirts.
“Rosalind's a very complicated chick,” Bill said.
Des thought about the way Rosalind carried herself, like a cheerleader strutting onto a football field. She thought about the big sunny smile that was bestowed equally on everyone, and she thought about Ma saying Rosalind was unaware. “No, I think she's very simple,” Des said.
“She's like a three-year-old. You know the way little kids are so bright and full of energy? It's because they don't doubt themselves. The rest of us are all screwed up: half the time we don't know what we want, and if we do figure it out, we're not sure we deserve it. Rosalind doesn't have thoughts like that. She knows what she wants and she goes after it. It's attractive because it's so simple.”
Hank was thrilled with his protégé. “She has star quality,” he said to Ma. “One day we'll be bragging that we had Rosalind Harder at our theater.”
“But what about that voice, Henry?” Ma demanded.
Even Hank had to agree that Rosalind's voice was a problem. It was high and light and it had an oddly fake quality. It wasn't bad in everyday life, but Ma was thinking about the stage.
“The problem is, she's trying to get rid of her accent,” Hank said. “She told me she spent a whole summer talking like Elizabeth Taylor.”
Ma looked blank. “Why would anyone want to do that?”
Mercifully, Hank let it pass. “I showed her a couple of breathing exercises,” he said. “That should help.”
“It won't,” Ma said flatly. “Her mind and her emotions aren't connected. She can't speak from her heart.”
Later, she said to Des, “He's wasting his time with that girl.”
“You promised you'd let him do it his way,” Des said. “How is the fund-raising going?”
“I have a luncheon on Saturday with the garden club. They may donate the proceeds from their crafts sale for Aunt Ophelia.”
“Good for you.”
Ma sighed. “I know I have to let Henry make his own mistakes, but it's hard to watch.”
But Hank wouldn't believe he'd made a mistake. Not just because he was in love with Rosalind—although that was painfully obvious. With all that shiny charisma, it seemed like she should be a terrific actress.
“She's just inexperienced,” he said to Ma and Des at supper one night. “She and her grandmother didn't have a lot of money, so she hasn't seen much live theater.”
Ma started to say something, but she stopped when she felt Des's warning hand on her knee under the table.
“I'm going to coach her in a couple of roles,” Hank informed them. Neither of them asked if one of those roles would be Rosalind in As You Like It. “She really wants to learn, ” Hank went on. “I admire that. Most pretty girls think they can get by on their looks.”
“She does seem to be a hard worker,” Ma finally managed to say.
That was very true. Rosalind regularly volunteered for the worst shift— the all-night session known as doughnut crew because the kids working it were fed coffee and doughnuts to keep them going—so that she would have her days free to watch the professional company rehearse the next show. Sitting in on the rehearsals was a learning experience Ma offered her young thespians, but most of the overworked kids skipped it.
Except Rosalind. Every morning at eight, no matter how late she'd worked the night before, she had her private coaching session with Hank on the stage. Then, when the company came in at ten to rehearse, she was sitting in the house waiting for them. She always had a pad and pencil, and she took notes.
“And we're not talking about jotting down an occasional idea or two,” Des reported to Bill. “I watched her for an hour yesterday, and I swear she never stopped writing. There she was, all dolled up in the middle of the morning—I mean, she wears false eyelashes—and she was scribbling away like she was taking dictation from God. It was hilarious.”
“It sounds kind of sweet,” said the boy who had always shared her sense of humor.
“All the director did yesterday was block Act Two. What does she think she's going to get out of that?”
“At least she's trying to get something.”
As bad as Bill had gotten to be about defending Rosalind Harder, Hank was six times worse. The gossip around the theater was that they were sleeping together, and Des believed it. Whenever Hank took Rosalind's arm to help her off the stage, or opened a door for her, his adoration was written all over him. She'd picked up his habit of quoting Shakespeare, and every time she did it, he looked like he was going to burst into applause. Des knew he'd had girls before, although it wasn't something they'd talked about a lot, but he'd never been this crazy for any of them. The hard part for Des was, he was so happy. He was a big man in the little world of the opera house now that he was in charge of the apprentices. On top of that, he had won the prettiest girl there. The one everyone else wanted.
Thank you, Jesus, for the extra hours at Winn-Dixie, Des thought. It wasn't fun watching your only brother let the heat of his ass addle his brains.
Des was beginning to wish she'd never gone to bat for Hank with Ma. It wasn't bad enough that he couldn't talk about Rosalind without looking like a retarded spaniel; it was a foregone conclusion that he was going to let his angel play the lead in As You Like It. Des might laugh at the glorious legacy, but even she didn't want The New York Times to review a Kiddie Matinée at the Venable Opera House that starred Rosalind Harder.
“Rosalind playing Rosalind is going to be a disaster,” Des told Bill.
