Chapter 6 – WHAT REBECCA REALLY WROTE

Roman didn’t ask Celeste what she meant.

He simply said, “Get the notebook.”

She looked at him for several seconds.

Then she walked toward the study.

Roman followed her.

June rose from the table, and I helped her into her coat. She insisted on carrying Oliver’s cedar box herself.

“Are you all right, Mrs. Whitaker?” I asked quietly.

She gave me a tired smile.

“Emily, I’ve spent almost a year believing my grandson didn’t want me. I don’t think I’m going to know how I feel until tomorrow.”

I understood.

It occurred to me that finding out she’d been lied to didn’t automatically give her back the birthdays, ordinary afternoons, and goodnight hugs she’d missed.

Those months were gone.

Nothing Roman did tonight could return them.

The study was across the main hallway.

Dark wood shelves lined two walls. A fire burned in the stone fireplace, and Rebecca’s old reading chair stood beside the window.

I’d dusted that chair every Thursday for eleven months.

Until that evening, I hadn’t known it had belonged to her.

Celeste was standing beside the desk when we entered.

In her hand was a red cloth notebook.

The cover had faded along the spine.

Roman reached for it.

Celeste didn’t release it immediately.

“I need you to understand something before you read this.”

“Then tell me.”

She glanced toward June.

“Rebecca loved you. But she wasn’t always happy.”

Roman’s face tightened.

June looked at the floor.

Celeste finally gave him the notebook.

He opened it.

The first pages contained recipes written in Rebecca’s small, slanting handwriting.

Chicken soup.

Sunday pot roast.

Orange cranberry bread.

Beside one recipe, she’d drawn a crooked star.

Roman touched it.

“She always made those,” he said.

June nodded.

“Even when she was too tired to eat them.”

Roman turned another page.

There were notes between the recipes.

Oliver doesn’t like the crusts, but he loves helping me roll the dough.

Roman says he hates cinnamon. He ate four rolls.

Then the handwriting changed.

The later entries were shorter.

Some letters shook.

On one page, Rebecca had written:

I worry that Roman thinks loving us means making sure nothing bad can ever happen to us. He works harder when he’s frightened. Sometimes I wish he’d understand that we don’t need another house or another security guard. We need him at dinner.

Roman stopped reading.

Celeste watched him.

“That’s what I meant.”

He didn’t answer.

She continued.

“You were spending sixteen hours a day working before Rebecca died. You buried yourself in business afterward. And whenever Oliver struggled, you assumed someone else could fix it.”

Roman looked up.

“That’s true.”

The admission seemed to surprise her.

He closed the notebook briefly.

“I wasn’t there enough.”

June spoke.

“Rebecca knew you loved them.”

“But she needed me to show it.”

“Yes.”

For the first time, Roman looked like a man who wasn’t accustomed to having his mistakes laid out plainly.

He sat in Rebecca’s chair.

It creaked beneath his weight.

For some reason, that small sound made June wipe her eyes.

Celeste’s voice softened.

“When I came into this house, Oliver barely spoke at dinner. He would ask for his mother, then apologize for asking.”

Roman looked at her.

“I remember.”

“I worked to make him feel comfortable with me. And sometimes I succeeded.”

“You did,” Roman said.

She looked relieved.

Then he added, “But that doesn’t explain why you made him believe his grandmother rejected him.”

Celeste’s shoulders stiffened.

“I thought June was making it harder for him to attach to someone new.”

June stared at her.

“He didn’t have to stop loving me to love you.”

“I know that now.”

“Did you know it when you sent those letters back?”

Celeste couldn’t answer.

Roman reopened the notebook.

Halfway through, he found the passage Celeste had mentioned.

He read it aloud.

If I don’t get better, I don’t want this family to build its life around an empty chair.

Celeste nodded.

“That’s the sentence.”

Roman kept reading.

I don’t want Oliver to think love is something that disappears when a person dies. Somebody else will make him pancakes. Somebody else may teach him to ride a bicycle. Maybe Roman will fall in love again.

His voice faltered.

He paused, then continued.

I hope he does. There should be laughter in that house long after I’m gone.

June covered her mouth.

Roman looked toward Celeste.

“So far, you were right.”

“I told you.”

“But there’s more.”

He read the next paragraph.

What frightens me isn’t being forgotten. It’s Oliver believing he has to choose between loving me and loving whoever comes next. I hope the people around him will be kind enough never to ask him to make that choice.

Nobody moved.

Roman looked at the wedding speech still folded in Celeste’s hand.

“That’s the part you didn’t show him.”

Celeste’s eyes filled.

“I didn’t know how to live up to it.”

“You could have started by not making him choose.”

She looked away.

Roman turned to the next page.

Then another.

A section near the back had been cut from the binding.

Not torn accidentally.

Cut carefully along the stitching.

He held the notebook toward June.

“Were pages removed when you sent this?”

She leaned closer.

“No.”

Celeste said nothing.

Roman examined the thread.

“Where are they?”

“I kept some pages separately.”

“Why?”

“Because they were private.”

“Private from whom?”

“From Oliver.”

June’s voice sharpened.

“Rebecca wrote those pages for him.”

Celeste’s face flushed.

“And I was the one who had to explain why his mother wasn’t coming back!”

Roman closed the notebook.

For a moment, his anger disappeared.

He looked at Celeste with genuine sadness.

“I never asked you to become Rebecca.”

“No,” she said. “You just asked me to make this house feel normal again.”

He looked down.

She continued.

“You said you wanted Oliver to have a mother. You said you couldn’t keep living in a house full of grief.”

Roman didn’t deny it.

“I said things I shouldn’t have said.”

Celeste gave a bitter little smile.

“And I believed you.”

Before he could answer, Oliver appeared in the doorway.

He was still wearing June’s green sweater.

“I heard you talking.”

Roman stood.

“Buddy, we were going to come upstairs.”

Oliver looked at Celeste.

“Are you mad at me?”

“No, sweetheart.”

He looked toward the wedding speech.

Then at his father.

“Are you still getting married?”

Roman hesitated.

Celeste watched him anxiously.

Finally, he answered.

“Not until we figure some things out.”

Oliver’s face changed.

The boy stepped backward.

“No. Please.”

Roman approached him.

“Oliver—”

“I’ll do the speech. I promise. I can learn all of it.”

“You don’t have to.”

“But I will.”

His breathing became uneven.

June moved toward him, but he shook his head.

“Please don’t make her go.”

Roman stopped.

Oliver looked up at his father with genuine terror.

“Because if Celeste leaves, who’s going to take care of me when you go away again?”

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