1972

“Not, not mine; it’s somebody
else’s 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.”
--Anna Ahkmatova

Prologue

On the banks of the mighty Columbia River, in this icy season
when every breath became visible, the orchard called Belye
Nochi was quiet. Dormant apples 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 cold and quiet more noticeable than in Meredith
Whitson’s 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 mother’s 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 can’t be the star?” Nina whined.
It was at least the tenth time she’d 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 bed sheet.

Meredith bit her lower lip, trying not to frown. The castle was
all wrong. Too bright, too bold, too messy. It would have to be
fixed. She got up, holding the treasured script in her hand, and
went to her sister, kneeling beside her. “We’ve talked
about this, Nina.”

“But why can’t I be the peasant girl who
marries the prince?”

“Jeff is playing the prince and he’s thirteen.
You’d look silly next to him. And besides, your part is
important, Neens. Without the younger sister, the prince and the
peasant girl would never meet.”

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

Meredith put an arm across Nina’s narrow, bony back.
“Of course.” 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, like everyone else she knew, no
prayers that were always said. Heck, they didn’t 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 didn’t 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.

“Jeff,” she said, her voice catching only the
smallest amount. Her cheeks grew hot at the obviousness of his
effect on her. They’d been best friends since fourth grade,
but lately it felt different to be around him. Sometimes when he
looked at her, she could barely breathe. “You’re right
on time for rehearsal.”

He gave her one of his heart-stopping smiles. “Just
don’t tell Joey and the guys. They’d give me a ton of
crap for this.”

“About rehearsal,” her dad said, stepping forward.
He had just come home from work, and he was still wearing his
favorite brown leisure suit with the bell bottoms and the orange
top stitching. His curly black hair reached the collar, and his
bushy moustache made it hard to tell if he were smiling. He held
out the script. “This is the play you’re
doing?”

Meredith got slowly to her feet. “Do you think
she’ll like it?”

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

The three of them looked at each other over the expanse of the
Picasso-style green castle dand the costumes laid out across the
bed. Meredith found herself leaning forward expectantly. The truth
they passed between themselves, in looks alone, was that Anya
Whitson was a cold woman; any warmth she had was directed at her
husband and even her neighbors and friends. 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 like all illusions, the truth ultimately appeared behind
it.

So they all knew what Meredith was asking.

“I don’t know, Meredoodle,” Dad said, reaching
into his pocket for his cigarettes. “Your mother’s
stories --- ”

“I love it when she tells them to us,” Meredith
said.

“It’s 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. “It’s just…”

Meredith moved toward him, careful not to step on the painting.
She understood his hesitation; none of them ever really knew what
would set Mom off, but this time Meredith was sure she had the
answer. If there was one thing her mother loved, it was this fairy
tale. “It only takes ten minutes, Dad. I timed it. Everyone
will love it.”

He hesitated, almost as if he wanted to tell her that this
brilliant idea to stage a play during the company Christmas party
was a mistake, but she knew that in the end, he’d give in. He
loved her too much to say no.

“Okay, then,” he said finally.

She felt a swell of pride. And hope. It would work. For once she
wouldn’t spend the party in some shadowy corner of the living
room, reading, or in the kitchen, washing dishes. Instead, she
would be the center of her mother’s attention. This play
would prove that Meredith had listened to every precious word Mom
had ever said to her, even those few that were spoken softly, in
the dark, at story time.

For the next hour, Meredith directed her actors through
rehearsal, although really only Jeff needed help. She and Nina had
heard this fairy tale for years.

And what a story it was! Meredith had added some personal bits
and pieces (she imagined this was a playwright’s prerogative,
and besides, her mother only told the stories at night, she
didn’t write them), like a magical wishing well and an
enchanted mirror. But even without the extras, it was as good as
any movie, this story of a reckless peasant girl who fell in love
with the handsome prince and ran off to be with him, and of the
evil black knight who wanted to crush them.

When the rehearsal was over and everyone went their separate
ways, Meredith kept working. She made a sign that read: One
Night Only: A Grand Play for the Holiday and listed
their three names. She touched up the painted backdrop (it was
impossible to fix entirely; Nina always colored outside of the
lines), and then positioned it in the living room. When the set was
ready, she added sequins to the tulle ballet skirt-turned princess
gown that she would wear at the end. It was nearly two in the
morning by the time she went to bed. And even then, she was so
excited that it took a long time for her to fall asleep.

The next day seemed to pass slowly, but finally, at six
o’clock, the guests began to arrive. It was not a big crowd,
just the usual people: men and women who worked for the orchard and
their families, a few neighbors, and Dad’s only living
relative, his sister, Dora.

Meredith sat at the top of the stairs, staring down at the
entryway below. She couldn’t help tapping her foot on the
step, wondering when she could make her move.

Just as she was about to stand up, she heard a clanging,
rattling sound.

Oh, no. She shot to her feet and rushed down the
stairs, but it was too late.

Nina was in the kitchen, banging a pot with a metal spoon and
yelling out, “Show time!” No one knew how to steal the
limelight like Nina.

There was a smattering of laughter as the guests made their way
from the kitchen to the living room, where the painting of the
castle hung from an aluminum movie screen set up beside the massive
fireplace. To the right was a large Christmas tree, decorated with
drugstore lights and the ornaments Nina and Meredith had made over
the years. In front of the painting was their “stage;”
a small wooden bridge that rested on the hardwood floor and a
streetlamp made from cardboard, with a flashlight duct taped to the
top.

