Memories of Glass Read online

  She shed her dress and slipped into the cool water in her shift like her brother had instructed, holding her breath as she kicked under the surface like a marsh frog escaping from a heron. Six long kicks and she emerged under the wood bridge, her long knickers and undershirt sticking to her skin, the water cold in the shadow. From the canal she could see Klaas rummaging through Mama’s flowers, and above him, Samuel descending from the tree, ready to race across the bridge.

  Beside her, carved into the wood, were three sets of initials.

  S.v.R. J.v.R. K.S.

  The boys didn’t know that she’d carved their initials here, but this recording of their names made it feel permanent. As if nothing could ever change between them. Often she, Samuel, and Klaas were the worst of enemies in their play, but in reality, they were the best of friends.

  Josie inched away from the bridge, toward the narrow pilings behind her that kept the bank from sliding into the canal. Something moved on her left, and she turned toward the house of Mr. and Mrs. Pon. The Pons didn’t have any children, but an older girl was watching Klaas from the porch.

  A German Jewish man and his daughter—refugees, Mama had said—were moving in with the Pon family. Josie had learned German, along with English, at school. Tomorrow, perhaps, she would ask the German girl to play. They could resist Spain together.

  Samuel’s bare feet padded across the bridge; Klaas would be close behind. She dove back under the surface and emerged once again, this time in her secret hiding space between the moss-covered pilings, tucked back far enough under the quay so Klaas couldn’t see her chestnut-colored hair.

  She couldn’t touch the bottom in the middle of the canal, but it was shallow under the wood awning. Her toes sank into the mud as her chin rested an inch or two above the surface, and she waited patiently between the pilings, like Samuel had instructed, until he hung the flag on Klaas’s door.

  One of the goslings, a renegade like her, paddled by without his fleet. Then he turned around to study her.

  “Ga weg,” she whispered, rippling the water with her hands. The gosling rode the tiny waves, but he didn’t leave.

  She pressed through the water again, the ripples stronger this time, but the gosling moved closer to her as if she were his mother. As if she could rescue him. She reached out a few inches, just far enough to pet the creature but not so far that anyone could see.

  The moment her hand slipped out from under the platform, a face leaned over the ledge, lips widening into a smile when he saw her. Then his fingers sliced across his throat.

  “Klaas!” she screamed, her heart pounding.

  He laughed. “You have to find another hiding place.”

  She huffed. “Samuel told me to hide here.”

  Klaas jumped off the bank in a giant flip, knees clutched to his chest, and when he landed, water flooded over her nose and mouth. She swam out into the center, splashing him back as he circled her. He might be four years older, but neither he nor his impersonation of Fernando frightened her.

  “You don’t always have to listen to Samuel,” he said.

  “Yes, I do.” Klaas didn’t know anything about having a brother, or a sister for that matter. Nor did he listen to much of what anyone told him, including his father. Sometimes it seemed that he believed he was governor of Giethoorn instead of the make-believe Spanish general.

  “The Dutch have won!” Samuel exclaimed triumphantly from the opposite bank.

  Klaas shook his head. “I found Jozefien before you pinned the flag.”

  “I pinned it five minutes ago.”

  Klaas lifted himself up onto the bank, facing Samuel. They were the same age, but her brother was an inch taller.

  “It’s been at least six minutes since I found her,” Klaas said, hands on his hips, the black cape showering a puddle around him.

  “You did not!” She whirled her arms through the water, attempting to splash him again, but the canal water rained back down on her instead.

  “I did.”

  The two boys faced off, and for a moment, she thought Klaas might throw a punch. Maybe then Samuel would fight for what was right instead of letting Klaas win again.

  “I suppose you won,” Samuel said, surrendering once more.

  She groaned. Her brother always let Klaas win whenever his friend claimed victory. Why wouldn’t he stand up for himself and for her? For Holland?

  Klaas raised both fists in the air. “To Spain!”