“You've never even seen her act,” he said.
“Ma says she doesn't have talent.”
“Your mother hasn't seen her act either.”
“She doesn't have to. Ma can tell about actors.”
When Hank announced the cast list for the Kiddie Matinée of As You Like It, Rosalind's scream of joy could be heard halfway down the river. The announcement wasn't made until late on the day before the apprentices were supposed to have their first read-through of the play Des figured Hank had waited so long because he was hoping it would be too late for Ma to say anything. He should have known better.
The first reading of any Venable house production was held in the theater. A row of chairs was set up across the stage for the cast to sit on. Their director—in this case, Hank—sat in the house to watch.
Ma waited until the reading was already under way. Then, with Des in tow, she snuck into the back of the theater and sat in the last row. Rosalind, who had seated herself in the center of the stage, was delivering a speech as they came in. At least, Des thought she was speaking. Her lips were definitely moving, but that light voice wasn't projecting. Ma frowned and they moved farther front. They had to move a second time before they could finally hear Hank's star. Hearing her didn't help.
It wasn't just the way she deadened Shakespeare's poetry with her ersatz Elizabeth Taylor accent. It wasn't the way she never directed her lines to anyone else onstage. Listening to Rosalind act was like sitting through a concert sung by someone who was tone deaf. She was singing in the key of E while everyone else was working in C.
She knew what her character was supposed to be feeling, and she tried to force herself to feel it. She made gestures; she arranged her face in expressions of happiness and grief. It was as if she were painting by the numbers.
The worst of it was, you couldn't stop watching her. The shiny charisma that never doubted itself was firmly in place. Glances from the other apprentices were tossed in Hank's direction, and Des thought he looked pale. But he was leaning forward in his seat, mouthing the words Rosalind was saying as if somehow he could play the scene for her. Meanwhile, Rosalind went on, blissfully doing whatever the hell it was she was doing to As You Like It. And Ma sat watching.
Thank God I'm getting away from here, Des thought.
Ma waited until Hank called for a five minute break. Then she called out “Henry, I want you!” and marched down the aisle to the stage. The members of the apprentice cast who had been wandering around, chatting and smoking, vanished. Only Rosalind waited for Ma to climb up onto the stage.
“Thank you for letting me have this opportunity, Miss Olivia—” she began, but Ma didn't let her finish.
“I'd like you to leave me alone with my son, Elsie Rose,” she said.
Des watched as something in Ma's voice actually penetrated Rosalind's bubble of self-confidence. “I think I'll stay,” she said.
“No, Rosalind.” Hank said, and turned to Ma. “Go with the others.”
Rosalind walked toward the stage door. Hank and Ma were too busy squaring off to notice that she never opened it.
“How could you, Henry?” Ma demanded. “How could you lead that child on?”
“It was a first read-through, Ma. She was nervous.”
“She will never be able to play that part. You had no right to raise her hopes.”
“She's improved since I started working with her.”
“You can't work with what isn't there! You know she hasn't got the ability.”
Des shot a quick look at Rosalind still standing near the stage door. Her eyes were black holes in a dead-white face.
Just a few more weeks and I'm in Massachusetts, Des thought.
“You're using our theater for your own personal ends, Henry,” Ma went on. “You're infatuated with this girl and you're trying to buy her.”
“I think she can play the part. And it's my choice.”
“No. She will not appear in that role on my stage.”
“You told me the apprentice program was mine.”
“You can run the program, but you will change this piece of casting.”
“Ma, don't do this to me.”
“Don't you do this to the family! We have a reputation to maintain, Henry. We have a legacy.”
And there it was. Ma had given her life for the dead Venables and the glorious legacy, and she couldn't understand that poor Hank was getting laid—probably better than he ever had been in his life—so none of that crap mattered to him right now.
I'm getting out of this loony bin, and I'm never coming back! But I can't leave them like this. I'm the one who went to bat for him, Des thought.
She was trying to come up with something to say that would make it right, when a voice from behind Ma piped up.
“You're wrong, Miss Olivia,” said Rosalind. “I can play the part.”
Ma whirled around, and Des waited for her to attack. But Ma's face softened. “No dear,” she said gently. ”You can't.”
“I want to do it.”
“And you deserve to. No one tries harder, or works more than you do. But talent is a gift, Elsie Rose. It's not fair, but some of us just weren't blessed.”
“I'm nothing if I can't be an actress.”
“You're pretty, you photograph beautifully, and you have a certain appeal. You'll find a way to have a career, if you want it so badly.”
“But I want to be in As You Like It.”
It was as if she couldn't understand the word “no.” Des saw her mother consider trying to explain about talent again, but it was a lost cause. Ma copped out. “If we had chosen to do the Taming of The Shrew,” Ma said. “It's a farce and Katharina is a much easier role…. Perhaps you could have handled that.”
