Page 20 of Junie

Chapter Twenty

The first frost takes hold of Bellereine the morning after Junie leaves the In-Between. She cracks through the thin layer of ice on the soil near the river to bury Minnie’s box of secrets, then yanks her sleeve down to cover her two remaining tallies. She resolves that things left to lie ought to stay dead.

November makes it easy to forget. Thanksgiving passes by in a whirlwind of cooking and stiff festivities as the last of the autumn leaves decay into the mud. The field boys chop down a pine tree and drag it to the main house like a hunting prize. Junie and Bess spend weeks covering the house in bows, ribbons, and dried holly. They clean the porcelain dining sets and mend the lace fringes on the formal table settings for guests that never come.

A letter from the Taylors arrives the first of November. From then on, they arrive every other morning, delivered by Junie into Violet’s eager hands. Violet hardly speaks, lost in reading dreary, romantic novels by day and scratching long-winded letters to her paramour by night. Some days, when Junie takes Violet’s letters to mail, she imagines sliding her own inside the envelope—a letter to Caleb. There is nothing to tell him, yet she longs to share something with him, a small token of her memory.

It is impossible. She is not meant to write, and he is not meant to read.

The first December morning brings snow whipping through the air that melts when it hits the ground. Junie wraps her old quilt on her shoulders to walk to work, making shapes with her breath. It is the sort of morning that Minnie used to love, barren and lightly coated in white. She loved the cold and snow, and relished the pomp and festivity. Catching ill and dying before Christmas seems to Junie like the ultimate divine punishment if there were a God to give them. Junie looks toward the woods, the branches naked in the frost. She hasn’t seen or heard from Minnie since that night. She thinks about all the souls lurking between the trees, their bodies glowing and mangled, hidden out of sight.

She tightens the quilt around her body. It is like her auntie said: There is no sense wasting the time she has on sad memories and bad feelings.

Junie serves breakfast as always, laying the plates of hot food on the breakfast table. Bess tends to the fire, watching the mistress’s teacup for the emptiness that demands filling. Violet joins a half hour late, wrapped in a plaid, flannel blanket. Her cheeks are red and her eyes are half-closed with sleep. Instead of sitting in her chair, she scoots near the fireplace.

Junie studies Violet in the morning light, her pale face reddened from cold and tears. She can’t imagine anyone who looks less like her sister than Violet. Could it truly be possible that they share the same father? Her eyes drop to Violet’s hands as she turns the pages of her book. Violet’s fingers are unusually long, with pointer fingers that bend inward as Minnie’s had, and as Mr. McQueen’s do. Are there other signs she’s missed all her life?

Heat rises in Junie’s chest.

How is it possible that one sister sits wrapped in comfort and warmth while the other lies dead in the ground? Is the mistress’s British blood that much nobler than her own mother’s?

“It’s not proper to bring a blanket to breakfast, Violet,” the mistress says.

“My fire went out in the night. I woke up half-frozen,” Violet says, leaning into the fire.

The mistress’s stare cuts to Junie. Junie avoids her gray eyes, picking at the inside of her palm.

“Junie, did you use enough logs in Miss McQueen’s fire?”

“I believe I did, ma’am.”

“Clearly not. No Sunday for you.”

Junie steadies her shaking hands behind her back. She put in the same number of logs as always; Violet insists on leaving the window open, letting the wind in.

“Mother, it’s not Junie’s fault. Fires go out.”

“Don’t contradict me. As long as I’m the mistress here, I will make the rules. Now, take off that ratty blanket. Junie, go fetch the mail.”

Junie nods, biting her lip. She stomps out the back door, fetching the letters from the mailbox where the boy from town delivers them. She peeks through the stack. Most are bills or notices of deceased distant relatives, but at the bottom, she finds a letter sealed with the Taylor family insignia. She thumbs over the wax before picking at it with her nails. How is it fair that Violet can talk to Mr. Taylor, but she’s cut off from Caleb forever? How could Minnie choose to chase freedom and leave her behind? Why does everyone else get to pick their destinies, while Junie is simply dragged behind?

She clutches the letter in her hands and rips it in half. She tears and shreds until its contents are a pile of scraps in her palm, except for one sliver that reads, my darling Ophelia . Junie winces at the pet name. She shoves the scraps into her pocket to burn.

She marches back inside, presenting the remaining letters to Mrs. McQueen.

“Any for me?” Violet asks.

“No, none for you,” the mistress answers coldly. Violet slumps in her chair, pushing her breakfast away.

