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Prologue

Goldie

CAPE MAY, NEW JERSEY, 2011

He’s back again.

Goldie shivered. The sun dipped beneath the treetops, cur- taining the air with a chill. She wrapped her cardigan tight around, crossed the threshold of the rickety gate, and entered the butterfly garden. She ambled her way through verbena, aster, and clover, pausing just long enough to inhale the sweet scent of the Joe Pye weed.

And then . . . she could smell the scotch. Like a hard pinch to the nose.

Simon.

Goldie’s husband had been gone for thirty years, yet some- how, his scent grew ever stronger. Lately, she wondered if it was just her weary and aging mind playing tricks. But no. He seemed so real. She could feel him, smell him. Why now? Why was he back?

Look.

Goldie spotted the monarch right away. Patrick. Her precious father-in-law. He loved her more than he loved anyone else—even more than his own son. Simon knew it. And he hated Goldie for that. Hated them both for all the hours they toiled away in their butterfly garden—their own special place, where they shared dreams, stories, laughter while troweling the earth. Recently, she found herself retreating there if only to feel Patrick’s warmth. His love. And what she felt she needed more than ever: his protection.

As she continued her walk, Goldie’s vision slipped back out of focus. The butterfly garden became a blur. Her head was foggy, her thoughts random. When was the last time she had a good cry? She was out of tears. It had been four decades since she watched Patrick take his last breath. Goldie became awash in a fresh wave of sadness. A longing for what was. For what she once had. She knew there was a sense of freedom to be had in succumbing to such anguish. Sitting in the eye of your pain as it draws you down onto hands and knees. A healthy episode of unabashed bawling when your spirit feels as though it may just split in two. Over time, sorrow that has been silenced for too long eventually infects even the good parts—Goldie could see that now.

He called her Little Birdie for her maiden name, Sparrows. Even amidst a crowded room, Patrick made her feel as though she were the only one who existed. Goldie had lost her own father the year after he returned from combat in World War II (which coincided with her birth). Growing up without a father affected her in ways she would never fully comprehend, no matter how long she lived. She yearned for the love she’d seen her friends receive from their own dads. As a child, she would watch families at the park or at the diner and fantasize about joining the pack. How it must feel to have a complete family with both parents standing by. Her mother was old-fashioned. Widows did not remarry in those days. Goldie never spoke of it, but she longed for her mother to meet someone. Someone who could take her to the roller rink, bowling, to a drive-in movie.

Years later, a stroke of good fortune had brought Simon Knight into her path. She thought of him as her well-to-do, strikingly handsome “Knight” in shining armor with a degree in business administration who, serendipitously, came with Patrick: the most caring and lovable father imaginable. When the time came for Simon and Goldie to wed, it was Patrick who escorted her down the aisle. She was bound to Patrick by law— not by blood. However, that did not prevent him from taking her by the arm and featuring her in front of his fellow board members of the Duke University Medical Center. He introduced her as “my daughter.” Overcome by the gesture, Goldie never paid any mind to the perplexing glances or hushed voices as she passed by: “A daughter? I thought Dr. Knight only had the one boy.”

Patrick taught her that a group of butterflies was called a kaleidoscope. Goldie thought it magical how he was able to command the attention of so many colorful creatures who seemed to trust him, know him, longing to be near him as much as she did.

“Remember to look for the monarchs.”

They both loved the monarchs with their bright orange hues and black piping like a spider’s web.

“In many countries around the world, they believe that butterflies are, in fact, departed souls,” Patrick had told her. “The butterfly represents the soul’s freedom upon death. In ancient Greece, the word for butterfly is psyche, which means soul. The Greeks believe butterflies are the souls of people who have passed away.

“Same thing is true in Russia, where their word for butter- flies is dushuchka, derived from the word dusha, meaning soul. In Mexico, there is a small town where monarchs migrate every year. It happens to coincide with a Mexican holiday known as the Day of the Dead. The town celebrates the butterflies because they believe they are the souls of the deceased returning.”

Goldie’s eyes would widen, encouraging him to continue.

“The Irish believe butterflies to be the souls of the dead waiting to pass through purgatory.”

As she walked the length of the garden, she could hear him, now.

“The brushfoots are back!”

The two spent an inordinate amount of time together on their own in the elaborate six-bedroom home Patrick had gifted the young couple for their wedding. With Simon struggling to make a name for himself as an accountant, he would leave well before dawn to tackle his one-hour commute to Virginia Beach and return long after suppertime, leaving his father and wife to their own devices. Goldie would spend the day in her home studio throwing pottery to be auctioned off at the church raffle and for sale at the local craft shop in town. Semi-retired Pat- rick would spend his mornings puttering around in his vegetable garden and following up on conference calls with fellow board members. Come midday, they would meet for lunch on the veranda to swap progress reports over a medley of fresh garden greens from Patrick’s harvest and Goldie’s tuna noodle casserole. She had acquired all sorts of knowledge being Patrick’s sole companion, from everyday tasks like how to write a check to the proper way to arrange pocket cash.

“It’s imperative to keep the small bills on the outside of the stack to camouflage the ol’ Grants and Franklins at the center,” he told her. “Although a person should never pull out his money for counting in front of onlookers. That would be in poor taste.”

Sometimes Patrick’s lessons were more sage in nature, and Goldie would tuck them into the figurative vault for safekeeping. He prided himself on knowing how to skillfully identify a liar behind an artificial smile and unctuous demeanor. He surreptitiously pointed out one of his fellow board members who had been known to skip out on his wife. He shifted on his feet, with a wily grin and darting eyes at every female who crossed his path.

“It’s in the eyes, Little Birdie. The eyes will reveal all. But first, you must be willing to see.”

For years, Goldie grappled with an unidentifiable hole. It wasn’t until meeting Patrick that she knew what she had been missing. In his presence, she found peace. Sitting by his side, she felt comfort. Hearing his stories and pranks from yesteryear brought her giddiness and joy, like spending time with an old best friend. Learning from his great wisdom, Goldie discovered new things about herself and the world. She had finally understood what it meant for a young girl to bask in the shiny moonbeams of a father’s love, strength, and utter devotion.

Meeting Patrick was a rare and precious gift, one that she cherished with every breath she took. But he was long gone. And with him, all the love he gave had been taken away. Stripped from her like clothing from a baby’s back. What had she done to deserve such pain? Was this punishment for loving too much? Feeling too much? Why? Why was Patrick taken from this earth, where he was so hopelessly loved and desperately needed by Goldie? He always felt more like family than any other per- son she’d ever known—including his son, her own husband.

Right before he closed his eyes for the last time, he squeezed her hand.

“Remember to look for the monarchs, Little Birdie.”

And just like that, Patrick had left her. The father to whom she should have been born. Torrents of excruciating pain coursed through her as the sorrow she carried in her heart manifested in her body.

With the lack of sunlight, her vision was particularly uncooperative as the pathway and nearby objects fogged over. Goldie ascended the uneven stairs, taking careful, deliberate footsteps.

Upon reaching the landing, she was struck hard and fast by the wafting scent of scotch.

Simon.

The heavy front door squeaked as it swung shut. Goldie secured the deadbolt and pressed her back up against the smooth pine. Her heart thumped against her ribcage. She took a moment to catch her breath. All she could hear was the sound of her loafer ticking against the floor.

Why now, Simon? Why are you back? view abbreviated excerpt only...

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