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!”

chapter twenty-nine

June 21, 2019

My father and I spent the afternoon in the rose garden. He’d gotten it into his head that it should be pruned, so despite the heat, we donned heavy leather gloves and went to work with the pruning shears we found in the garage. We shaped the bushes, deadheaded, and trimmed errant runners. It felt good to have work to do: a physical task to keep us occupied. We took breaks for cold beers and to stand back and admire our progress. “I think Gram would be pleased,” I said.

“I wish I could see a picture of what it looked like back in the hotel days,” my father said. “My guess is that your great-grandmother and grandmother didn’t make many changes. I bet it looks pretty much the same.”

“It’s strange to think about,” I said. “The rose garden and springs being here this whole time. The hotel burned, Sparrow Crest built. Lexie used to say she wished the roses could speak and tell stories.”