“Did you go to France?” An intense craving to show her Iris’s journals buzzes under my skin. I just have to wait a little longer. Wait until I’ve finished transcribing them so Anne can easily read her great-aunt’s words.
“Yes. We visited Bordeaux and various vineyards in the area. And Paris, naturally.” Anne’s gaze travels over the kitchen, with the predominantly white and creamy-blue colors. “Wow. I don’t even recognize the room.” She skims her fingertips over the white-granite island countertop. “It’s gorgeous.”
“Thank you. What about Burgundy?” The region where Jacques Gauthier’s vineyard and farmhouse were located. “Did you go there?”
“Unfortunately, not. We probably needed a month just for France if we wanted to visit all the wine regions. Maybe that will have to be Dan’s and my next trip.”
The craving buzzes again under my skin. I’m barely able to keep from bouncing on my toes with all the pent-up excited energy crackling in me.
I show Anne around the parts of downstairs where the renovations have been completed, which is just the kitchen, the living room, and the hallway so far. The downstairs washroom and the laundry room still need work done on them. We didn’t have a chance to start them before we were injured. “Troy and I are still working on downstairs,” I explain. “We haven’t done any renovations upstairs yet.”
“Well, so far it looks incredible,” Anne says, her smile bright.
“Once we’ve finished the major renovations, I’ll paint some of Iris’s old furniture to fit in with the aesthetic.” I run my hand over the sturdy wooden bookshelf that would look gorgeous in a whitewash.
“Auntie Iris would be impressed with what you’ve done. It’s so pretty and cozy. It’s perfect. She would have loved it.”
I try to appreciate the living room through the eyes of the woman who had been an SOE agent and risked her life in occupied France. “I would love to learn more about Iris.” I bite the inside of my mouth to keep from blurting about Iris’s journals, the medal, and the pendant I found in the secret room. A tendril of guilt curls in my stomach at the secret I’m still keeping from Anne.
Not much longer…then you can really surprise her.
“I can tell you she would be happy you’re the one who bought her house. Not because of what you’ve done here, but because of what you’ve been through. As Savannah.” The name is spoken softly without any recriminations or regrets.
But that doesn’t stop the sharp lungful of air that drags into my chest.
Anne’s kind eyes search my face, but it’s not enough to blunt the unease and shame swelling in me.
“I had no idea you were Savannah Townsend until recently,” she says, her voice the gentle caress of a mother consoling a frightened child. “I knew you had been through a lot based on what little Florence told me. I could tell the day I first met you that whatever happened to you had pretty much crushed you. But I never imagined it would be something as bad as not only surviving an abusive husband but also the prison system.”
Butterscotch sits next to Anne’s feet. She crouches and strokes him. “One of my friends was raped when she was in her early twenties. The guy had been the college’s football hero, and the administrators did what they could to bury the truth, not wanting it to become a scandal. They paid her off to keep her quiet. She wasn’t the same after that. She fell into drugs to cope with the pain. She lost her job and her home. She felt like she had nowhere to turn. In the end, it was the drugs that did her in. She saw them as her safe haven.” The corners of Anne’s mouth are weighed down with sadness.
A chill skittles over my skin at the story. “I’m so sorry for your loss, Anne.”
“Me too. That’s why I offered Auntie Iris’s house for you to stay in. I didn’t know what had happened to you, but I wanted to make sure you had a safe place to stay while you healed.”
I look at the wood flooring by my feet, hiding the tears that blur my vision—tears for Anne’s friend and for Anne’s generosity for what she has done for me. “And now that you know the truth about my past, you don’t have second thoughts about selling the house to me? Knowing I was once an inmate in a maximum-security prison?”
“Not at all. If anyone belongs in this house, it’s you, Jess. Or do you prefer Savannah?”
My eyes meet Anne’s, and the kindness reflected in them knocks a small amount of the burden of truth from my shoulders. “I haven’t been Savannah in a long time.” Not even while I was in Beckley. “I don’t feel like her anymore. I’m Jess now.” I just have to figure out who the heck Jess is. “What else can you tell me about Iris? I would love to hear more stories about her.”
“You should visit me in Ash Falls some time, and then I can show you old photos of her. Family photos—including pictures of my grandmother and grandfather. That would be Iris’s sister. And I can tell you all kinds of stories about my great-aunt.”
“I would love that. Thank you.” I would love to learn more about the woman who risked her life to make a difference in the war. Maybe I’ll be able to finish transcribing the journals by then to give to Anne.
Anne walks to the bookshelf and picks up the framed photo of Troy and me that Simone took at the Sunshine Festival in June. Troy and I are smiling at each other, having just kissed, and we look like we’re in our own little world.
“You two really are a cute couple. And it’s obvious he cares a lot for you.” Anne returns the photo to the shelf.
I don’t respond, crossing my fingers she doesn’t ask me about my feelings for Troy. They’re still a knot of emotions, and I’m not sure how to unravel them.
Angelique was brave, fighting for what she believed in.
I’m nowhere near as brave when it comes to my heart. And Troy.
8
ANGELIQUE