“I don't want to do what's easy!” For the first time, the voice that Ma had said was so disconnected from emotion was tight with pain. “I don't want to be pretty, or appealing! I want to be good!
Hank said, “Ma can't take the role away from you, Rosalind. I'm in charge—”
“No!” Rosalind cut him off. She walked over to Ma. “Please say you think I can do it.”
“You can't. And I will not allow you to try,” said Ma.
Rosalind wanted to scream, Des could feel it, but when she spoke next, her voice was quiet. “You'll be so sorry for this,” she said, and she walked out. Hank ran after her.
Ma closed her eyes, and for a second she seemed to sag. Then she straightened up. “Go after your brother,” she said to Des, “and tell him I'm canceling this morning's rehearsal. He'll have to hold new auditions tomorrow so he can recast.”
“Ma, that's going to be humiliating. Let one of the other directors do it.”
“Your brother wanted this responsibility. Now he has to live up to it.”
Massachusetts, here I come, thought Des.
Hank didn't recast the part of Rosalind—he quit. For the first time since he'd appeared in Cheaper by the Dozen, at age eleven, her brother wasn't working at the opera house. He stayed in his room most of the time, but when Ma went out—she was gone almost every night now, speaking to civic groups that might be persuaded to cough up some money for her damn statue—Rosalind would sashay into the apartment, and Hank would whisk her off to his room. Des would turn up the record player and try not to hear the murmurs coming from behind her brother's locked door.
The murmurs didn't seem to be the fun kind. After about an hour Rosalind would stalk out in a fury, and several minutes later Hank would burst out of the apartment to find Bill and the guys from the maintenance crew. Des knew her brother had started drinking during these outings, something he'd never done before.
He can take care of himself, Des told herself.
But he'd never known how. And it was clear Rosalind was after something.
You'll be sorry, she'd said to Ma.
“I thought Rosalind would break up with Hank after she lost As You Like It,” Des said to Bill, figuring he'd know what was going on.
“Guess not.” Bill smiled the smile boys used when they weren't going to answer you.
“I don't think they're getting along very well,” Des tried again. This time Bill shrugged. “Has Hank said anything to you?” she demanded.
“No.”
“You lie like a rug.”
“Leave it alone, Des.”
“I just want to help him.”
“Did it ever occur to you that the last thing that poor son of a bitch needs is more help from his sister and his mother? I swear, sometimes I think Rosalind is right.”
“About what?”
“Ask your brother.”
She didn't have to ask. That night she found out.
Ma was out of the apartment again, hitting up the Junior League, and Hank was in his room, which meant that Rosalind was on her way. So, instead of sitting in the living room with the record player blaring, Des made her way down the old spiral staircase to the office below the apartment. The office was never used anymore. Ma preferred to do her paperwork at the little writing desk in her bedroom.
As she reached the bottom step, Des was hit with an overpowering smell of mold. She turned on the light and saw wet patches on the ceiling and the wall behind the old bookshelves. The water damage was worst around the air vent, which was directly underneath the bathroom in the apartment. Her parents had redone it years ago, and now it seemed that the plumbing was leaking.
Des climbed up an old stepladder that was leaning against the wall, to see how bad the mess was. There were a couple of old books on the highest shelf that seemed to have gotten the brunt of the leakage. As she was taking them down, she heard the shower in the bathroom being turned on. She backed down the ladder, but she wasn't fast enough to avoid hearing giggles—male and female—coming through the vent.
Shit!
If she stayed in the office, there was no way she could avoid overhearing Hank and Rosalind. If she went back upstairs, she'd probably run into them coming out of the shower. Several potentially embarrassing scenes played out in her imagination, the worst of which featured her brother and his girlfriend buck naked.
I'll go kill some time down on the dock.
Des grabbed an ancient afghan someone had left draped over a chair, and, wrapping it around her shoulders, she tucked the old books under her arm and headed for the door to the lobby. The shower stopped and Rosalind's voice came through the air vent loud and clear.
“See how nice it can be to have a little privacy, honey bun,” she cooed. “Without your mom and nosey old Des snooping around?”
If you want privacy, sleep with your boyfriend in your own room.
“Has your sister ever had a sex life of her own?”
You little bitch. Des moved closer to the vent.
“Don't knock Des.” Hank belatedly came to her defense. “She tries to help.”
“I'm just saying, isn't it nice when I can do this … ? And … this?” For the next few moments the only sounds coming through the vent were those of her brother alternately moaning and chuckling, which sent Des scurrying back to the door. But before she opened it, she heard Rosalind say, “This is why we've got to get out of here, Hank.”
So that's it. Whatever squeamishness Des had felt about spying on her brother vanished. She moved to a spot directly under the vent.
