Excerpt

CHAPTER 1

I’ve always preferred trees to people. The forest has a predictable rhythm, and doesn’t judge or criticize. This afternoon, I will make history as the only woman in America to earn a Master’s in Forestry. It’s a day of celebration, but first I must survive a luncheon with Mother. Her outdated aspirations for me are simple: a church aisle and vows. But today she’ll witness me at a different altar, my academic achievements replacing her traditional dream.

Outside Seattle’s Olympic Hotel, an elegant couple ducks into a taxi under the enormous American flags flanking the ornate awning. I duck off the sidewalk and up the marble steps where the doorman pulls open the heavy door. I’m late for lunch with my parents and my new openwork pumps click across the terrazzo floor of the bustling lobby. Two stories above the well-dressed crowd, a 300-pound crystal chandelier sparkles. The room couldn’t be farther from nature’s hushed clarity, but the echoing grandeur runs a tingle up my spine.

Mother will detest everything about this day: the hateful hotel jazz, the arid academia, and my modern flared heel. I grin down at the gleaming black patent leather, kicking out from under my silky sheath dress with each hurried step. I spent almost four dollars on these shoes, and wearing something I love gives me a surprising satisfaction. Maybe I should have let Mother shop with me, but then I’d be in respectable shoes. I roll my shoulders back, shaking the self-doubt she instills. Today’s celebration belongs to me and the Class of 1924. Mother ought to be pleased I didn’t just polish my sturdy work boots.

At the tea room I announce myself, and a tuxedoed steward leads me to my parents. Mother nods, remaining seated, then comments on my paleness, eyeing my new shoes with a frown. Predictable, but still so irritating. Father heaves his large frame up, enveloping my small hand in his huge ones, his entire face shining with love, and I beam back. Without his sedate support, I would not have persevered to this graduation. He’s gentle and supportive in every way Mother is stiff and severe.

We settle in, Mother’s customary monologue beginning with the weather, which she declares to be typically west coast. My father and I murmur responses as she covers the family and neighbourhood news. Meals were so much easier when we were a table of four. Tony always redirected Mother’s diatribes with easy humour, and the absence of my little brother’s joyful spirit stabs at my stomach even more on special occasions.

Above us, palm fronds rustle in the carved, dark wood second-floor planters. From the corner, the piano player beats out “Maple Leaf Rag”, muffling the drone of voices and the tinkling of silver. The upbeat ragtime reminds me of Thomas. He brought me to this hotel’s public pre-opening a year ago, where he spun me into a lively foxtrot. It was a lovely night, before all the recent confusion between us. Mother and Father later attended the December opening gala, of course, as did many of Seattle’s citizen bond-buyers. The city’s older, wealthy crowd helped finance the hotel’s ridiculous luxury, and demanded more subdued musical choices.

Mother glares over her shoulder, clucking her tongue and shaking her head. “I wish they wouldn’t play this rag — it’s indecent.” She leans over, squinting at me. “You should get more rest. And stay out of the sun.” Her fingers flutter off the table, as if she’s going to brush the purple shadows under my eyes. But she deposits her hand back onto the white tablecloth, maintaining distance, and continues. “You know, most girls would kill for your natural dark curls and porcelain complexion. They wouldn’t go traipsing in the bush, letting their hair frizz and skin freckle.” She sighs, peering at the spots scattered across my nose and cheeks.

“Yes, Mother.” Nodding in agreement, I work the tongs to drop a sugar cube into my tea, counting down seconds with a silent exhale. She pivots, sharing news that Alice, the daughter of a country-club friend, has applied for the front desk position at Father’s car lot.