  “To the resistance,” she yelled as the boys turned toward Klaas’s house.

  Fuming, she swam back toward the bridge, to the underwater steps built for those who didn’t want to hop up on the planks as Klaas had done. When she passed by the cropping of initials, she rapped them with her knuckles.

  The best of friends, perhaps, but some days Klaas made her so mad. And Samuel, too, for not fighting back when Klaas lied to him.

  The next time they played, the resistance would win.

  As Josie climbed the mossy steps out of the water, the German girl inched closer to the canal. She had dark-brown hair, draped rather short around her head, and her brown eyes seemed to catch the light on the canal, reflecting back.

  “I’m Anneliese,” the girl said in German. “But my friends call me Eliese. I’m ten.”

  Josie introduced herself, speaking in the German language that her father had taught all the village children.

  The girl sat on the grass, pulling the skirt of her jumper over her knees. “Would you like to be friends?”

  Josie smiled—another girl, a friend, living right next door. They would be friends for life.

  “I’m Klaas.”

  Josie turned to the opposite bank to see both boys standing there, Samuel with his mouth draped open as if he might swallow the light.

  Josie waited for Samuel to introduce himself, but when he didn’t speak, Josie waved toward him. “That’s my brother standing beside Klaas. He’ll come to his senses soon.”

  Samuel glared at Josie before introducing himself. And when he did, Eliese smiled at him.

  Samuel didn’t speak again, just stared at the girl. And in the stillness of that awkward moment, with her brother utterly entranced, Josie knew.

  Nothing in her world would be the same again.

  TWO

  AVA

  Memories are curious things. Some I want to remember, and others . . . well, I simply don’t. Most of my memories—at least the ones from childhood—are curdled into lumps anyway. No amount of stirring will separate them.

  But today my family and I are remembering together. Not the twenty-seven years of my life, but the legacy of William Kingston, my great-grandfather. A legend of a man who built a glass kingdom around the world more than seventy years ago, the profits trickling down generations into a significant fortune for his son, Randolph, and daughter-in-law, Marcella, and then eventually my two uncles and myself and Marcella’s other five grandchildren who are still alive.

  Whispers filter from the rows behind me, but my eyes are fixed straight ahead on the podium. Marcella Kingston, my grandmother, is standing on the platform near the enormous front door of this renovated library, talking with the mayor of Amsterdam and Paul Epker, the new library director. Above the door, painted in an elegant golden script, is one of her favorite proverbs in Dutch.

  Kennis is macht.

  Knowledge is power.

  Dressed in a tailored black suit and Gucci pumps, the toe of each one adorned with a crystal bow, Marcella exudes the perfect mix of elegance and dignity— a gracious hostess and powerful business leader—as she waits for the ceremony to begin. Her sons don’t always like what she says, but they respect her. As does every vice president employed by the Kingston Corporation and a multitude of government officials across party lines.

  Since no one is speaking to me, I twirl one of my strappy heels in circles, trying to pretend I’m running barefoot across a sandy beach back home, the golden retriever I had as a girl splashing in the waves beside me. Wishing
I could breathe in the salty breeze on the shores of North Carolina, where I was born.

  In a blink, that lump of memory is gone.

  Sawdust, that’s what I smell now, along with musty leather and expensive fragrances worn by those seated in the rows behind me.

  It’s Remembrance Day in the Netherlands, the Dutch honoring all the people they lost during World War II. My family is here to celebrate the grand opening of Kingston Bibliotheek, a research library in Amsterdam for those who want to remember by studying European history, business, and culture.

  This row house in Amsterdam’s Jewish Quarter is centuries old, one of the many elaborate merchant homes built tall and thin like a ladder since Dutch taxes were once based on the width of one’s residence. William Kingston bought it seventy years ago and renovated what had been vandalized during the war, using the space as a home and office when America first launched its European Recovery Program. Eventually he began providing Kingston Windows to people across Europe.