The chuckling and moaning had ended. “Honey, we've been over this,” her brother said wearily.
“I'm just thinking of you, darling.” Rosalind's cooing had turned super sweet. “You're too good to stick around here for the rest of your life. I'll go to New York or Los Angeles with you—whichever one you want.”
“I can't just walk away. The opera house is mine.”
“Your mother will never give it to you. You saw what she did to you. She made you look like a fool in front of everyone.”
“She didn't want it to be that way—”
“Hank, darling, when are you going to get mad?” There was exasperation in the voice now—Rosalind was hanging on to her temper by a thread. “When are you going to stand up for yourself?”
“I already have. I'm not working at the theater. I left Ma high and dry at the busiest part of the season.”
“You should have left town!” The thread was close to snapping, Des could hear it. “What about what she did to me, Hank?”
“I know Ma hurt you. But I can't dump something that's been in my family for almost a hundred years. I want to build this place. I want it to be like the Guthrie or the Alley Theatre…. I have plans.” Her brother was pleading now. “You and I could have a good life here.”
Oh God, Hank. Don't.
“We'd have steady work. I talk to a lot of actors, honey, and they'd do anything for a regular job—like we could have here.”
“Didn't you hear your mother tell me I was no good?”
“Ma won't be running things forever.”
The thread holding back Rosalind's temper finally snapped. “So I'm supposed to wait until she drops dead?” she yelled. “Because that's the only way you're going to get your hands on this place.” Hank tried to protest but she went on. “I'm supposed to live with your snotty sister laughing at me behind my back, and your mother saying I'm a no-talent, because someday you'll be in charge and I can act at the great Venable Opera House? Do you really think I'd set foot on that stage after what your mother said to me?”
“Rosalind—”
“I'm getting out of here, Hank. And if you don't come with me, you'll never see me again.”
“I'll talk to Ma, I'll talk to Des.”
Don't beg her!
“ You're just upset, honey. Please don't leave!” her brother begged.
But there was the sound of a door being opened.
“Someday you should make your mother give you back your balls, Hank,” said the classy Miss Harder.
Then the bathroom door slammed shut. A few minutes later the front door of the apartment slammed too.
Des waited for an hour. Rosalind didn't come back and Hank didn't go out. Figuring it was finally safe, Des went through the lobby and up the grand staircase to enter the apartment through the front door. The place was dark. At first she thought it was silent too, but then she heard a sound coming from her brother's room at the end of the hallway. She started toward it, then stopped. What she heard was her brother crying.
It wasn't until she was in her own bedroom that she realized she was still carrying the old books from the office. She put them on her nightstand and lay down on her bed. But the sound of Hank crying haunted her.
If only Ma had let Rosalind do the damn part. But Ma couldn't. If only Hank would get away from the opera house and the goddamn legacy. But Hank couldn't. If only I hadn't talked Ma into letting him take over with the apprentices. But she had. Just a few more weeks and, Wellesley, here I come. But for once that didn't help.
She picked up one of the ancient books—an old Bible. The water had soaked it pretty badly, which was a pity because it was a lovely thing with gilt on the edges of the pages, and a tooled leather cover. There was an inscription on the first page. The ancient ink had smeared, and the spidery handwriting was barely legible, but Des could make out the words “Maman” and “Juliet.” Was it a gift to Juliet Venable from her mother? That would mean it was at least a hundred years old. Des closed it carefully and picked up the second book. This one was in worse shape than the Bible, but by holding it directly under the lamp she was able to read the faded title. “Walker's Critical Pronouncing Dictionary,” it said.
The pages were stuck together. Des tried to pry them apart, but the binding was too soft from all the water. Not wanting to mangle an object that had survived for over a century, she was about to put it down, when something fell out of it. A letter.
It must have been wedged between the cover and the front page. There was no name or address on it, and the envelope looked as if it had never been opened. For a moment Des hesitated, reluctant to read unopened mail.
Get real. The person it was meant for is dead.
She peeled back the flap, and opened the letter.
The paper was brittle with age and yellow at the creases. But the handwriting was bold and quite easy to read. And it was a stunner. Des read it through twice to be sure she hadn't made a mistake. Then she began to laugh. Because according to the letter, the glorious Venable legacy was built on a secret that was far from glorious. A secret that had been hidden in an old book for a hundred years.
Des's sides hurt, and tears were running down her cheeks. I've got to show Hank! This is what we beat our brains out for. This is what he gave up Rosalind for— but she stopped laughing at that thought. She refolded the fragile sheet of paper and slipped it back into the envelope. Hank didn't need to see it. Not now. Eventually, when he stopped hurting, he'd get the joke—sick as it was. Ma would never get it. Des put the letter back in the old dictionary and stuck it with the Bible in her nightstand drawer. Ma must never see it.