Meredith dimmed the lights and then ducked behind the painted
backdrop. Nina and Jeff were already there, in their costumes.

There was no real privacy back here. If she leaned a little
sideways, she could see many of the guests, sitting in various
chairs in the living room, and they could see her, but still it
felt separate. Meredith went out to the fake streetlamp and turned
it on. It created a pale spotlight on their stage. Then she slipped
behind the backdrop again and began the narration she’d
composed so painstakingly: “Her name is Vera, and she is a
poor peasant girl, a nobody. She lives in a magical realm called
the Snow Kingdom, but her beloved world is dying.”

She heard a sound, like a sharp intake of breath. Leaning
sideways, she peered around the screen, but saw nothing out of the
ordinary. Everyone was smiling, nodding; the ice in their glasses
rattled as they drank. Meredith cleared her throat and went on:
“An evil has come to this land; it rolls across the
cobblestone streets in black carriages sent by a dark, evil knight
who wants to destroy it all.”

The audience clapped enthusiastically. Someone whistled.

Meredith walked on stage, taking care not to trip over her long,
layered skirts. She looked out over the gathering of guests and saw
her mother in the back of the room, alone somehow even in the
crowd, her beautiful face blurred by cigarette smoke. For once, she
was looking directly at Meredith. Finally.

“It is so cold, this winter,” Meredith said loudly,
pacing in front of the faux castle. She clapped her mittened hands
together.

At the sound, Nina made her entrance. Dressed in a ratty
nightgown with a kerchief covering her hair, she wrung her hands
together and looked up at Meredith. “Do you think it is the
Black Knight?” she practically yelled, drawing a laugh from
the crowd and immediately grinning at them. “Is his bad magic
making it so cold?”

“No. No. I am chilled at the loss of our father. I am so
worried. When will he return?” She pressed the back of her
hand to her forehead and sighed dramatically. “The carriages
are everywhere these days. The Black Knight is gaining more and
more power…people are turning to smoke before our
eyes…”

“Look,” Nina said, pointing toward a picture taped
to the fireplace. “It is a white carriage, with gold. The
Prince…” She managed to sound nearly reverent.

Jeff came out from behind the fake trees. In his blue sport coat
and jeans, with a cheap gold crown on his wheat blond hair, he
looked so handsome that for a moment Meredith could hardly breathe.
She knew he was embarrassed and uncomfortable --- the red in his
cheeks made that obvious --- but still he was here, proving what a
good friend he was. And he was smiling at her as if she really were
a princess.

Meredith crossed in front of Nina and went to Jeff. He held out
a pair of silk roses. “I have two roses for you,” he
said, his voice cracking.

Meredith touched his hand, but before she could say her line
there was a crash and a sound like a cry.

Meredith turned, saw her mother standing in the center of the
crowd, motionless, her face pale, her blue eyes blazing. Blood
dripped from her hand. She’d broken her cocktail glass, and
even from here, Meredith could see a shard sticking out of her
mother’s palm.

“Enough,” her mother said sharply. “This is
hardly entertainment for a party.”

The guests seemed to freeze; some stood up, other remained
stubbornly seated. The room went quiet.

Dad made his way to Mom. He put his arm around her and pulled
her close. Or he tried to; she wouldn’t bend, not even for
him.

“I’m sorry,” Meredith said, although she
didn’t know what she’d done wrong.

“I never should have told you those ridiculous fairy
tales,” Mom said, her Russian accent sharp with anger.
“I forgot how romantic and empty headed girls can
be.”

Meredith was so humiliated she couldn’t move.

She saw her father guide her mother into the kitchen, where he
probably took her straight to the sink and began cleaning up her
hand. The guests left as if this were the Titanic, rushing for
lifeboats stationed just beyond the front door.

Only Jeff looked at her, and she could see how embarrassed he
was for her. The pity in his eyes made her feel sick to her
stomach. He started toward her, still holding the two roses.
“Meredith --- “

She pushed past him and ran out of the room. At the end of the
hall, she skidded to a stop and stood there, breathing hard, her
eyes burning with tears. As if from faraway, she could hear her
dad’s voice as he tried to soothe his angry wife. A minute
later a door clicked shut, and she knew that Jeff had gone
home.

“What did you do?” Nina asked quietly, coming up
beside her.

“Who knows?” Meredith said, wiping her eyes.
“She’s such a bitch.”

“That’s a bad word.”

Meredith heard the quiver in Nina’s voice and knew how
hard her sister was trying not to cry. She reached down and held
her hand.

“What do we do? Should we say we’re
sorry?”

Meredith couldn’t help thinking about the last time
she’d made her mother mad and told her she was sorry. She
tightened her hold on Nina’s hand. “She won’t
care. Trust me.”

“So what do we do?”

Meredith straightened, tried to feel as mature as she had this
morning, but her confidence was gone. She knew what would happen:
Dad would calm Mom down and then he’d come up to their room
and make them laugh and hold them in his big, strong arms and tell
them that Mom really loved them. By the time he was done with the
jokes and the stories, Meredith would want to believe it. Again.
“I know what I’m going to do,” she said, staring
through the entryway to the kitchen, where she could see
Mom’s side --- just her slim, black velvet dress and her pale
arm, and her white, white hair. “I’m never going to
listen to one of her stupid fairy tales again.”

Excerpted from WINTER GARDEN © Copyright 2011 by Kristin
Hannah. Reprinted with permission by St. Martin's Griffin. All
rights reserved.