Kristin Hannah - Winter Garden

Winter Garden

Also by Kristin Hannah

True Colors

Firefly Lane

Magic Hour

Comfort & Joy

The Things We Do for Love

Between Sisters

Distant Shores

Summer Island

Angel Falls

On Mystic Lake

Home Again

Waiting for the Moon

If You Believe

Once in Every Life

When Lightning Strikes

The Enchantment

A Handful of Heaven

Special Edition

Kristin Hannah

ST. MARTINS PRESS
New York

This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, organizations, and events portrayed in this novel are either products of the authors imagination or are used fictitiously.

WINTER GARDEN . Copyright 2010 by Kristin Hannah.
All rights reserved. Printed in the United States of America.
For information, address St. Martins Press,
175 Fifth Avenue, New York, N.Y. 10010.

www.stmartins.com

Book design by Kathryn Parise

Excerpts from Requiem 19351940 and We Dont Know How to Say Goodbye from Poems of Akhmatova, selected, translated, and introduced by Stanley Kunitz with Max Hayward 1967, 1968, 1972, 1973 by Stanley Kunitz and Max Hayward, originally published by Little Brown and currently available from Mariner Books. Reprinted with permission by Darhansoff Verrill Feldman Literary Agents.

LIBRARY OF CONGRESS CATALOGING-IN-PUBLICATION DATA

Hannah, Kristin.

Winter garden / Kristin Hannah.1st ed.

p. cm.

ISBN 978-0-312-36412-0

1. Mothers and daughtersFiction. 2. Russian AmericansFiction. 3. Domestic fiction. 4. Psychological fiction. I. Title.

PS3558.A4763W56 2010

813'.54dc22

2009039230

First Edition: February 2010

10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

This Special Edition Includes:

To my husband, Benjamin, as always;
to my motherI wish I had listened to more of your
life stories when I had the chance;
to my dad and Debbiethanks for the trip of a lifetime
and memories that will last even longer; and
to my beloved TuckerI am so proud of you.
Your adventure is just beginning.

Not, not mine: its somebody elses wound.
I could never have borne it. So take the thing
that happened, hide it, stick it in the ground.
Whisk the lamps away...
Night.
A NNA A KHMATOVA, FROM P OEMS OF A KHMATOVA ,
TRANSLATED BY S TANLEY K UNITZ, WITH M AX H AYWARD

O n the banks of the mighty Columbia River, in this icy season when every breath became visible, the orchard called Belye Nochi was quiet. Dormant apple trees stretched as far as the eye could see, their sturdy roots coiled deep in the cold, fertile soil. As temperatures plummeted and color drained from land and sky, the whitened landscape caused a kind of winter blindness; one day became indistinguishable from the next. Everything froze, turned fragile.

Nowhere was the quiet more noticeable than in Meredith Whitsons own house. At twelve, she had already discovered the empty spaces that gathered between people. She longed for her family to be like those she saw on television, where everything looked perfect and everyone got along. No one, not even her beloved father, understood how alone she often felt within these four walls, how invisible.

But tomorrow night, all of that would change.

She had come up with a brilliant plan. She had written a play based on one of her mothers fairy tales, and she would present it at the annual Christmas party. It was exactly the kind of thing that would happen on an episode of The Partridge Family.

How come I cant be the star? Nina whined. It was at least the tenth time shed asked this question since Meredith had finished the script.

Meredith turned around in her chair and looked down at her nine-year-old sister, who was crouched on the wooden floor of their bedroom, painting a mint-green castle on an old bedsheet.

Meredith bit her lower lip, trying not to frown. The castle was too messy; not right at all. Do we have to talk about this again, Nina?

But why cant I be the peasant girl who marries the prince?

You know why. Jeff is playing the prince and hes thirteen. Youd look silly next to him.

Nina put her paintbrush in the empty soup can and sat back on her heels. With her short black hair, bright green eyes, and pale skin, she looked like a perfect little pixie. Can I be the peasant girl next year?

You bet. Meredith grinned. She loved the idea that she might be creating a family tradition. All of her friends had traditions, but not the Whitsons; they had always been different. There was no stream of relatives who came to their house on holidays, no turkey on Thanksgiving or ham on Easter, no prayers that were always said. Heck, they didnt even know for sure how old their mom was.

It was because Mom was Russian, and alone in this country. Or at least that was what Dad said. Mom didnt say much of anything about herself.

A knock at the door surprised Meredith. She looked up just as Jeff Cooper and her father came into the room.

Meredith felt like one of those long, floppy balloons being slowly filled with air, taking on a new form with each breath, and in this case the breath was Jeffrey Cooper. Theyd been best friends since fourth grade, but lately it felt different to be around him. Exciting. Sometimes, when he looked at her, she could barely breathe. Youre right on time for rehearsal.

He gave her one of his heart-stopping smiles. Just dont tell Joey and the guys. Theyd give me a ton of crap for this.

About rehearsal, her dad said, stepping forward. He was still in his work clothes, a brown leisure suit with orange topstitching. Surprisingly, there was no smile lurking beneath his bushy black mustache or in his eyes. He held out the script. This is the play youre doing?

Meredith rose from the chair. Do you think shell like it?

Nina stood up. Her heart-shaped face was uncharacteristically solemn. Will she?

The three of them looked at one another over the expanse of the Picasso-style green castle and the costumes laid out across the bed. The truth they passed among themselves, in looks alone, was that Anya Whitson was a cold woman; any warmth she had was directed at her husband. Precious little of it reached her daughters. When they were younger, Dad had tried to pretend it was otherwise, to redirect their attention like a magician, mesmerizing them with the brightness of his affection, but as with all illusions, the truth ultimately appeared behind it.

So they all knew what Meredith was asking.

I dont know, Meredoodle, Dad said, reaching into his pocket for his cigarettes. Your mothers stories

I love it when she tells them, Meredith said.

Its the only time she really talks to us, Nina added.

Dad lit a cigarette and stared at them through a swirl of gray smoke, his brown eyes narrowed. Yeah, he said, exhaling. Its just...