“Can you believe? It’s so unbecoming for young ladies to work, especially those who needn’t.” Mother’s lips pucker in distaste. Her comment refers to Alice, who works out of boredom, not need. But Mother’s words are an attack on my goals, a topic she touches on every time we meet. Under the table, I clench my napkin, gritting my teeth. Next, she gushes about Alice’s husband’s promotion, which he secured because the woman in that position got married. Her wedded state caused her firing. I raise my eyebrows, unable to restrain my disbelief. My mother’s bias against progress and women’s independence is infuriating. But she’s saved from my response by the returning steward. He places a silver platter in the centre of the table and removes the cloche cover with a great flourish, revealing an enormous selection of tea sandwiches.

The smell of sardines, olives, and pumpernickel wafts over me from the tray and a queasiness fills my throat. I look away from my parents, pretending to admire the architecture, swallowing down the bile. My brain scrambles to find a logical excuse, but the mounting evidence is pointing to just one cause of this daily ailment. I quash these thoughts, unclenching a fist from my crumpled napkin and laying my palm against my lower belly. No. Not today. Tomorrow. I’ll think about it tomorrow.

“There’s a handsome new fellow working for your father. As manager. His name is Harold.” Mother smiles her match-making smile as she expands on Harold’s attributes and how well my father’s car lot is doing. “He’s a Hewitt. Good family. Right, Jim?” My mother looks pointedly at my father, who’s been working through the sandwich tray. He swallows a salmon bite, sensing commentary on his never-ending appetite. So he answers amiably.

“Harold’s doing a fine job. Fine job.” Father nods at both of us, leaning back against the velvet chair. “Going to be the best month since the Great War, June is. A good month.” Father smiles and reaches for a tigereye sandwich. “We can thank those speedy new Buick roadsters, we can.” Mother expects my father to say more, but when he doesn’t, she lists the new engagements her golf friends have reported. So many daughters doing what’s expected of them. After detailing the plans for four summer weddings, she dabs her lips with a napkin. Her critical gaze lingers on my hands, where the gritty traces of my beloved spruce seedlings stain my fingernails.

“Honestly, Eva! Your hands. It’ll be a wonder if you ever get married. Why won’t you wear gloves?” Mother’s exasperated question punctuates her list of not-so-subtle critiques of my life. My back stiffens and I start to reply, no longer willing to contain my exasperation. But Father catches my eye, raising a glass of Virginia julep. I clamp my lips shut, drawing in a slow, steady breath. There’s nothing to be gained by speaking my truth.

“To Eva. And her education. And her firsts. We wish you well, my girl.” Father’s toast diffuses the tightness in my chest and we clink our frosted glasses. I move the mint sprig onto my side plate and savour the lemony sweet cider mix. After his first sip, Father shakes his head in disgust. Five years of prohibition and he still can’t stomach the fruity replacements respectable establishments are forced to serve.

“Thank you, Father.” The lump in my throat surprises me. Mother has showered me in criticism, but Father’s acknowledgement saves the tenor of the day, and I’m grateful. My choice of profession has puzzled scholars, colleagues, and friends. They don’t understand my connection to the land. Nature is authentic and unpretentious, never imposing norms. It’s people who put up barriers where they’re not needed. Today, I celebrate the tenacity that got me here. Setting my mother straight can wait for another time.

CHAPTER 2

Father guides his sparkling new 1924 Buick touring car from downtown Seattle to the lush green grounds of Washington University. This morning’s drizzle leaves the cobblestones damp and the gloomy skies match Mother’s expression. Once we’ve parked, the rumbling six-cylinder silenced, I gladly leave my parents and walk to the College of Forestry’s stone, ivy-covered building. In the first-floor lobby, my classmates gather, donning black gowns. Our group is small, with only twelve students receiving degrees this year.

The boys pause when I enter, greeting me with wolf whistles. They’ve only seen me in faded trousers and worn work boots, nothing like this lacy silk sheath. I shake my head, laughing off their brotherly comments on how well I clean up. Already wearing their plain black gowns, they jostle each other in front of the mirror, securing their mortarboards and placing the russet-brown tassels carefully on the right.

