Chapter Twenty-Eight

chapter twenty-eight

February 11, 1931

Lanesborough, New Hampshire

Our girl is one year old today! I can scarcely believe it! Will made us paper hats, and I baked a vanilla cake with buttercream icing. We danced around the kitchen in our silly hats, the three of us holding hands while the cake cooled, the air thick with vanilla and sugar, all of us deliriously happy. Maggie laughed and laughed. She fell down and laughed. Then Will pretended to fall down and she laughed more. Will made up a silly birthday song about a little girl who was actually a bird who flew all the way up to the moon and did a little dance there, surrounded by stars. She listened, wide-eyed, looked up at the ceiling like she could see through it, all the way up to the stars Will pointed toward as he sang.

Maggie was wearing a new pink dress with white trim that I had sewn myself.

“She looks like a cherub,” Will said, kissing both of her rosy little cheeks. “I can’t believe you and I created something so perfect.”

Sometimes all I can do is stare at her with wonder. I can’t believe she’s real.

Maggie is very much her own little person. She’s always watching us with her huge dark eyes, taking everything in. She can look perfectly serious and pensive one minute, and the next, she’s overcome by fits of giggles. Her laugh is infectious—you hear it, you see her so caught up in absolute joy that you have to laugh along, too, even if you don’t know the joke.

Myrtle came by with a gift for Maggie—a little white stuffed dog. Maggie loved it at once, clutching it to her chest, saying, “Daawg,” over and over. She’s nearly walking on her own now—holding herself up on furniture and holding our hands while she takes brave, sure steps. And she’s talking up a storm, speaking her own language, which I can understand just fine. And she does speak three clear words of English: Mama, Dadda, and of course, Dog.

We continue to give Maggie a small drink of spring water each day. When we stop, her health declines. But soon, getting water won’t be any trouble at all—we’ll just walk out the back door of our house! We talk about it every day, how our lives will be once we’re there, but still, it does not seem real. It feels like a faraway thing, our future there in a house called Sparrow Crest in Brandenburg. A made-up story.

It’s somehow easier to think of it this way. To keep it at a distance.

Will has hired a special crew of quarrymen and stone carvers from Barre to turn the small pool that was behind the hotel into one nearly six times the size. Our new swimming pool will be lined with granite blocks, and we’ll build the house right alongside it so that the kitchen door opens onto the patio.

Workmen have already cleared away all the charred timbers and rubble. At my request, they left the rose garden intact. I plan to keep it going, my own tribute to Eliza Harding, to the hotel that once was. I’ve been studying up on roses, on how best to care for them. I have mail-ordered books and talked with all the best gardeners in town.

In the spring, as soon as the roads become passable and supplies can be delivered, work will begin on the house and pool. Will promises we’ll be in by the first snow.

“I will miss you all so much when you move away. You most of all, little sparrow,” Myrtle said to Maggie, who giggled when Myrtle tickled her under the chin.

“We won’t be that far,” I reminded Myrtle. “And you must visit often. You can stay in the guest room. A regular visitor to Sparrow Crest!”

She flinched a little, averted her eyes.

I knew she would never come. Never return to that water.

“And you must write often,” she said. “To let me know you’re all right.”

I wrapped my arms around Maggie protectively.

Will laughed. “Of course we’ll be all right. Better than all right. We’re moving into the house of our dreams! A castle! Isn’t that right, Ethel?”

I smiled and nodded, hoping it was convincing, that the kernel of dread I felt deep in my heart did not show. I knew the water was keeping our girl alive, that what we were doing was for the best, but still, the idea of living beside that pool, of actually being there day after day, night after night—it unsettled me.

I frosted the cake and lit the candle in the center. I held on to the match a second too long, burning my fingers, letting the exquisite pain pull me back into my body, into the reality of the here and now.

I am Mrs. Monroe and I am having a party for my daughter. I have a beautiful, healthy little girl who brings joy to everyone who sees her. She is real and she is here to stay. I have everything I could ever want. Soon, I will be moving into the house of my dreams.

We all sang “Happy Birthday,” and Maggie cooed and laughed and clapped her hands with joy. The kitchen was warm and bright.

As I helped her to blow out the candle, I made a wish: May we always be this happy, this safe.

June 26, 1931

Will returned from Vermont with a load of jars and bottles of water for Maggie and news of the progress on the house.

“The main timbers are all up. The house looks like a great skeleton. They couldn’t get trucks up the road because of the flooded brook and how muddy things were, so we hired teams of horses to pull the final load of timbers in. It was something to see, Ethel!” He was filthy from the worksite, his boots and pants caked with mud. He looked like he hadn’t slept a wink and had dropped several pounds. I worry that the stress of supervising the building of Sparrow Crest is too much for him. It’s all-consuming. When he’s not there watching over the construction, he’s at home drawing plans for the workers, making lists, doing sketch after sketch of little details: the built-in bench in the front hall, the shape of the hand-carved newel post for the stairs. He’s changed the location of the kitchen windows four or five times already. He wants everything to be perfect. Sometimes I come down to make breakfast in the morning and find he’s been sitting at the table working all night. I’ve never seen him, or anyone else for that matter, so consumed.

He’s having trouble keeping workers at the site. Men keep leaving without even giving notice. The foreman there, Mr. Galletti, seemed a capable man when Will hired him, but now he’s beginning to have his doubts.

“We’re weeks behind where we should be,” Will says. “I told Galletti to double the size of the crew. And to get some decent, hardworking men in there! I’m sure it won’t be any trouble to find them. Mention an opening here and you get a line of applicants around the corner—too many good men out of work.”

“Can we afford that? Hiring all those extra men?”

Will nodded. “It’ll put us over budget for the house, but we’re already over budget.” I saw the worry lines in his brow. He noticed me studying his face and smiled. “But it’s worth it, to have a home for you and Maggie as soon as we can, darling wife.” He clasped my hands in his and kissed them.

August 2, 1931

Will returned home late this evening after being away in Brandenburg for over a week. He looked exhausted, thin and sickly, like a hollowed-out version of himself.

Maggie was in the nursery, sound asleep.

“Will, darling, have you eaten? Have you slept?” I asked as I kissed his scruffy cheek, dusted mud off his good coat. “There’s a chicken in the oven—I’ve been keeping it warm. I wasn’t sure when to expect you. You get cleaned up, and we’ll sit down to a nice dinner. I’ll pour you some brandy.”

“That can all wait,” he said, taking off his hat. “I have news.” He looked nervous, but excited. His fingers worked their way over the band of his hat, fidgeting, plucking. He had dirt under his nails.

“What is it?”

“We’re moving to Sparrow Crest.”

I nodded, now more worried than ever. “Of course we are,” I said. “Before the first snow, right?”

“Next week,” he said, a wide, almost frantic-looking smile taking hold of his face.

“But…” I stammered. “The house isn’t finished.”

“No, but it’s finished enough to live in. The roof is on, the outside walls are up. I’m having the men finish up our bedroom and bathroom right now. And the stove will arrive tomorrow. There’s a lot to be done still, but there’s no reason we can’t move in. It’ll be fun. A great adventure! And I can supervise the final stages of the building more carefully. There will be no more going back and forth. If we’re there, the men will work harder; I have no doubt things will progress much more rapidly.”

“But… next week, Will? Really?”

He nodded. “I’ve hired some men and trucks to help us move.”

“Oh.” It was all I could think of to say.

He came, wrapped his arms around me. “Isn’t it wonderful, Ethel? We can start packing right away. Tonight!”