Page 55 of Bitter House

P.S. There is a logbook in a vent in the ceiling of my closet. Please give it to Jane for safekeeping if you don’t wish to have it. They will protect you with everything they have. None of this will fall on you should you choose to walk away. It will always be your choice.

When I stop reading, it takes me several seconds to look up. My vision is blurred with tears, the page now sprinkled with teardrops. When I meet the eyes of the women before me, I have no idea what to say.

“Your grandmother was a hero,” Jane says, leaning forward over her knees. Something in her words snaps in my brain, and suddenly, I remember why I know her name. Jane from the newspaper.

“You wrote Vera’s obituary.”

She nods, tears filling her own eyes. The women on either side of her grasp her hands. “We knew she wouldn’t have family to do it, and we understood why, but we couldn’t let her pass away without honoring her in the only way we could. She was selfless, Bridget. And kind. She wanted to make the world better in the only way she knew how. And she deserved to have that truth out there for the world, even if they couldn’t know the whole truth.”

Cole slides his hand into mine, lacing our fingers together. For the first time in my entire life, I feel like I understand my grandmother. Maybe I don’t agree with the way she handled things, but I do understand why she did it. And, if she hadn’t, this man sitting next to me, the man who has protected me and stood up for me in ways I never knew about for my whole life, might not be here.

Vera was a lot of things—complicated and confusing and cold—but she was also a hero. She saved and protected and healed women and children in ways I will never know about. If that isn’t using your power for the right causes, I’m not sure I know what is.

“We’ll stay,” I manage to choke out. “At Bitter House. I want to stay.” I glance over at Cole, who nods, his dark eyes locking with mine in a way that tells me he’s with me no matter what. That we’re in this together, just like we’ve always been.

“Absolutely.”

All three women give us knowing smiles, as if they never expected any different. And maybe they didn’t. I have no idea if I want to be involved in any of this. But what I do know is that I will protect Bitter House’s secrets with my life.

I’m a Bitter, after all. It’s my legacy.

CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

TEN YEARS LATER

When I answer the door, the woman is wearing a turtleneck sweater, hiding behind her husband. He’s tall and charming, as they so often are. He smiles and holds his hand out, introducing himself as Dr. Martin.

I politely take his hand and step back, allowing him inside.

Jane and Cate are waiting in the living room to talk to him all about his growing practice, fluff his ego, and distract him, while Lily asks what his drink of choice is, and I pull his wife away to help her toward the tunnels. If she leaves now, she can make it into town in time to create an alibi.

Lily is in the kitchen when I return, sorting through the various dried petals we’ve collected from Vera’s flower garden. She knows all about which ones do what thing, and she’s slowly teaching me.

They’re getting older, something that’s undeniable. Someday, they’ll be gone, too, and this will be all I have left of them. Their names, their legacies, their knowledge, their stories.

It won’t get to be told, passed down through generations like it should, because their work isn’t the kind you brag about. It’s the kind that’s necessary. Important. But done only in secret.

Cole comes into the room, giving us a warning that the women are on their way while Lily stirs Dr. Martin’s glass of bourbon and passes it to me. When he enters the room, I hand him the tumbler before taking my wineglass from Cole.

Though Edna never wanted us to be involved in this side of the Bitter House legacy, Cole was the one who initially brought it up. In a way, he sees it as making up for the bad that his father did. Erasing it from his DNA somehow, covering up the stain.

Edna stays out of it, though I know it bothers her. She loves us just as she always has and just as she loved Vera, but she’s not cut out for this part of what we do. It’s too hard for her.

Still, I’ve gotten my wish. Though I didn’t get the family I hoped for—we haven’t spoken to Jenn or Zach since their legal battle over the will ended uneventfully—I managed to form a family of my own.

That’s what we are: Cole, Jane, Cate, Lily, Edna, and me. Family dinners, holidays and all.

“Where’s my wife?” Dr. Martin asks, his voice full of possession. She’s not a person to him, but something to own. To claim.

“Bathroom,” I mutter.

His lips press into a hard line, and I can tell he’s not happy, but Cole distracts him again, asking about the sports car in the driveway. By dinner, the man is telling us all about his latest bid for mayor, and Lily has promised to make a big donation to his campaign.

It doesn’t take long before he starts looking sleepy, though it’s longer than we’d prefer. He’s very boring, and the conversation is well past dragging at this point. When he goes down, we do a bit of a silent cheer, both because he’ll never hurt anyone else, but also because we’ll never have to hear him overuse the word ambience again.

Every time is a little bit different, but it’s worth it. Maybe it’s not right, like Vera said, but it’s necessary. A lot has changed from the days when Vera wrote those first entries, but so much hasn’t. Women still aren’t protected like we should be. Men are given pass after pass, and women are given slips of paper for protection that mean nothing. Women have to prove everything while men are given the benefit of the doubt. If we speak up, it could ruin their lives, and they’re such nice guys, so why would we do that?

Instead, we hold our keys between our fingers, walk faster or take another way home, send our location to friends from the back of a rideshare, or grit our teeth and bear it while another sexist remark is made by our boss or another scene of senseless cruelty is shown on television. Because if we don’t, we’re part of the problem. We’re uptight. We can’t take a joke.

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