I feel Thomas’s gaze on me before I turn around. He looks stunning in his gown, the russet hood framing his dark features and bringing out the gold in his hazel eyes. I hate that he makes my heart skip. Today signifies many changes. I can’t imagine not seeing Thomas every day. We’ve been colleagues for years, and other than Millie, he’s still my closest friend. But on Monday, he starts work in a downtown office, for his father’s lumber business, whereas I have yet to land a job. A heaviness returns to my chest.

“How was it?” Thomas asks, his features softening. He knows I just had lunch at the Olympic Hotel with my parents, and how awful my mother can be. “Looks like you survived.” His gaze lingers on my new shoes and sheath dress before his eyes meet mine, sending another buzz beneath my skin. I look away, taking the gown he’s holding out for me. The russet hood matches his, since we’re the only two from our college graduating with a Master’s today.

“Draining,” I say. Thomas chuckles at my exasperated tone as I wriggle into the gown and smooth it over my dress. “But the hotel is gorgeous. Ridiculously opulent. And stunning.” Thomas hands me my cap, as I tuck stray fronds of my dark, wavy locks behind my ears. The mortarboard is floppy and difficult to place, but soon we agree we’re both presentable. Thomas looks at me a little too long, head tilted and his jaw clenched. His soft eyes have lost their laughter, now looking hollow and I feel heat rising up my neck. I wish we could turn back the clock, to change that troublesome night and his subsequent proposal. Before those events a few months ago, there were never awkward silences or pained glances with Thomas.

When one of the boys announces it’s time, our jovial group walks toward the indoor pavilion. Thomas keeps pace next to me, but we’re both quiet, speaking only when the chatter of our classmates is directed at us. I wonder if Thomas is also considering how a portion of our everyday life is ending today. His camaraderie has been a steady comfort, and there was a moment I thought I wanted more. He’s smart, handsome, and finds my penchant for order amusing. But I need to establish my career before I consider marriage. Without thinking, I press my palm against my middle. Then I wrinkle my nose, burying the heaviness that fills me whenever I relive that day. Straightening, I meet Thomas’s gaze again, but he doesn’t return my smile.

We enter the pavilion through the back entrance with other excited graduates. A temporary wooden floor covers the dirt of the arena where we sit on folding chairs in rows beside a stage. Our friends and family face us from the stands, usually filled with sports fans. We settle into our class’s designated seats and I scan the crowd for my parents. When I catch my father’s eye, he grins and nudges Mother. She acknowledges me with a nod but quickly turns back to a woman in a fashionable hat beside her, who’s introducing a young man in uniform. As he rises to take mother’s hand, she stiffens visibly, clutching her other palm against her breastbone. She sees my brother Tony in that soldier.

Tears prickle as Tony fills my thoughts again. He should be sitting up there with my parents, celebrating my triumph, like he did the summer he taught me to ride his bike. Our birthdays were just a week apart, and I had begged for a bicycle. But it was Tony, the boy, who received one. Even at nine years old, I was discouraged from adventurous, unladylike pursuits. Unwrapping a baby doll with real eyelashes, I stifled the urge to throw it across the room. But Tony saw my defeat and dragged me outside, tackling my frustration.

As a lanky preteen, my brother jogged alongside me with a wide grin, holding the padded leather seat of his shiny blue two-wheeler. I wobbled, fell, and skinned my knees. But Tony cajoled me until I shook it off and got up, gaining confidence under his unwavering encouragement. When I finally balanced and the world around me became a blur of sunlit greenery, his cheer echoed through the quiet neighbourhood. I’ll never forget his infectious laugh and the pride on his face as he patted me on the back. If only he were here now. My big brother would support me through this mess I’ve gotten myself into.