—

A week later, Junie is polishing the dining table when she hears a scream from upstairs. She runs out of the room to find Violet at the top of the stairs in her sacque, pointing out of the window.

“Carriage! There’s a carriage on the road!”

The mistress runs from her room as Bess and Junie dash to the windows, pressing their faces into the frosted glass. Violet sprints down the stairs to squeeze between them.

“That ain’t Mr. McQueen’s carriage?” Bess says. Junie squints to see the carriage; black and red, with a golden T in script on the side.

It can’t be.

Violet shrieks.

“It’s the Taylors! Mother, it’s the Taylors coming up the road!”

“Mother of God,” the mistress says, white as a sheet. “Did you know they were calling, Violet?”

“You think I’d keep it to myself if I did? Of course, I didn’t know!”

“They sent no word.” The mistress grabs her hair, eyes wide. “They would have sent a letter, at least. What are they doing here?”

Junie curls her lips in, heart racing, unsure if she’s hiding a scream or smile.

“It don’t matter now—they’re here!” Violet jumps up and down like a child on Christmas morning.

Junie presses her face harder into the glass. She can’t make out the driver through the snow.

“Get away from that window,” Bess says. “We got things to do!”

“Jesus Christ, we aren’t fit for company. Junie, take Miss McQueen upstairs immediately and get her into something decent. Bess, go tell Marilla this instant to prepare food for company, anything she can find. I’ll send word for William to return. Pray to the Almighty he’s still in Montgomery.”

Violet’s room is a frenzy of petticoats, hoopskirts, hairpins, and perfume as Junie races to turn her from a smelly tangle of auburn hair into a Southern belle. Pins slip from their sweaty fingers and perfume bottles drop from their grasps; they are both too nervous to manage. They settle on a blue tartan with white lace, as it is the least wrinkled, and a pearl choker. Violet gives herself a once-over in the mirror.

“Not perfect, but impressive for ten minutes,” she says. Even in the cold, sweat beads on her forehead. “Couldn’t have done it without you, Junebug.”

She kisses Junie’s cheek before hiking up her breasts in her corset.

Junie lingers at the top of the stairs to watch Violet descend. The Taylors are now in the foyer, watching Violet move toward them. Violet pushes her shoulders back and fingers the banister like the keys of a piano to emphasize her curving figure and delicate wrists. She plays the part perfectly, gracefully curtsying before leading the party into the parlor. Only the tremor of her free hand gives away her nerves.

Junie creeps down the stairs to get her orders when Caleb walks through the back door.

She doesn’t stay to get a full look. Like a chipmunk escaping a hawk, she flees upstairs and hides, out of sight. Sweat pools on her forehead. She never expected to see him again. What will he think of her? Will he even remember her? She can’t bear the thought of looking into his eyes.

Footsteps thud on the stairs, followed by a grunt.

He’s bringing the luggage upstairs.

Junie looks around desperately before throwing herself into the linen closet.

The footsteps get louder, then fade. When she hears a bedroom door creak open, she lets herself breathe. She cracks the door open and looks around the empty hall.

If she’s quick enough, she can get downstairs before he sees her.

“Oh, Caleb?” Bess calls.

Junie’s eyes widen, and she pulls the door shut.

“I ain’t got the towels for the rooms with me, but you can fetch ’em right in that linen closet. You don’t mind, do you?”

“Not at all, Bess.”

His footsteps echo closer. Junie shoves herself into the wall of towels behind her, willing them to absorb her.

The door flies open.

He seems taller now, as though his valet outfit exposes more of his wrists and ankles. Grass and tobacco, his same scent. It’s him, not the smoky memory in her dreams, but the real Caleb.

His eyes are wide, his mouth open. They stare at each other for what feels like hours.

“I was fetching the towels!” Junie blurts out.

“With the door closed? In the dark?” Caleb says, half-toothed smile gleaming. Junie’s knees shake.

She snatches a pile of towels and shoves them toward his hands before skirting around him and leaving the closet. She starts down the stairs, praying to outrun her humiliation. She makes it out the back door before he catches up to her.

“You ain’t gonna say a proper hello to me, after all these months?”

“Hello. I got to go help Auntie.”

She slips away, oblivious to the cold as she runs for the back of the cookhouse. Junie throws herself against the brick wall. She brings her hands to her cheeks, her skin burning her palms and her face sore from holding down a smile.

He’s back. Caleb is back.