  My uncles—Carlton and Will—and five cousins are all quiet now in their chairs, staring at the back of my head as we wait for the ceremony to begin. Or I guess they’re staring. It’s purely speculation on my part since I’m seated in the front row. Alone.

  I don’t dare turn around to confirm whether or not they are looking back at me, but if eyes could shoot bullets, I suspect my body would be riddled with holes. And so would every book—forty thousand of them—on the shelves that circle this library and climb two stories above my head.

  The Kingston family paid for a restoration of this house during the past year. Or at least, the Kingston Family Foundation financed the restoration. Neither of my uncles wanted the family’s money to fund this library, and they despised the fact that their mother, Marcella, had the audacity to appoint me as director of the foundation.

  In the eyes of the law, Marcella can appoint me to serve however she sees fit; but in their eyes, I’m an outsider who weaseled her way into Marcella’s good graces twelve years ago to steal part of their fortune. Nothing I do will convince them that I simply want to be part of the family.

  The Kingstons may be broken, but they’re all the family I have left.

  I pluck at a thread on my wine-colored wrap dress, both my gloves and dress purchased from a ritzy shop in New York by a woman named Claire, Marcella’s personal assistant for the past thirty-plus years.

  Claire has coordinated all the details for this dedication, including what I’m wearing, the precise seat where I’m sitting, and who will attend the luncheon that follows, but Claire is nowhere in sight now. She probably snuck into a reading room to chug down one of the energy shots stashed away in her leather briefcase beside her iPad, medications for Marcella, and who knows what else. I don’t need a jolt of caffeine to wake up. Adrenaline has been shooting through every nerve in my body since I walked into this room, like a surge of electricity through faulty wiring.

  Red lights glow from video cameras focused on the podium, prepared to record every detail this morning so Marcella’s publicist can distribute the footage online and to news outlets around the world. Will and Carlton and their children and all the significant others will smile politely for the cameras after the ceremony, but this afternoon all hell will break loose behind closed doors. The Kingstons are rapidly losing their fortune, and while they blame some of this loss on me, they keep it a secret from the rest of the world.

  “Why is she here?” one of my cousins—Austin, I think—whispers from somewhere behind me, as if I can’t hear him.

  I never felt much like an outsider until, ironically, a caseworker found my mother’s family in New York.

  Clutching the ivory handbag in my lap, I wait for a response. Perhaps this time one of my uncles will actually stand up for me.

  “Marcella wants her to participate in all the family functions,” my uncle Will—a senator from New York—says.

  “But Ava’s not really family—”

  I strain my good ear, trying to hear what else they say, but the Dutch official is introducing Marcella now, prattling on about her achievements and the esteemed Kingston Family Foundation that finances good work around the world. Then he begins extolling William’s achievements.

  As valuable minutes slip by, even Marcella starts to become agitated. I can always tell by the way her lips press closer together, shooting tiny lines up her cheeks that her dermatologist hasn’t been able to laser away. Laugh lines, most people call them, except Marcella Kingston never laughs. These lines are more like the trail of a shooting star about to explode.

  Marcella stands before the man finishes his intro, inching gingerly toward him until he relinquishes the podium. Smiling graciously, she welcomes the small crowd and begins to honor the legacy of William Kingston—her father-in-law—for them and the cameras. My lips are set in a semipermanent smile, and I nod periodically as if I haven’t heard this speech a hundred times.

  Glancing up, I scan the balconies on three upper floors for Claire, but she seems to be gone. Wrought iron railings cage in the balconies, and a trio of ornate windows filter light into the library. Between the shelves of books is an impressive array of Dutch art, some of it recovered from an old mine after the war.

  My phone blinks, and I glance down at the screen, thinking Claire is sending me another text, telling me to fix the tie on my dress or smooth my hair.

  Are they all glaring at you?

