was a secret her aunt had very nearly carried with her to the grave: of a husband who had betrayed her in the worst possible way.
It explained so many things. Was it any wonder that Sylvia spent the rest of her life withdrawn from the Nantucket community? What would her choices be whenever the subject of her husband came up? To lie, or to humiliate herself. Dear, poor Aunt Sylvia. No wonder they thought she was a witch.
It explained something else as well: her aunt ' s vague story that she had had her husband ' s remains cremated and scattered at sea. The real reason there was no grave was because Sam had never come back.
Jane couldn ' t imagine what it must have been like to open the envelope addressed in someone else ' s hand; to read the crushing message within; to fold the letter up and put it away; and — eventually — to make supper, or do the laundry, or a little Christmas shopping. In short, to go on living, in the house Sam was letting her keep as a consolation prize.
In the house that Sylvia had bequeathed to Jane.
Good God , she realized suddenly. The house may not even be mine to have. What if Sam were still alive, or had remarried — did Aunt Sylvia ever divorce him? Or what if he had children in France ? And how had Sylvia Merchant managed to convince her attorney that she was a widow? Overwhelmed by the possibilities, Jane went back to the cardboard box, looking for an answer.
She found it almost at once, in a brittle newspaper clipping dated a month after Sam ' s letter to his wife. It was an obituary, cut out of the Inquirer. Sam Merchant had died on December 11, 1918, exactly one month after the armistice was signed at Compiègne, when the transport vehicle he was riding in overturned.
So the Army had never found out, and neither did Nantucket , that Sam had made other plans for himself. Which had come first to Sylvia Merchant, Jane wondered — the news from the Army, or the news from her husband? The postmark on Sam ' s letter was illegible, and Jane couldn ' t find any death notice from the Army. Either way, it was a sickening one-two punch.
And who had posted Sam ' s last letter? The handwriting on the envelope was French, undeniably. His mistress? Could any woman be that cruel? Or was she just doing the rational thing, the French thing, and tying up loose ends?
A kind of morbid, fatalistic curiosity overtook Jane, and she began reading Sam ' s letters — there were a dozen or so — from the earliest to his last. They were short, sweet, and simple, spanning about six months. There was the initial excitement of landing in a foreign country; predictable raves when he passed through Paris ; some gossip about the men in his unit; expressions of hope that the Germans would soon be defeated.
Sam also wrote of the French people, whom he found aloof and indifferent — that is, until he met a soldier who was a fisherman by trade, with a boat on the Meuse . After all, Sam was a fisherman, too, with a boat on Nantucket ; they spoke a common language.
After that, Sam became more enthusiastic about the French. By the time the Germans abandoned Sedan , and the U.S. military respectfully encouraged the French to reenter their town first, Sam was a staunch ally. That was the day before the armistice was signed. Three weeks later, he didn ' t want to come home.
What had happened? Was it really love at first sight, or was it the war? How could he be so sure it was love?
Jane stood up and wandered over to the window, the one that opened onto the huge lilac bush, and stared out at the bleak late-winter landscape beyond. For thirty-three years Jane had been waiting to fall in love at first sight. How hard could it be? All her friends apparently had done it. She ' d heard all about the symptoms: pounding heart, stumbling speech, sweaty hands. But the only time she ' d experienced those symptoms was when she had to make a presentation at the office.
Jane picked up the photograph of the Army unit again. She
It explained so many things. Was it any wonder that Sylvia spent the rest of her life withdrawn from the Nantucket community? What would her choices be whenever the subject of her husband came up? To lie, or to humiliate herself. Dear, poor Aunt Sylvia. No wonder they thought she was a witch.
It explained something else as well: her aunt ' s vague story that she had had her husband ' s remains cremated and scattered at sea. The real reason there was no grave was because Sam had never come back.
Jane couldn ' t imagine what it must have been like to open the envelope addressed in someone else ' s hand; to read the crushing message within; to fold the letter up and put it away; and — eventually — to make supper, or do the laundry, or a little Christmas shopping. In short, to go on living, in the house Sam was letting her keep as a consolation prize.
In the house that Sylvia had bequeathed to Jane.
Good God , she realized suddenly. The house may not even be mine to have. What if Sam were still alive, or had remarried — did Aunt Sylvia ever divorce him? Or what if he had children in France ? And how had Sylvia Merchant managed to convince her attorney that she was a widow? Overwhelmed by the possibilities, Jane went back to the cardboard box, looking for an answer.
She found it almost at once, in a brittle newspaper clipping dated a month after Sam ' s letter to his wife. It was an obituary, cut out of the Inquirer. Sam Merchant had died on December 11, 1918, exactly one month after the armistice was signed at Compiègne, when the transport vehicle he was riding in overturned.
So the Army had never found out, and neither did Nantucket , that Sam had made other plans for himself. Which had come first to Sylvia Merchant, Jane wondered — the news from the Army, or the news from her husband? The postmark on Sam ' s letter was illegible, and Jane couldn ' t find any death notice from the Army. Either way, it was a sickening one-two punch.
And who had posted Sam ' s last letter? The handwriting on the envelope was French, undeniably. His mistress? Could any woman be that cruel? Or was she just doing the rational thing, the French thing, and tying up loose ends?
A kind of morbid, fatalistic curiosity overtook Jane, and she began reading Sam ' s letters — there were a dozen or so — from the earliest to his last. They were short, sweet, and simple, spanning about six months. There was the initial excitement of landing in a foreign country; predictable raves when he passed through Paris ; some gossip about the men in his unit; expressions of hope that the Germans would soon be defeated.
Sam also wrote of the French people, whom he found aloof and indifferent — that is, until he met a soldier who was a fisherman by trade, with a boat on the Meuse . After all, Sam was a fisherman, too, with a boat on Nantucket ; they spoke a common language.
After that, Sam became more enthusiastic about the French. By the time the Germans abandoned Sedan , and the U.S. military respectfully encouraged the French to reenter their town first, Sam was a staunch ally. That was the day before the armistice was signed. Three weeks later, he didn ' t want to come home.
What had happened? Was it really love at first sight, or was it the war? How could he be so sure it was love?
Jane stood up and wandered over to the window, the one that opened onto the huge lilac bush, and stared out at the bleak late-winter landscape beyond. For thirty-three years Jane had been waiting to fall in love at first sight. How hard could it be? All her friends apparently had done it. She ' d heard all about the symptoms: pounding heart, stumbling speech, sweaty hands. But the only time she ' d experienced those symptoms was when she had to make a presentation at the office.
Jane picked up the photograph of the Army unit again. She
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