But the postcards he’d written to her during the winter break of sophomore year were what she treasured most. His parents had taken him to London for the Christmas holidays, and he’d written her a new one almost every day. Violet was reminded of them when Madeline mentioned that she had more of Harry’s letters to Rosenbach to be transcribed, the ones he wrote just before he left for England.
The box was on the top shelf of her wardrobe, next to her sneakers and boots. She reached up and took it down, then placed it on her bed. She hadn’t looked at those postcards since Hugo’s death. When she opened the lid, a layer of dried rose petals greeted her, the fragile, desiccated flowers a reminder from their last Valentine’s Day together. In her grief, she’d nearly forgotten about that evening. The bouquet of red roses that he’d had delivered to her dorm. The party at the Owl Club with all the members in formal dinner jackets and she had to borrow one of Jenny’s black velvet gowns. She’d felt like she was playing dress-up in her roommate’s clothes.
She was probably the only girl at the party wearing costume pearls and clip-on earrings, because she’d always been too scared to have herspierced, but Hugo still proudly displayed her on his arm. Despite her constant feeling of imposter syndrome at Harvard, Hugo had made her always feel like she belonged with him. They’d had a running joke between them ever since they took that Art History class together, that she looked just like Elizabeth Siddal, the red-haired muse to many Pre-Raphaelite painters, a woman who, despite her working-class roots, had become an artist in her own right.
“You’re her modern-day doppelganger,” Hugo had told her as they studied for their midterm together, trying to memorize the several hundred paintings that could potentially be on the exam. “It’s not just the red hair, it’s your eyes and mouth, too.”
She had laughed and told him he was crazy, but secretly she’d seen something else they shared.
Like Elizabeth Siddal, she was thrust into a circle where her humble roots were an anathema.
That night at the Owl, Hugo had held her hand snugly in his and navigated them through the room full of older oarsmen and rugby players.
He didn’t seem impressed by the walls packed with portraits of earlier members who’d gone on to achieve distinguished careers—the ambassadors and senators—although he did get a kick from seeing all the rowers in their varsity uniforms over the years. She remembered her suitemates were so happy she’d gotten them all an invitation, and they’d spent the evening playing drinking games by the fireplace. Jenny had nearly passed out.
While the roses from that evening had long since turned brown and their edges crisp and brittle, the postcards looked as fresh as if she’d received them only the week before. A few of them showed the river Thames or Big Ben. Another one that he’d sent a few days later was of a Beefeater standing guard at Buckingham Palace. But her favorite had been the exotic blue tiled interior of Leighton House, the formerresidence and artist studio of Sir Edward Leighton who’d also painted Siddal. On one side of the postcard, he’d written, “Wish you were here. I saw two paintings that remind me of you!”
And on the other side, he’d written her address:
Violet Hutchins
3013 Frankford Avenue
Philadelphia, PA
19121
USA
She stared at Hugo’s handwriting. She imagined him sitting at his desk in the hotel room. Even when he was in a new city and on vacation with his parents, he had been thinking of her. She pulled out another letter from his trip. This one was written on a sheet of hotel stationery.
Vi-
Missing you loads today. Mom and Dad spent the day at the National Portrait Society and I was lucky enough to head off to Reading to meet with one of the boating clubs. Too rainy to go out on the water, though. Hoping to get back here in June for Henley. Dad’s boat took second place there back in the day, so he’s been reminiscing a lot about his Harvard rowing days. Hope you’re enjoying the break with your parents. There are so many old bookshops around here. One day we have to come back, just the two of us. Miss you.
Love,
H.
The Harvard Book Store was just a few steps away from Widener. If you circled around the back of the library, past the back entrance and through the small arched gate that led out to bustling Massachusetts Ave, you’d be there in just a few, short minutes.
Violet had been inside several times during her first weeks at Harvard. She loved wandering past the tables of new books and losing herself in the fiction stacks in the back of the store. It reminded her of the bookstore on South Street in her hometown, with its indie music playing in the background and the staff in their T-shirts and horn-rimmed glasses. But it was Hugo who first showed her the store’s often-overlooked downstairs level, with its shelves of used books and remaindered titles.
On one sunny day in September, they’d bought coffee and chocolate croissants at the Au Bon Pain in the Square and then wandered up the street toward the shop. She’d been so charmed by his romantic nature, gently guiding her down the interior steps, his fingers still buttery from the croissant as he held her hand.
“They have a great poetry section,” he said, grinning as he led her toward the far corner. She felt like she was in her own movie. A handsome boy, well over six feet tall, with strong arms and a Colgate white smile, showing her a hidden spot where books and words comingled with the pheromones lifting off their skin.
Hugo reached for a book, opening a dog-eared volume to a random page.
“Let’s see what we have here,” he said playfully. He looked down at the poem, then at her.
“Should I read it to you?”
“Yes.” She giggled. “This feels like opening a fortune cookie at the end of a meal. What does it say?”
“Well, this one is by Hafiz. A Persian poet who lived in the fourteenth century, apparently.”
“Go on,” she urged him.
