Jo’s gaze drifted toward the window, her voice turning soft and faraway. “Because the first time I saw Henry, I was sitting at this desk, watching as he and his brother rowed their dory past our house. Later that summer, it was here that I wrote him letters, pouring my heart onto paper. And in its secret compartment, I hid the first gift he ever gave me. A locket.”
“What secret compartment?” Ocean asked, squinting at the pigeonholes and tugging at the desk drawers.
“Pull that drawer all the way out,” Jo told her.
Ocean slid it free, and her eyes widened. Behind it sat a small door, fitted with a tiny lock.
“In there,” Jo said softly.
Ocean crouched to get a closer look. “Cool, but…where’s the key?”
“At the house,” Jo said. “I used to keep it hidden behind a loose brick in my bedroom fireplace for fear my parents might discover it.”
“My grandmother got you the desk but not the key?” Ocean asked.
Jo’s expression clouded. “For all these years, others in my family used this desk. I had no hope the locket would still be inside,” she said sadly. “And then, as soon as the desk was delivered here, Clare passed. There was no chance of sending her back to search for the key.”
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Skye
* * *
I was my mother’s daughter. It was impossible not to feel a measure of prejudice against Madeline Hart, even though I had no proof she’d had any hand in what happened to Clare. Still, I couldn’t ignore how early she’d appeared at Arthur’s across the street, considering how busy she supposedly was, according to Catherine Lowe, her lawyer.
So I took my time. A shower. Coffee. A very nice dress shirt and skirt. I didn’t know how this conversation would unfold, but I knew one thing. I wanted to look my best, feel my best, and do my best—in my mother’s memory.
I left a note on the kitchen counter for Ocean, letting her know I’d be across the street, then locked the door behind me. My daughter was precious to me.
The bookstore was still closed, but Arthur had texted that Madeline was upstairs in his apartment. Hurry up, he wrote, before she drinks me out of house and home...and coffee.
Climbing the steps to Arthur’s, the picture I carried of Madeline Hart was the one plastered all over the Internet—polished, ageless, campaign-ready. But the moment I stepped inside and stole a quick glance at her, I realized those images had lied. As Clare used to say, some public figures never looked any older than their college photos.
The woman who sat at Arthur’s kitchen table was nothing like the polished figure I’d braced myself for. Madeline Hart looked every bit her sixty-plus years, maybe more. Gray threaded through her hair in uneven streaks, like she’d given up trying to keep it hidden. Her face carried the kind of weariness makeup can’t erase. And instead of the crisp suit or sleek dress I’d half expected, she was in gym clothes. Leggings that had seen better days, a stretched-out sweatshirt, and old sneakers with worn soles. Not a power broker, not a politician with a campaign smile. Just a woman who looked like she’d been running from something, or maybe just run down by life.
Some of the fight went out of me the instant we were face to face and Arthur made the introductions. All my ready arguments, the sharp edges I’d been honing on the walk over, seemed to dull a degree.
“I’m sorry to inconvenience you so early. And thank you for giving me the time to talk to you.”
I bit back any reply and decided to just listen.
“Your mother and I…we started off on the wrong foot with each other,” Madeline began. “We’re both stubborn women. My campaign rhetoric got under her skin, and her outspokenness got under mine. Before long, we weren’t hearing each other at all. And yes, we both did our best to discredit the other.”
Discrediting her. That expression stung. Did she mean just bruising reputations or eliminating Clare altogether? I stayed silent, filing away my questions for later.
“As a politician, especially a female politician, you learn quickly to say what the public wants to hear. If you want to stay in office, you become a voice for the majority, whether you agree with them or not. Every word, every gesture is weighed for how it plays with that audience. Publicly, at least, you compromise, you bend, and you tell yourself it’s for the greater good. Because at the end of the day, it’s about getting votes. Without votes, you don’t get the power, and without the power, you can’t change a thing.”
* * *
“I don’t need a lesson in how politics work,” I cut in sharply. “That’s not why we’re here. Is it?”
“You’re right. Absolutely right,” she said, moving to Arthur’s counter and helping herself to another cup of coffee. Her hand wasn’t entirely steady. “My trouble, my lies, my...well, hypocrisy as your mother referred to it, started long before I ever thought of running for office.”
When Arthur motioned toward the coffee pot, offering to pour me a cup, I shook my head. My attention stayed fixed on Madeline.
“I was twenty-two, an aide in Hartford, and stupidly in love with a man who would never leave his wife. When I found out I was pregnant, he didn’t even blink. Said it would be handled.” She came and sat across from me. “My son was born with…with serious challenges. The doctors didn’t soften the blow when they told me. They said he’d never live a normal life, that the kindest thing I could do was place him in a state institution. And that man, his father, made it clear it was the only way forward. So, I signed the necessary papers. I let them take my baby boy. I told myself I’d visit, that I’d fight to bring him home when I was stronger. But I didn’t. I buried it. I buried him, in a sense, even though he was still alive.”
Madeline’s hands clutched her coffee cup so tightly I thought the porcelain might crack.