The lights dim and I’m drawn back to today’s ceremony. It begins with the valedictorian speech by a fellow I don’t recognize. As students from other colleges walk across the stage, I clap absently, mind wandering. My gaze lands on my mother, who’s scanning the crowd. A sharp pain stabs my chest. She was so proud of Tony. His quirky grin and endless energy were easy to love. Mother’s still trying to understand how she raised such a tomboy. She deserves a daughter who gushes over the latest fashion and delights in whispered gossip. Instead, she got me, who prefers tromping alone through towering cedars in grubby overalls. I wonder how she’ll twist today’s events into a tale suited for her country-club.

Finally, it’s our class’s turn and I applaud the boys loudly. Thomas and I are last, and when my name is announced, I carefully cross the stage in the blazing spotlights. As I smile and shake our Dean’s hand, accepting my diploma, Thomas’s wolf whistle penetrates the roar in my ears. I flash him a grin over my shoulder, but see only the glare of electric lights. Standing tall, I beam at the audience, expanding my lungs to their fullest through a deep, satisfied breath. From the shadows, my father’s cheer rises above the rest. Off stage, I pause at the bottom of the steps, feeling dizzy, gripping the stair rail with a trembling hand. Things are moving too quickly. My shoulders curl forward and I try to swallow the ache in my throat.

Behind me, Thomas’s name is announced, and I force myself to turn. He smiles and waves at the stands where his mother claps enthusiastically, her heavy diamond bracelet glinting in the faint light. She is impeccably dressed; her feathered cloche hat and luxurious fur stole befitting a woman of her means. I look for Thomas’s father, but expect his absence. He’ll be at work, managing his lumber empire. Mrs. Clark catches Thomas’s eye and blows him a kiss, her intricately beaded dress shimmering and a proud smile filling her face.

He hops down the steps, stopping to offer his elbow with a grin. The gesture loosens the lump in my throat, and I laugh. As he guides me back to our seats, I consider the canyon-sized gap between my mother and Thomas’s. Mrs. Clark exudes modern sophistication, whereas Mother, just a few rows away, emanates a deliberate conservatism in her dark hues and modest pearls.

Soon after we take our seats in the folding chairs, the University President makes his final address. As the speech ends, his voice breaks through the fog in my head. He’s saying something I’ve heard before.

“…reach for the stars, but don’t forget to recognize opportunities that are right in front of you.” The President’s loud monotone drones, and beside me Thomas stiffens. He had used the same words the night of his heartfelt proposal, trying to convince me that feeling safe and whole with another person is love. His plea then, to see what’s right in front of me, was an echo of the President’s phrase now. My fists clench in my lap and a surge of sickness hits me, uncontrollable this time. I stand abruptly, pushing past my classmates into the darkened aisle, and stagger toward the back door of the pavilion.

I burst through the heavy doors and into the bright sunlight before I double over, crouch, and heave next to a towering fir. My palm grips the rough bark as tea and sandwich bits hit the grass. I pull a handkerchief from my pocket, dread clenching my gut. Slumping onto the lawn, I lean back against the trunk, eyes closed. This tree is a Pseudotsuga menziesii. I repeat the scientific name over and over in my mind. Picturing the quirky genus and species words signals how agitated I am. I’ve had this habit as long as I can remember, complicated syllables distracting my thoughts from my choking anxiety. Pseudotsuga menziesii, I think, slower now, taking another deep breath of the fresh summer air. My head is ringing, but my belly feels better. Then the crunch of gravel makes me squint toward the sky.

Thomas stands a few feet away, his brows narrowing in concern as he moves closer. When he sees the mess in the grass, his lips purse.

“Are you alright? Are you sick?” Thomas kneels beside me, his eyes searching my face. He leans forward, hands inches from me. But I refuse his help with a raised palm.

“Don’t. I’m fine. It’s nothing.”

“You’re not fine. Let me—”

“Don’t.” My voice sounds harsh and I close my eyes again, needing to block out the comprehension flashing across his face. I’ve been able to read his thoughts for years. And he thinks I’m pregnant.