  I almost laugh out loud at my best friend’s message. While I guard the details of my life like a Doberman, Victoria can talk about almost anything without blushing. Victoria-can’t-keep-a-secret, I started calling her when we were thirteen and she told me that Brian Webster was going to ask me to our seventh-grade dance. She hadn’t meant to ruin his plans—or my surprise. She just didn’t believe in secrets.

  Now I just call her Vi, and I love her for allowing me to be just who God made me to be.

  My handbag partially covering my phone, my eyes focused back on Marcella, I type out a text that I hope is coherent.

  I’m not giving them the pleasure of turning around.

  Vi texts again. Class is ranked solely in one’s heart and mind.

  Brilliant. Where did you hear that?

  From a deep wellspring of wisdom.

  I glance up at Marcella before looking back at my phone. Your yoga instructor?

  A fortune cookie.

  A laugh escapes my lips this time, and I try to cover it with a cough.

  True class . . . I tuck my cell into my handbag before she replies again, lest I really do ruin the ceremony.

  “My father-in-law partnered with the Dutch people after the Second World War,” Marcella says. “He built businesses specifically in the interest of providing jobs, and his investments began to multiply. He was committed to working alongside the citizens of this great country as they recovered from the war, and his selflessness helped educate and provide for people across Europe.”

  I never met my great-grandfather, but I’ve memorized his carefully choreographed legacy. William and Abigail Kingston had one son, Randolph, in 1938. William’s business partner was a German man named Peter Ziegler, who had one daughter, Marcella, two years after Randolph was born.

  According to Marcella, Peter and William had schemed since the birth of their two children to seal the Kingston-Ziegler business partnership through Randolph and Marcella. Their marriage took place on June 12, 1965, on the lawn of the Kingston estate in New York.

  Randolph died more than a decade ago, not long after I arrived in New York. He and Marcella had been married forty-five years, birthing two boys and adopting my mom when she was a baby.

  William lived until he was eighty-two and managed to acquire enough money to catapult his family into the top one percent before his death. A coveted position, but I’m not convinced that it’s an enviable one for his descendants. Before he died, he set up a foundation to give away a percentage of his fortune to educate and provide good jobs for those who wanted to work. None of his he
irs except Marcella seemed to be pleased about giving money away.

  My grandmother’s eyes skirt over me as she speaks, settling on the row behind me. My mom was the hardest working person I’ve ever known—helping care for our little family by working as a server, administrative assistant at our church, and part-time gardener. A landscape artist really, creating masterpieces in North Carolina’s sandy soil.

  Sadly, Marcella’s sons haven’t seemed to embrace the same work ethic as their sister . . . or their grandfather.

  “William Kingston invested in people first,” Marcella says, quoting the familiar Kingston business creed passed down through the generations. “And these people became masters of their craft. They changed the world with their innovation and ability to make it a better place.”

  William sought knowledge from the time he was a child, I’ve been told, growing up as a banker’s son in New Jersey, throughout his years at Cambridge, and then during the Great Depression, when he began snatching up stock at rock-bottom prices, the return on his investments later rivaling the worth of men like Joe Kennedy and Howard Hughes.

  No one’s past is perfect, but I’ve yet to hear anyone mention any major glitches in our family’s journey.

  “Through this library, we envision a continued return on William’s investment in people and knowledge so generations after us will learn from the past as they fight against evil and pour their lives into all that is good.”

  Marcella’s gaze travels down the row of her grandchildren and several of their spouses as she speaks about how William planted seed money in the Netherlands and around the world to inspire innovation and help others grow.

  And now the Kingston legacy will continue on in this library.

  Claire appears on the stage with a pair of giant scissors, and Marcella turns toward the white ribbon strung across the library’s front door. A camera flashes behind me, capturing this moment, and after Marcella clips through the ribbon, I reach for my purse.

  I should keep my gaze forward—I know this—but my eyes seem to act of their own accord. Both uncles are sitting right behind me, along with Will’s third wife and Carlton’s current girlfriend. Lined up to their left are the cousins who talk plenty about me but refuse to speak directly to my face.